The Sheikh's Guarded Heart. Liz Fielding

as you are told.’

      ‘What…?’ Catching on, she laughed and said, ‘Yes, sir!’

      ‘Hold on,’ he said and she didn’t hesitate, but grabbed at his shoulders, bunching the heavy dark cloth of the robe he was wearing beneath her fingers as he lifted her back up on to the bed.

      Her laughter caught at him, tore at him, and he did not know which was harder, taking her into his arms or letting her go so that he could fasten the support to her ankle. He reached out to stop her tipping forward when she was overcome by dizziness.

      ‘I’m fine,’ she assured him. ‘Just pass me the crutches and give me some room.’

      He didn’t try to argue with her, but he didn’t take any notice of her either, Lucy discovered. The minute she had the crutches in her hands, had settled them on the floor ready to push herself up, she found herself being lifted to her feet.

      She would have complained, but it seemed such a waste of breath.

      He didn’t let go either, but just leaned back a little, spreading his hands across her back to support the shift in weight. Strong hands. Hands made to keep a woman safe.

      He was, she thought, everything that Steve was not.

      A rock, where the man she’d married in such haste was quicksand.

      Light-headed, drowning in eyes as black as night, her limbs boneless, she knew that if she fell into Hanif al-Khatib’s arms the world would turn full circle before she needed to breathe again.

      ‘Lucy…’

      It was a question. She thought it was a question, although she wasn’t sure what he was asking.

      She swallowed, shocked at the thoughts, feelings, that were racing through her body—struggled to break eye contact, ground herself.

      ‘I’m all right.’ Breathless, her words little more than a murmur, he was not convinced. ‘You can let go.’ Then, when he still didn’t move, ‘I won’t fall.’

      She looked down and slowly, carefully, felt for the floor beneath her one good leg, took her weight. Then she leaned on the crutches. Still he held her, forcing her to look up.

      ‘Please,’ she said.

      Han could not let go. It was as if history was repeating itself, that if he stopped concentrating, even for a moment, she would fall, be lost to him.

      Stupid.

      She was nothing to him.

      He was a man without feelings.

      Yet from the moment her dust trail had caught his eye his world had become a torrent of emotions. Irritation, anger, concern…

      He refused to acknowledge anything deeper.

      ‘We’ll do it my way,’ he said abruptly, taking a small step back, without removing his support. ‘Or not at all.’

      ‘It’s that instant obedience thing again, isn’t it?’ she said.

      ‘Try it. You might like it.’

      She blew a strand of hair from her face, took the weight on her hands and swung forward a few inches, barely stopped herself from crying out in pain. For a moment his entire body was a prop for hers, her forehead against his cheek, her breast crushed against the hardness of his broad chest, her thighs, clad in nothing but a skimpy hospital gown, against the smooth, heavy cloth of his dark robes. And, as he held her, for one giddy moment she felt no pain.

      ‘This is harder than it looks,’ she admitted after a moment.

      ‘You are not ready,’ he said, tucking the loose strand of hair behind her ear, doing his best to ignore the silky feel of it.

      ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I usually wear it tied back. I really must get it cut the minute I get home.’

      ‘Why?’ he asked, horrified. ‘It’s beautiful.’

      ‘It’s a damned nuisance. I meant to do it before…’

      ‘Before?’

      She shrugged. ‘Before I came to Ramal Hamrah. Okay, I’m ready. You can let go now.’

      Against his better judgement, he took another step back, still keeping a firm hold of her.

      In this manner, her persistence wearing down his resistance, they crossed the room one step at a time until they were standing in the bathroom with the wall at his back. ‘This is as far as we go.’ Then, when she was slow to respond, ‘Enough, Lucy,’ he said impatiently. ‘You’ve made it to the shower. You can drop the crutches. I have you. You won’t fall.’

      Lucy’s leg was shaking from the effort, her hands, arms, shoulders, back, shrieking in agony. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t obey Han, it was because she couldn’t. Her fingers were welded to the crutches and she was unable to straighten them.

      ‘I can’t,’ she said.

      Looking down, he saw her problem and, muttering something she did not understand, but was sure was not complimentary, he caught her around the waist and, propping her up against his body, eased the crutches from her grasp.

      ‘You’ve done enough for today,’ he said.

      Lucy, the hot grittiness of her skin made all the more unbearable by the very nearness of relief, persisted. ‘I’m not leaving here until I’ve had a shower.’

      He shook his head, smiling despite himself. ‘I have to give you ten out of ten for determination, Lucy Forrester.’

      ‘Yes, well, no one ever accused me of being a quitter. And look, the shower has a seat. Easy. Just turn it on, give me back the crutches and leave me to it.’

      He did as she’d said, testing the water until he was certain it was not too hot or cold, making sure that she had everything she needed to hand before turning to go. ‘Do not,’ he said, ‘lock the door.’

      ‘Got it,’ she said—as if she had the energy to waste on that kind of nonsense. Then, clutching hold of a handrail, ‘If I need you I’ll scream. Deal?’

      ‘Deal.’

      ‘Oh, wait. Um, can you unfasten the bows at the back of this thing?’

      Keeping his gaze fixed firmly above her head, he tugged the fastenings loose on her hospital gown. ‘Anything else?’

      ‘No. Thank you. I can manage.’

      It was an exaggeration, but she did what she had to, then settled herself in the shower, keeping her splinted foot propped out of the way of the water as much as she could. The warm water seemed to bring her back to life, but washing her hair was more than she could manage and by the time she’d struggled into the towelling robe he’d laid out for her she was almost done.

      ‘Han?’

      He was there almost before the word was out of her mouth.

      ‘Thanks,’ she said, swinging herself through on willpower alone. ‘I would have opened it myself, but I had my hands full.’

      ‘You, Lucy Forrester, are a handful,’ he said. ‘Come, there is food, tea. Eat, then you can rest.’

      Hanif had hoped for a few minutes alone walking the quiet paths of the ancient garden surrounding the pavilion where Lucy Forrester lay resting.

      Fed by a precious natural spring that irrigated the orchards, guarded from the encroaching desert and wandering animals by thick, high walls, they had been laid out centuries earlier as an earthly reflection of heaven and he’d come here hoping to find some measure of peace.

      In three years he hadn’t found it but today it wasn’t his own guilt and selfishness that disturbed him. He’d barely reached the reflecting pool before an agitated Zahir came hunting him down.

      ‘Sir!’

      Han