Reclaimed By The Powerful Sheikh. Pippa Roscoe
counted to ten, and then an extra five for good measure, before turning back to find them facing him, neither a hair out of place nor a shred of embarrassment visible.
‘Did you really need to bring Veranchetti halfway round the world for a party? Don’t you think it a little ostentatious to parade a horse from my syndicate in front of all your guests?’
‘Darling, we’re fine, thank you for asking. It is good to see you too,’ his mother mocked. She often complained that he only had one speed: ruthless efficiency. ‘We’re royal, Danyl. People are going to think that anything we do is ostentatious. We might as well have a little fun and play up to it, no? You used to love playing up to it,’ she said, unable to hide the hint of censure that often came with such a declaration. A silent reminder that he used to have fun. Once. ‘Besides, I simply spoke to the boys—’
‘They are not boys, Mother.’
‘I have known them since you were all at university together. You were boys then, and you’ll always be boys to me.’
‘You went behind my back.’
‘Oh, Danyl, don’t be so dramatic.’ Her exasperation was undermined by an overly emphatic and somewhat disappointed sigh. ‘Veranchetti was already due to come to Ter’harn and you know that. I simply asked if they would be able to move up the date of their arrival for the New Year’s Day race to coincide with the gala, which is—in part—a celebration of your achievements.’
‘I would hardly call it my achievement, Mother,’ Danyl replied.
‘Ah, yes. The delightful Mason McAulty. She has yet to respond to our invitation.’
‘You invited Mason?’ If his mother noticed the ice-cool tone his voice had contained, she didn’t show it.
‘Yes, what a wonderful feat, winning all the three races in the Hanley Cup. Quite extraordinary. For a woman.’
Elizabeth Al Arain’s words settled into a buzzing sound between Danyl’s ears. Just Mason McAulty’s name was enough to short-circuit his perfectly ordered mind. Images of thick, dark brown hair curling over a sun-kissed shoulder haunted his mind, the echo of a laugh from ten years before, the slight smell of leather and hay...odd scents of feminine silk-soft skin. His mind reared back in self-defence and Danyl sought anger, fury, anything to cover over the moment of mental weakness her name had brought.
Mason McAulty.
He didn’t want her here. Not in Ter’harn, not in the palace. He hadn’t even wanted her to ride in the Hanley Cup for their syndicate the Winners’ Circle, but Dimitri Kyriakou and Antonio Arcuri had been quite taken with the idea. Two against one. Although, in all likelihood, if Danyl had refused they would have accepted his decision without question. But the moment she had approached them in the exclusive private members’ club in London...frankly he’d been shocked. Shocked enough to utter a few barbed comments Mason had refused to rise to. He’d tried to send her away, but the stubborn woman had refused. And most of all, that had been what had impressed the Winners’ Circle. That and the sheer audacity of what she’d suggested. Who could have imagined that she would deliver on her promise?
‘Well, I want her here,’ his mother pressed on. ‘You know how much I love horse racing. Where do you think you got the bug from?’
‘My investment in horses is not a “bug”.’
‘Danyl Nejem Al Arain, do not take that tone with me. What Mason McAulty has achieved is nothing short of miraculous. Coming first in each of the three legs of the Hanley Cup with horses from one syndicate—your syndicate—hasn’t been achieved in over thirty years. You know that, I know that, and I want to celebrate the success of such an incredible female jockey. I always thought that had I not been an actress—’
‘You would have liked to be a jockey, yes, I know. But you were too tall, Mother.’
Her response was a delicate sniff. ‘It didn’t stop me from being an excellent rider though. I want to meet this young woman, Danyl, and I want you to do whatever it takes to make it happen. Go to Australia in person, if you have to. Either way, consider it an early Christmas present.’
‘What are you really getting out of this, Mother?’ he asked, feeling his own eyes narrow in suspicion. But of what, he couldn’t quite place, or he didn’t want to.
‘Oh, darling, it will be the best party we’ve had here for years. With relationships on the borders doing so well, thanks to all your hard work, your father and I are thinking of stepping back further to allow you the room to take the throne.’
Danyl cast a look to his father, silently watching the conversation as if intuiting undercurrents that Danyl was missing.
‘But tradition dictates that you wait until I am married,’ he said, fury giving way to frustration as a series of efficiently arranged dates with poised princesses and highly capable CEOs filtered through the last few months of his memory. Anything to prevent the full impact of his mother’s words from raining down upon him. That he was finally going to ascend to the throne. That he would finally inherit the weight of responsibility for hundreds of centuries of culture and nearly three million people.
‘Well, as you are failing so spectacularly to produce such a fiancée,’ she said, gently mocking him, ‘we can’t wait for ever, can we? We’re not getting any younger, and it’s about time that I had my husband to myself for a change. Either way, that’s what I want. Mason at the party. And I want you to do whatever it takes to make that happen.’
* * *
The morning heat was already fierce and Mason was conscious of time running out. She needed to get a move on if she was to get to the outer fencing of their Australian farmland. She hitched up the saddle strap one hole tighter, threading it back through the buckle as Fool’s Fate shifted on his hooves. She gave the horse’s flank a reassuring pat and turned to find her father standing behind the saddlebags in the stable’s courtyard.
He looked as if he had aged ten years, rather than the eighteen months she’d been away. The grey at his temples now firmly white. The hollows beneath his eyes a darker shade of blue. She toned down the flare of frustration, the painful ache of sadness, knowing Fool’s Fate would pick up on her feelings if she vented them. Her father picked up one of the bags and held it out to her. She took it from him, turned back to the horse, strapping it to the saddle, and took the moment she needed.
Beyond the stables, the rolling emerald-coloured fields stretched out towards the mountains in the distance. Mountains that had always brought her a sense of peace, yet now seemed to loom as some kind of dark prophecy. Taking a deep breath, she felt the warm air fill her lungs, heavy and hot.
Joe McAulty had something on his mind. Not that he’d open his mouth to speak until he was ready. There was no rushing the man, never had been and never would be. So she just carried on packing the saddle bags until he said his piece.
Tent, phone, food, she mentally ticked off, coffee...
‘I didn’t think he’d call it in so soon.’
‘Pops, it can’t be helped.’ It was the same response she’d made when he’d first told her about the debt collection.
‘But after everything you did, the purses you won from the Hanley Cup...’
‘Pops, Mick died.’ She threw the words over her shoulder, shrugging off the swell of grief she felt for the neighbour who’d seemed an old coot even when she was a child. But her dad was a plain speaker, and emotions were an unknown language over which he stuttered and stumbled. ‘Who could have known that his son would call in the debt so soon? And yeah, if he hadn’t, the money from the wins might have kept us going for a couple of years, but something else might have come up.’
She finally allowed herself to turn around. Her father was kicking the dirt floor, keeping his focus on the spray of dust caught in the sun’s early rays.
‘The farm isn’t lost yet, Pops.’ Mason knew he felt responsible,