Royal Weddings: The Sheikh's Princess Bride / The Doctor Takes a Princess / Crown Prince's Chosen Bride. Annie West

way pregnancy changes your body. It can seem overwhelming the first time.’

      For a heartbeat Samira stared, stunned, then her arms dropped to her sides, leaden weights. She’d expected this sort of speculation but still it was discomfiting.

      ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken.’ Deliberately she shaped her lips into a casual smile. ‘I’m not pregnant.’ She would have to school herself to say it without sounding quite so hollow.

      ‘You’re not?’ Sofia looked taken aback. ‘I’m so sorry. I could have sworn... I’ve never been mistaken before. And you have the look.’

      Despite herself Samira was curious. Her one experience of carrying a child had been over almost before she’d realised it. She’d never had regular periods and hadn’t had any obvious symptoms so she’d been blithely unaware of the baby she carried. There had barely been enough time to adjust to the wondrous news before the trauma of losing it.

      ‘There’s a look?’ She couldn’t help asking, though she knew she shouldn’t torment herself by prolonging this.

      Sofia nodded emphatically. ‘You’ve got it. There’s a look in the eyes, and your skin glows, and...’ She stopped, her gaze sliding away.

      ‘And?’

      Sofia shrugged. ‘You’ve gained a little weight. Not only in the waist but here too.’ Her hands plumped up her own breasts.

      Suddenly Samira found herself sitting, her head spinning.

      No. It was completely far-fetched. It was impossible.

      And yet...

      She bit her lip, admonishing herself for even that brief flight of fancy. There was a world of difference between wishful thinking and reality. She’d made it her business to live in the real world, not pine for what could never be.

      She crossed her arms, then immediately dropped them at the graze of fabric over her nipples.

      ‘Sensitivity there too.’ Sofia added helpfully, as if reading her discomfort.

      ‘I—’ Samira shook her head. She would not go there. Her breasts had been sensitive for some time, but she couldn’t tell the other woman it was because of the attention Tariq devoted to them. If he wasn’t caressing her breasts with his hands, he had his mouth on them, knowing it drew exquisite pleasure from her. Her nipples tingled as she remembered the attention he’d lavished on them last night, and on every other part of her body.

      Her breath sucked hard.

      ‘Thank you for your concern, Sofia, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken.’ She stood briskly and began to help the nanny clear the boys’ food away.

      But, as she put the twins down for their nap, Samira couldn’t shake the memory of Sofia’s certainty. Samira’s grandmother had prided herself on her uncanny ability to spot a pregnancy. She’d claimed it was a gift and that in all her decades she’d never been wrong.

      Was Sofia also gifted with such insight?

      If she was, she was badly mistaken this time.

      Samira looked down at the boys, already drowsing after their busy day, and found her hand had crept unbidden to her stomach. It wasn’t just her waist that thickened. Her belly curved out now too. Yet, though she’d always had a curvy figure, Samira had never had weight problems.

      She bit her lip, trying to force down the tremulous hope that rose like a tiny green shoot in an arid desert.

      The anguish of losing her tiny infant, and of hearing she’d never conceive again, was a raw wound in the darkness of her psyche. She couldn’t afford to reawaken that pain with false hope.

      Yet as she left the bedroom she found herself wondering.

      * * *

      Samira slumped down onto the side of the marble bath, staring at the test result. Her fingers shook so much she told herself she wasn’t reading it right.

      She pressed her palm against her abdomen as if she could feel anything new there. Or as if the touch of her hand could protect the new life sheltering within.

      Panic slammed into her. She hadn’t been able to protect the baby she’d carried four years ago. How could she this time?

      Nature hadn’t wanted her to be a mother. Hadn’t she been told she wouldn’t conceive again?

      Her skin tightened. Her forehead and the back of her neck prickled, turning clammy with the cold sweat of fear.

      The test indicator clattered to the floor as Samira’s vision hazed with nightmare memories. Blood and pain and the devastatingly gentle tone of a stranger telling her it was too late, she’d lost her child.

      Instinctively Samira pressed her legs together so hard they grew numb. She blinked back the hot tears glazing her eyes and forced herself to think. She’d hunched over into a foetal position, body bowed and knees drawn up to protect the new life inside.

      Her breath hissed, loud in the silence. She carried a new life!

      She was pregnant. Against the odds she was pregnant.

      And if one miracle could happen—her conceiving again—perhaps it was possible another miracle might happen and her child would be born alive and healthy.

      Samira gulped over the burning ball of emotion in her throat.

      If she’d learned one thing it was never to give up. She’d dragged herself from the darkest of places after the grief and scandal of her past. She refused to go back to living in the shadows.

      Gingerly she straightened, taking stock of how she felt.

      A smile hovered. She felt fine. More than fine, she felt fit as a fiddle, except for the way nerves made her stomach roil.

      She breathed deep, then bent to pick up the test result, her fingers closing tight around it.

      It could be a false positive. Gravely she nodded to herself as if she actually believed that. As if excitement wasn’t skittering through her, as if her blood wasn’t fizzing with elation and her toes curling.

      What she needed was certainty, a doctor.

      Again she nodded. Good, she was thinking clearly and logically.

      Yet when Samira stood up she saw that the woman facing her in the mirror wore a smile so broad it could only be described as rapturous.

      * * *

      Tariq paused midstride and stared at the retreating back of the man following one of the maids at the far end of the corridor. An icy hand clamped his neck.

      No, he was mistaken. It was a trick of the light. The obstetrician had no reason to visit the palace.

      Yet Tariq was blindsided by memories of the last time he’d seen that doctor. Tariq had been hollow with shock, unable to believe the world had turned on its head. He’d been given his precious sons but at the cost of Jasmin’s life. Joyful expectation had turned to disaster.

      He’d grappled with the unnerving sense that he’d lost control. All his wealth and influence hadn’t been able to save Jasmin. In fact, his need for an heir had caused her death.

      Shaking off fraught memories, he continued on, opening the door to the royal suite and striding in. He wanted Samira. Just being with her made him feel good. How corny was that? Her warmth and understanding, her company, were as essential to him now as her physical generosity.

      After that moment in the corridor, when dark tendrils from the past had wound around him, squeezing so he couldn’t breathe, he needed Samira.

      She wasn’t in her room but he heard water running in her bathroom. His step quickened.

      ‘Samira?’ He rapped on the door.

      Fragrant steam rose from the bath, hazing her skin, warming it to a delectable rose pink. His gaze dropped to the neckline