The Sheikh and the Surrogate Mum (18 page)

He rushed towards her voice, to find her struggling to her feet beside the car.

‘Stay still,’ he ordered, and, with hands he knew were shaking he bent to lift her, carrying her to the tent where a lantern still glowed softly and placing her gently on the couch.

‘The bite, where is it?’ he demanded, his voice so rough she flinched, but she pointed to her leg and without hesitation he stripped off her trousers, shaking them, seeing the scorpion that fell from them, his heart stopping with fear even as his foot lifted to squash the life out of it.

But squashed, would he be able to tell?

He brushed it further from her then lifted the lantern, relief swamping him as he saw the square-shaped sternum rather than the triangular shape of the deadly Leiurus.

Now he squashed it, then returned to Liz, kneeling beside her, examining the reddened mark on her calf.

‘I’m sorry, I should have warned you about the little beasts. It will be painful for a while, but it wasn’t poisonous. Did you hurt yourself in the fall?

Even as he asked the question his hands were moving over her, calmer now, although not as calm as a professional’s hands should be, for his heart was still racing, his mind now caught up in the inevitable ‘what ifs’, his chest tight with the knowledge that she could have died.

Had she felt his fear that she took his hands and looked into his face?

‘Khalifa, I’m fine. Yes, my leg hurts—it’s like a bad ant bite but that’s all. Stop panicking.’

She smiled as she spoke, her beautiful, warm, open smile, and although he’d have liked to tell her he never panicked, the words wouldn’t come because now he couldn’t breathe properly, he was so overwhelmed by the thought of losing her.

He wanted to tell her, to explain how he felt—how the revelation that had come to him when he’d looked at her body in the moonlight, and how hearing her cry had nearly killed him—but he’d lost her. Her eyes were no longer on him but looking inward. There was a small frown of concentration on her face.

‘What is it?’ he demanded, but she didn’t reply, her hands moving to her belly, holding it.

Now new alarm spread through him, especially when he saw the movement—the bulge of her stomach tightening into a ball, obvious because she was so slim.

She was in labour?

Out here?

Now?

Great!

‘Is it a contraction?’ he demanded. ‘Was that the first? Are you timing them? Are you in pain? Did you fall heavily?’

Or had their lovemaking brought it on?

Whatever the cause, it was he who had, selfishly, wilfully, wished to spend the night in the desert with her—he who had made love to her.

Now another woman and her baby’s lives were in jeopardy.

‘Khalifa.’

One word, just his name spoken softly, brought him out of his panic. He took her hands in his and looked into the blue eyes.

‘I think this time it’s for real,’ she whispered, then stopped as another contraction ripped through her body, her hands clutching his, clamping on them, squeezing tightly.

‘I’m sorry—such a nuisance,’ she gasped as her grip loosened, telling him the pain was gone.

‘Never!’ he said. ‘I might have put you in this position, Liz, with my own stupidity, bringing you out here, but I’ll take care of you and the baby, believe me.’

She half smiled, although her abdomen was contracting again and the smile turned into a grimace, though she pushed out the words she wanted to say.

‘Not your fault—no more guilt!’ she told him, then grabbed his hands again as if they were her only lifeline, her main connection to reality.

And
he
should have been timing the contractions! They seemed to be coming far too close together, but she was right, no more guilt. This woman was
not
going to die! He was a doctor, he could deliver a baby, and even though it would be preemie, he could handle that until help arrived. Help would come. He had no radio contact here, but back at the well he could use his mobile and call in a helicopter to airlift Liz safely to the hospital.

She was resting, now, her face damp with sweat. He should wipe it, make her more comfortable, but getting her to the well where he could summon help was more important.

‘I’m going to check the dilatation of your cervix,’ he told her, brushing his hand across her cheek because he couldn’t say all the things he wanted to say to her, not now when he had to concentrate on her welfare, not his feelings. ‘If it’s not too dilated, I’ll drive you to the well. I can contact the hospital from there and get a helicopter to collect you.’

She pressed her hand over his and nodded her thanks, biting her lip, so he knew another contraction was on the way.

He also knew that they wouldn’t get to the well.

What did he have with him? An emergency kit in the car—it would have scissors that would be useful to cut the cord but little else as far as he could remember.

Water—he’d have plenty of water.

Think!

The mental order slowed his panic, and he found more damp napkins in a sealed container and used one to wipe Liz’s face. She smiled at him and he thought his heart might break, then she whispered, ‘You
do
remember how to deliver a baby!’

The gentle tease was worse than the smile, as far as affecting him went, but just in case she wasn’t teasing he was quick to reassure her.

‘Of course!’ he said, then teased her back. ‘I’m already boiling water on the fire, although I’ve never been quite sure what the boiling water you read about it stories was for. Maybe to sterilise the scissors.’

He kissed her lightly on the cheek and added more seriously, ‘I’m going to the car. I’ll be right back.’

He left the damp napkin with her and made sure she was comfortable on the couch, then headed for the car, finding the first-aid kit easily, and the drum of water, which he took with him, although Saif had left plenty in the tent.

He returned to find she’d moved, and was standing, gripping the tent pole.

‘Better this way,’ she gasped through pain, and he remembered his grandmother telling him how she had given birth, squatting while she gripped a solid pole set in the ground.

He held Liz while the contraction racked her body, so much stronger now that he wondered she could stand it, but as it passed she leant back into him and, holding her in his arms, a weird kind of happiness, something he’d never felt before, pulsed through his veins and calmed his panicked mind.

Though not for long! As Liz’s labour continued, at what seemed to him an alarmingly rapid rate, he wished he could remember more about childbirth. His obstetric days, back when he had been a student and an intern, were long behind him, and any knowledge he’d ever had about a situation like this had to be retrieved from a long-unused part of his brain.

What he did know was that he had to be ready—ready to handle a fragile, newborn baby. He searched the tent, found clean headscarves and a clean kandora, thanks to Saif, who believed his master should never appear with a spot on his clothing or the wrong crease in his headdress.

Leaving the kandora—he could put that on Liz later—he piled the other things he might need on a towel beside where Liz now squatted, her hands still gripping the pole, so involved with the process going on within her body he might as well not have been there.

A baby catcher, that’s all he was—yet even as he had the thought, new excitement shafted through him. He was going to deliver Liz’s baby!

Well, she’d do all the work, he’d just be on hand—but now the tension in his body was different, more like elation than panic. He held her again, squatting behind her so his arms could support her, talking to her, encouraging her, whispering things he doubted she’d remember later but words he wanted to say.

He felt the moment she began to push and sat behind her, his hands, washed and rewashed, ready for the arrival. He felt the head as it crowned, disappeared, then crowned again, emerging fully, the little body twisting so the shoulders would come through the narrow passage, then with a final push the baby was in his hands and Liz had collapsed onto the blanket he’d spread beside the pole.

He stared at the baby, transfixed by her beauty and perfection, and smiled when she gave a cry that sounded full of resentment at being ejected from her sanctuary. She even blew a little bubble when he used a straw to clear her mouth and nose of mucus.

When he felt her chest moving as she breathed, he held the little bundle towards Liz.

‘A little girl,’ he whispered, his voice so husky with emotion the words croaked out.

But even in the dim light of the lantern he could read the despair in Liz’s eyes and see the way her hands moved towards the tiny infant then were pulled back with what seemed an almost superhuman effort.

‘Will
you
cuddle her for me?’ Liz whispered, tears streaming down her face. ‘Hold her against your skin for a few minutes and talk to her. She’s used to men’s voices.’

Liz’s voice broke on the last few words and she turned away, her hand pressed against her mouth to stem the emotion she was obviously feeling.

He held the baby as she asked, glad he hadn’t had time to dress so she could feel his skin, but his mind was on the woman, not the baby, for all she, premature as she was, should have all his concentration.

‘Just keep breathing,
farida
, my precious pearl.’ he whispered to the little girl, wrapping her carefully before setting her down to turn his attention to her mother.

How could this be so hard? How could she possibly be hurting more than she had during the brief labour?

The questions jostled with more practical matters in Liz’s head and although she knew she should be gathering her wits and making sure Khalifa was doing all the right things for the baby, the ache of loss, so unexpected, was too overwhelming for her to think straight.

Perhaps if she held the little girl?

Then
gave her up when Oliver recovered and wanted her?

She doubted she’d be strong enough to do that, knowing how much she already loved this infant, for all her determination to remain detached.

The bulge on her abdomen told her she was ready for the third stage of labour but it seemed Khalifa had remembered enough of his obstetrics training to have also recognised this fact. He’d set the baby, wrapped, it appeared, in one of his red-checked headscarves, quite close but not right beside her, and was preparing to deliver the placenta.

What must he be thinking of her? All he’d wanted was to share his delight in the desert with her, and here she was, causing all this trouble. And she had no doubt, knowing him as she now did, that he’d blame himself for the baby’s premature arrival.

She wanted to say something, to thank him, but the words wouldn’t come, because now something else had bobbed into her erratic brain and she was crying again.

‘Liz?’ His voice was gentle. ‘Is it the baby? Do you want to hold her?’

Liz shook her head, swallowed hard, then poured out more grief on the poor man, knowing she shouldn’t but unable to stop herself.

‘It wasn’t meant to be like this! They should have been here, and we were going to keep the cord and donate it for research. It was all planned.’

She knew her voice had risen to a pathetic wail, but Khalifa, who probably should have found an excuse to be busy elsewhere, was lifting her so he could take her in his arms, lifting her and carrying her outside, setting her down on the mattress where they’d made love—had it only been hours earlier?

‘You’ve had so much pain—too much really for anyone to bear—but you are strong, Liz Jones, the strongest woman I have ever known. Yes, it hurts, but you’ve brought life to a new soul and now, if you look over there, you will see the sun coming up on a bright new day. You’ve seen desert sunsets, now watch the sun rise over a new day and know that we are given new days so we can start again and make each day better than the last one.’

He kissed her lips then left her, leaning back against the cushions, thinking of his words as she watched the slowly rising sun bring the desert to life.

Khalifa lifted the baby and, holding her cradled in one arm, walked out to the car, checking the crib they were carrying around. But there was no way he could see to secure it in the vehicle so back at the tent he packed one of the picnic baskets with towels, making a nest for her for before settling her into it. Once sure she was secure, he carried the basket out to the car where he strapped it in as tightly as he could, using a seat belt.

He’d already mentally debated asking Liz to hold her, but had decided that was probably less safe than his makeshift baby capsule. One abrupt stop and she could fly out of Liz’s arms.

He returned to Liz, sitting where he’d left her, watching the magic of the sunrise, her skin touched to gold by the reflection from the dunes, the slight smile on her lips enough to break his heart all over again, but this was not the time for emotion. He had a fragile premature infant to take care of, not to mention possible complications for Liz.

Heaven forbid…

‘We must drive to the well,’ he said, stifling any hint of emotion. ‘I can radio for help from there.’

She nodded but didn’t move until he bent to lift her.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m quite capable of walking. I’ve been enough of a burden to you already. Besides, I need to go into the tent—to dress in something.’

He helped her to her feet, her hand in his, his arm supporting her, yet close as he was he knew he wasn’t really there—not for her—some distance having grown between them, something having shifted in their admittedly brief and unlikely relationship.

Which was good, wasn’t it?

‘Then I must check the baby,’ she said, confirming his impression, for she was back in Dr Jones the neonatologist mode, which left him where?

The chauffeur?

‘You’ll find a clean kandora in the tent, you can put that on,’ he said. ‘And plenty of water and towels.’

She walked away and as he watched the long slim legs beneath the slightly bloodstained tunic she still wore moving her away from him, a sense of loss invaded his soul.