knew.’
Like a blow to the body, his mother’s words came back to him in a rush.
No, she was not the girl he’d known before. She was a widow now.
Hussein’s widow.
Impatiently he tossed the map aside. Regardless of the advice from their visitor, they would have to get going. He was determined to make Marrash this evening.
She started as he drew close, her eyes widening in surprise as he approached, before her head dipped, her gaze once again going to the ground. ‘Is it time?’
Her voice was serenity itself, and he knew the shutters were back, slammed ever so meekly and serenely, but nevertheless slammed effectively in his face. What would it take to shake her up? What would it take to shake her out of that comfort zone she retreated to every time he so much as looked at her?
‘I always thought you wanted a big family—six children at least.’
There was a rapid intake of breath, a pause, and he wondered if she was remembering that very same day, when they’d raced their horses along the beach, hot rushing air accompanied by the splash of foam and the flick of sand, their mounts neck and neck along the long sweep of coast. And finally, with both horses and riders panting, they’d collapsed from their mounts’ backs onto the warm sand and shared their dreams for their future together. ‘A big family,’ she’d said, laughing, her black hair rippling against the arm her head had nestled against. ‘ Two boys and two girls, and then maybe one or two more, because four will surely not be enough to love.’
And he’d pretended to be horrified. ‘So many children toprovide for! So many children to love. Who will have time to love me?’
And she’d leaned over him and brushed a lock of hair from his brow, her hand resting on his cheek. ‘I will always love you.’
He still remembered the kiss that had followed, the feel of his heart swelling in his chest with so much joy that there had been no room left in his lungs for air. But he hadn’t needed air then—not with her love to sustain him.
More fool him .
‘Maybe,’ the woman before him finally admitted, dragging him back to the present. ‘Maybe once.’
‘And yet you never had children of your own.’
Her hands wrung together, her bowed head moving from side to side, agitated, as if his line of questioning was too uncomfortable, as if looking for a means of escape. He wasn’t about to provide it, not when he needed so many answers himself.
‘Why not?’
Now the movement of her head turned into a shake. One hand lifted to her forehead to quell it, and her voice, when it came, was nowhere near as steady as she would no doubt wish. ‘It… It didn’t happen.’
‘Didn’t Hussein want children?’
Her agitation increased; her eyes were raised now, and appealing for him to desist. ‘Why does it matter to you? Why can’t you accept it? It just didn’t happen!’
‘What a waste,’ he said, not prepared to give up yet—not when there were so many unanswered questions and when she looked so uncomfortable. ‘Because I saw you with that baby.’ She looked up at him, her eyes wide, suddenly vulnerable, as if wondering at this change of tone. ‘You looked good with it. I always thought you would make the perfect mother.’
Her mouth opened on a cry, and she snapped it shut, turningher head away, but not quickly enough that he could miss the moisture springing onto her lashes.
‘Did you love him?’ Anger surged in his veins like a flood tide. Was that why she was crying? Because she’d wanted her husband’s children so desperately and she would forever mourn not having them? It pained him to ask, but he was here with her now, and somehow it was more important than ever that he know the truth. ‘Did you love Hussein?’
She squeezed her eyes together, and then near exploded with her answer. ‘He was my husband !’
Her words sparked a short-circuit in his brain. ‘Tell me something I don’t know!’ he said, snapping back with
Like a blow to the body, his mother’s words came back to him in a rush.
No, she was not the girl he’d known before. She was a widow now.
Hussein’s widow.
Impatiently he tossed the map aside. Regardless of the advice from their visitor, they would have to get going. He was determined to make Marrash this evening.
She started as he drew close, her eyes widening in surprise as he approached, before her head dipped, her gaze once again going to the ground. ‘Is it time?’
Her voice was serenity itself, and he knew the shutters were back, slammed ever so meekly and serenely, but nevertheless slammed effectively in his face. What would it take to shake her up? What would it take to shake her out of that comfort zone she retreated to every time he so much as looked at her?
‘I always thought you wanted a big family—six children at least.’
There was a rapid intake of breath, a pause, and he wondered if she was remembering that very same day, when they’d raced their horses along the beach, hot rushing air accompanied by the splash of foam and the flick of sand, their mounts neck and neck along the long sweep of coast. And finally, with both horses and riders panting, they’d collapsed from their mounts’ backs onto the warm sand and shared their dreams for their future together. ‘A big family,’ she’d said, laughing, her black hair rippling against the arm her head had nestled against. ‘ Two boys and two girls, and then maybe one or two more, because four will surely not be enough to love.’
And he’d pretended to be horrified. ‘So many children toprovide for! So many children to love. Who will have time to love me?’
And she’d leaned over him and brushed a lock of hair from his brow, her hand resting on his cheek. ‘I will always love you.’
He still remembered the kiss that had followed, the feel of his heart swelling in his chest with so much joy that there had been no room left in his lungs for air. But he hadn’t needed air then—not with her love to sustain him.
More fool him .
‘Maybe,’ the woman before him finally admitted, dragging him back to the present. ‘Maybe once.’
‘And yet you never had children of your own.’
Her hands wrung together, her bowed head moving from side to side, agitated, as if his line of questioning was too uncomfortable, as if looking for a means of escape. He wasn’t about to provide it, not when he needed so many answers himself.
‘Why not?’
Now the movement of her head turned into a shake. One hand lifted to her forehead to quell it, and her voice, when it came, was nowhere near as steady as she would no doubt wish. ‘It… It didn’t happen.’
‘Didn’t Hussein want children?’
Her agitation increased; her eyes were raised now, and appealing for him to desist. ‘Why does it matter to you? Why can’t you accept it? It just didn’t happen!’
‘What a waste,’ he said, not prepared to give up yet—not when there were so many unanswered questions and when she looked so uncomfortable. ‘Because I saw you with that baby.’ She looked up at him, her eyes wide, suddenly vulnerable, as if wondering at this change of tone. ‘You looked good with it. I always thought you would make the perfect mother.’
Her mouth opened on a cry, and she snapped it shut, turningher head away, but not quickly enough that he could miss the moisture springing onto her lashes.
‘Did you love him?’ Anger surged in his veins like a flood tide. Was that why she was crying? Because she’d wanted her husband’s children so desperately and she would forever mourn not having them? It pained him to ask, but he was here with her now, and somehow it was more important than ever that he know the truth. ‘Did you love Hussein?’
She squeezed her eyes together, and then near exploded with her answer. ‘He was my husband !’
Her words sparked a short-circuit in his brain. ‘Tell me something I don’t know!’ he said, snapping back with
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