Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (41 page)

I can’t fail to notice the grim look on both brothers’ faces.

“Oh my God!” My hand goes to my mouth. I jump to my feet. “What’s happened to him?”

It’s Kadar who reaches for me.

“Cara, keep calm. We don’t know anything yet. They’ll be searching for him.”

“But he could have crashed!”

“There was a sandstorm that day. He might have headed into the interior to escape it and be at one of the nomad camps. He could be fine, Cara.” Jasim tries to ease my worry, but their expressions are telling me the chances of him being found alive and well are slim.

“Is someone looking for him?”

Now I wish I hadn’t drunk any of that coffee; the churning in my gut is making me nauseous.

“They are,” Jasim confirms. “Search parties are out all over. They’ll find him, Cara. You just have to keep hoping.”

Hoping. That’s all I seem to have been doing for the last few weeks. Why did Nijad want to get in the middle of the fighting, rather than directing it from the military base? Surely his role was to lead?
Was he reckless because he didn’t want to come back and face me?

As if he knows what I’m thinking, Jasim squeezes my hand.

“It’s what Nijad would do, Cara. He’s not one to sit safely on his backside if he thinks he’s needed. Nijad’s an excellent pilot, I hate to admit it, but he’s better than me. With the sandstorm and the comms out he may have had to land somewhere. If he’s reached safety, we should hear soon. Don’t give up on him yet.”

His phone rings. He moves away to answer the call.

I still haven’t learned enough of the language to follow Jasim’s rapidly spoken Arabic, but I hear the name ‘Nijad’ and, from the way Kadar stiffens as he listens to his brother’s side of the conversation, I know something serious has happened.
There’s more news about Nijad. And it doesn’t sound good.
Anxiously, I watch as Jasim continues to talk. It seems an eternity but, in reality, it’s only a moment before Jasim steps back to us.

“They’ve found him.” Jasim wastes no explaining. He sends a quick glance to Kadar and then turns to me. My stomach drops as I recognise the look of utter devastation on his face.

“Is … is he…?” I stammer out, unable to complete the question.

“He’s alive.”

“Oh, thank God!” Relief floods through me at Jasim’s confirmation. But there’s more to come.

“Cara.” Jasim kneels in front of me, his hands resting gently on my knees, his dark eyes full of compassion as he continues softly. “His helicopter was shot down. Two days ago. The search party has only just found him. He was stranded in the desert, injured, since the crash.” He pauses and clears his throat. “You have to prepare yourself; he’s in a bad way.”

My head spins. Nijad. Oh my God, Nijad injured.

“I must go to him.”

I feel like I’m going to keel over, and feel Jasim’s arms holding me up.

“Yes, I’ll take you. He’s at the hospital in Z̧almā. We’ll leave immediately.” He raises his eyes to his older brother. “He’s in a coma. Pray for him, Kadar. And inform our father.”

The importance of everything Jasim said hits me: Nijad lay hurt, possibly badly, under the scorching desert sun for two days. And now he’s unconscious. My head spins but I force my feet to move forward as Jasim leads me through the palace to where the helicopter is already waiting, the rotors already turning, ready to take us to the desert city.
Please let him be OK
.
Please let him be OK
.

With Jasim not trusting himself to fly, a pilot unknown to me takes the controls, and Jasim sits beside me in the rear. He puts his arm around me, hugging me to him, showing me he shares my fear and concern. Trying to reassure me, Jasim tells me the Z̧almā’ hospital, being so close to the border hostilities, is used to dealing with trauma injuries and is one of the best equipped in the region. What other conversation there is between us consists solely of asking each other questions to which we have no answers. How badly is he hurt? How did it happen? When we realise that speculation is getting us nowhere we both become silent and, as we near our destination, I take his hand, needing the contact.

We land at the palace of the desert city of Z̧almā’. A car is waiting to take us the rest of the way. I absorb almost nothing of my surroundings as the limousine drives through the city and out towards the hospital on the outskirts. I note with some relief that it’s housed in a modern building, clean and, as Jasim had told me, well equipped. But my real focus is on getting to Nijad as quickly as possible.

“Your Excellencies..”

A doctor is waiting for us on our arrival and whisks us up in the lift to the third floor where he takes us into a private room equipped with sofas and chairs, obviously for waiting relatives. It’s empty now, and I assume reserved for our use. He offers us refreshment. We both refuse.

“My brother: how is he?” Jasim is as impatient as I am, expecting to hear the worst.

The doctor shakes his head, and in deference to me gives us an update in carefully spoken English.

“You are already aware that the helicopter he was flying crashed and rolled. His leg trapped him under the wreckage for two days so, as you can imagine, he’s extremely dehydrated. He also has a severe head injury and has not yet regained consciousness. We suspect he may have been unconscious since the crash itself. There’s no way of knowing. And it’s the head injury that’s what’s causing us the most concern at the moment. There’s swelling to the brain, which we’ve been trying to reduce by putting him in an induced coma.” He continues to list the other injuries, telling us that Nijad’s leg was badly broken and, while it has already been reset, will probably leave him with a permanent limp. Other bumps, cuts, bruises, a torn ligament and dislocated shoulder have all been seen to, fixed and dressed as appropriate.

Jasim gets right to the point while I’m still trying to take in the catalogue of Nijad’s suffering.

“What’s the prognosis?”

The doctor chooses his words carefully. “Sheikh Nijad is young, fit and healthy, and his vital signs are good, but the head injury … we need to wait, and if,
when,
” he quickly revises his words with a glance at me, “When the swelling goes down, we’ll bring him out of the coma and hope he regains consciousness. Then we’ll be able to assess whether there is any permanent damage.”

He gives us time to absorb the information, and then invites us to follow him. “Come, I’ll take you to him now.” Having prepared us as best he can, the doctor leads us to the private room where Nijad is receiving his care.

No amount of pre-warning from the physician would have been sufficient for my first sight of Nijad lying there, sleeping so silently and still, his face far too pale, his right arm bandaged, his eyes blackened, stitches holding together a new gash across his left cheek, and the bedclothes tented to keep the weight off his broken leg. As I stand watching Nijad’s chest rise and fall, thanks only to a ventilator, and hearing the incessant beeping of the monitors, which are the only signs he is still alive, I suddenly feel very light-headed. My strength fails me and I collapse to the floor.

The stress and anxiety of the preceding weeks, combined with the shock of seeing Nijad looking so close to death, caused me pass out long enough to be assigned my own room. When I come to and open my eyes, everything that’s happened comes back in a flood. I pull myself up, wanting to return to Nijad’s side, but I sit up too fast and immediately feel dizzy again. A young female doctor is taking my pulse, and I try to shake her off.

“How long have I been here? I’ve got to get back to Nijad.”

The doctor regards me with sympathy. “You fainted for about ten minutes. I’m certain it was just the shock, Sheikha, but I’d like to take some blood and run some checks just to make sure. It will only take a moment.”

I can’t spare the time. “My husband…”

“There’s been no change,” the doctor assures me in a calming voice, her bedside manner impeccable. “I’ve made sure someone will let you know the instant there is any news. Now this will only take a second.” Even as she is speaking to me, she is making her preparations. To be honest, I still feel a little woozy, so I lie back and let her draw blood and take my blood pressure.

The doctor is as quick as she promised. The needle is removed, a plaster put on and I am taken back to Nijad within minutes. I sit in the chair that’s been provided for me beside his bed and take his limp hand in mine, taking comfort in the fact it is warm. Gently, I run my fingers over his calluses. No idle prince, this husband of mine.

After a few more hours the doctors decide to remove the ventilator and Nijad is successfully breathing on his own. An excellent sign, I’m told, but on the other side of the coin, he’s still showing no signs of waking. Jasim and the nursing staff try to get me to take breaks, to eat or sleep, but I’m determined I won’t be leaving him again. I keep to my resolve, despite Jasim’s best attempts to make me go and rest after I’ve sat, unmoving, for the first twelve hours. Jasim tells me he wouldn’t leave Nijad on his own, he’d stay with him, but I’m his wife and I need to stay by his side. So I refuse to budge. I refuse to let go of his hand, the hand which had brought me so much pleasure as he introduced me to the sensuality that lay hidden inside me, waiting for him to awaken it. The hand which held me, to comfort and reassure me. The hand that led and guided me into this new life. Unable to let go of him, I trace the fingers of my other hand over his face, lingering on the scar running from the corner of his eye to the edge of his mouth, the one I’d noticed when he visited me in the harem. It’s not as angry-looking as it was, but still red and evident. There’s now another, almost matching, on the other side.
Why were you so reckless, Nijad? Why did you put yourself in danger? Was it because of me?

My hand gently follows the path of the healing scar, my fingers resting lightly on his lips.
Please wake up, Nijad. Please come back to me.
In vain I watch for his long eyelashes to flutter, for his eyes to open, yearning to see them darken in passion once again.
Will I ever feel your touch again?

When exhaustion overcomes me I lean forward, resting my head against his unmoving hand, and drift into a light, restless doze.

I sit in that hard, uncomfortable chair for twenty-six hours, never letting go of his hand, except for essential visits to the en-suite bathroom; comforted only by his warmth. As long as the blood flows through his veins I know he’s still alive, and as long as I’m touching him he hasn’t left me. Twenty-six hours. I know exactly how long it is by the annoying tick-tocking of the clock on the opposite wall. Each minute passes so slowly; each hour crawls by.
Please wake up
, I pray time after time. I talk to Nijad constantly, about how much I love him, how much I’ve enjoyed our time together, riding with him, meeting the tribes. How much I loved touching and being touched by him. How much I long to return to the dungeon with him. I don’t worry him with explanations of my behaviour, just remind him of our time together. He needs no more stress now, only the strength to heal.

Kadar and the emir visit, but there’s nothing to say, nothing to discuss. It’s up to Nijad now to fight his way back to us. All that can be done medically has been done. Nijad has to take on the battle for his life. Before he leaves, Kadar takes a moment to rest his hand on my head and encourages me to take a break, but I won’t leave. I have to be here when Nijad wakes up. The doctors and nurses visit regularly to check him. My hope is plummeting when they shake their heads sadly, seeing no improvement.

For twenty-six hours and thirty-three minutes, there is no change. The thirty-fourth minute after I’d taken up my vigil starts like all the others, with each second ticking away like a whole day. Then I feel a twitch under my hand. I think it must be my imagination, but surely I actually felt it?

“Nijad,” I whisper hesitantly, hardly daring to hope. I examine his face, willing him to respond to me, looking for any slight movement at all, the flicker of an eyelid, anything. “Nijad.” I speak a little louder and squeeze his hand.

Time seems to stand still. I don’t even dare to breathe. And then his eyes flick open. He blinks, as though trying to focus.

“Nijad! Oh, Nijad!” Tears of relief start streaming down my face. I realise he probably doesn’t know what’s happening, so I try to explain.

“You’re in the hospital,” I tell him gently. “Your helicopter was shot down.” I hold my breath. Can he hear me? Can he understand? I was warned there could be brain damage. He might not remember the crash; he might not remember me. He might not remember anything. My fingers caress the back of his hand.

As I watch him avidly, I see his eyes flick from left to right, and then seem to steady on me. I feel a slight pressure on my hand as his fingers press into mine. And then he closes his eyes again.

As soon as I press the call button doctors and nurses flood the room and embark on a series of seemingly never-ending tests, and there’s an apparently endless waiting game until we find the truth about the extent of his head injury. For another twenty-four torturous hours, Nijad drifts in and out of consciousness; each time he comes round it is for longer periods and with more lucidity. People come and go, but I stay in exactly the same place.