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She had to end this now, before it totally destroyed her. She would have to let Nabil have access to the baby of course. He was the child’s father and he had every right to build his own relationship with it. Her stomach twisted at the thought of having to see the man she adored and know that he didn’t love her. But she couldn’t go on any other way.
A knock at the door brought her head round.
‘Come in.’
The maid who came in, an envelope in her hand, sank into a deep curtsey that gave Aziza the respect due to the position she had just decided to reject.
‘A letter, madam...’
Taking the envelope, Aziza saw that it was addressed in her father’s handwriting. Her insides gave another cramping sensation as she wondered just what Farouk would have to say. But the arrival of the message gave her a much-needed reminder that Nabil would be preparing for the ceremony he thought was ahead of them. She had to tell him her decision. Private hell or not, she couldn’t just turn and run.
‘One moment...’
A few words scribbled on a sheet of paper were all she dared communicate. She didn’t want to risk the truth spreading around the palace before she’d had time to talk to Nabil.
‘Take this to the King.’
The door had barely closed on the woman before she was assailed by another stab of cramp that was too disturbingly familiar to be just the effect of nerves, making her head reel in appalled realisation. Had she got this so terribly wrong? Could she really have made such a basic mistake? Why, oh, why, had she told Nabil of her suspicions before she knew for certain?
Panic clenched in her head and her heart as she headed towards the bathroom in a rush.
I need to talk to you.
The coronation cannot go ahead.
Not even a dozen short words, but Nabil had to read them over and over to try to make sense of them.
Why would Aziza send such a message now? Why couldn’t the coronation go ahead? He had woken that morning with the hope that at last his future had opened up for him. But that was before he had received this message which seemed to bring those hopes crashing down around him once again.
Spinning on his heel, he turned and raced up the huge marble staircase, taking the steps two at a time.
‘Sire... Majesty...’ His chancellor’s voice floated up behind him but he ignored it, racing along the corridor and slamming to a halt outside the royal suite, his heart thudding so hard that his brain would barely function.
‘Aziza!’
He was shouting her name as he flung open the door, striding into the room, snatching off the white headdress and sending it flying on to a chair as he looked around him, hunting for the dark haired, slender figure of the woman who over the past six months had created the still, calm centre of his world that he needed so much.
‘Aziza! Where the devil...?’
No sign of her. The bed was unmade, and the ceremonial robe she should have been wearing today was gone. But her shoes still stood in the corner, and the jewelled diadem he had sent for her to wear until the actual moment that the crown was put on her head lay at the top of the jewellery box on the dressing table.
So what had happened? Where was she? He checked the dressing room, the bathroom—both empty. It was as he came back into the bedroom again, frantic with worry, that the swirl of air from his robes lifted an envelope that had been lying on a chair and sent it drifting to his feet.
The writing on the address was too familiar for comfort. Any message from Farouk was potentially bad news but just what had Aziza’s father found to write to her about that it had sent her running from the room? And, more important, where had she run to?
He didn’t know where the inspiration came from, only that the memory connecting Aziza and her father turned his feet towards the balcony where they had first met. Avoiding the curious eyes of busy servants as he ran, he brushed away attempts to ask if he needed anything.
The only thing he needed right now was Aziza.
‘Aziza!’
He stepped out on to the balcony. At first he thought that he’d got it wrong; she wasn’t anywhere to be seen. But then, just as that first time, he heard a sound at the far end of it. Aziza was there, curled up on a cushioned stool, her head bent, long black hair falling down around her face, hiding it from him. But even as he watched he heard the sound again, the one that had attracted his attention in the first place. He found it impossible to interpret just what it meant. The twist of nerves in his stomach was a pain he struggled to control as he made his way towards her.
‘Aziza?’
