The Widow And The Sheikh (Hot Arabian Nights, Book 1)

by Marguerite Kaye

  Hot Arabian Nights

  Be seduced and swept away by these desert princes!

  You won’t want to miss this new, thrillingly exotic quartet from Marguerite Kaye!

  First, exiled Prince Azhar must decide whether to claim his kingdom and beautiful unconventional widow Julia Trevelyan!

  Read

  The Widow and the Sheikh

  Available now!

  When Sheikh Kadar rescues shipwrecked mail-order bride Constance Montgomery, can a convenient marriage help him maintain peace in his kingdom?

  Find out in

  Sheikh’s Mail-Order Bride

  Available soon!

  And watch out for two more tantalising novels, coming soon…

  To secure his kingdom’s safety, Sheikh Asad must win Arabia’s most dangerous horse race. His secret weapon is an English horse whisperer…whom he does not expect to be an irresistibly attractive woman!

  Daredevil Christopher Fordyce has always craved adventure. When his travels lead him to the kingdom of Nessarah he makes his most exciting discovery yet—a desert princess!

  There could be absolutely no mistaking the desire in his eyes now. For some extraordinary reason this prince—this man—was attracted to her. Her!

  She reached up her hand and touched his cheek, just as he had touched hers. His skin was rougher than she had expected, warmer. She ran her fingers through the short, soft silk of his hair.

  ‘Tell me what you are thinking, Julia.’

  His voice had a ragged edge to it. He really did want her. She’d walked away from the chance to kiss him once—she wasn’t likely to get another. ‘I’m thinking that I’d very much like you to kiss me,’ she said.

  He was surprised into a low rumble of laughter. ‘I believe they call that serendipity,’ he said, ‘because that is exactly what I propose to do.’

  The Widow

  and the Sheikh

  Marguerite Kaye

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published almost thirty books and novellas. When she’s not writing she enjoys walking, cycling (but only on the level), gardening (but only what she can eat) and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis (though not at the same time). Find out more on her website: margueritekaye.com.

  Contents

  Cover

  Introduction

  Excerpt

  Title Page

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Historical Note

  Extract

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Kingdom of Qaryma, Arabia—spring, 1815

  It was late afternoon. He had travelled all day through the unrelenting heat of the blazing desert sun, barely stopping to rest, driven on by the knowledge that his destination was within touching distance, anxious to complete both the journey and the unwished-for task which awaited him. A difficult, potentially painful task but one which would provide its own reward. Ten years ago he had left and vowed never to return. This time when he departed, it truly would be for ever.

  Azhar brought his camel to a halt and shaded his eyes. The view of the desert was never static. The rippling sands shifted continually, as if the landscape itself were alive like some vast writhing serpent, as the bone-dry winds constantly reshaped and remoulded the dunes. Today, the colours varied from gold, to burnt orange, to a deep chocolate-brown where the sun cast shadows in the valleys between the vertiginous cliffs of sand. The sheer vastness of the landscape, the vibrant celestial blue of the sky, and the searing, white-gold heat of the sun, filled him with awe and a painful nostalgic ache. His trading missions had carried him across many a desert landscape throughout Arabia, but there was none that tugged on his heartstrings as much as this one.

  Had once tugged on his heartstrings. Ten long years ago, he had exorcised this place and its people from his heart. In the intervening period, he had refused to allow himself to think of it, to remember it, to allow it to impinge on the new life he had carved for himself, the life that now defined him. His business gave him independence. He was beholden to no man. He was accountable for no one and to no one. Concluding matters here in Qaryma would finally make him free.

  Far below, nestled in the valley, lay the Zazim Oasis, the contours of the lagoon delineated by the belt of lush vegetation which surrounded it. The perfectly still pool was silvery-green, reflecting the ridges of the highest dunes with the clarity of a painting. Though it was a forlorn hope, for the oasis was a well-known respite for weary travellers, Azhar had wished for one last night of solitude before discharging the obligation which had led him here. Consequently, as he descended into the valley, the unmistakable evidence that he would not have the oasis to himself irked him profoundly.

  The sole tent was pitched at the far end of the lagoon, in the shade provided by a grove of palm trees. It was constructed in a similar manner to the one his own mules carried, a mix of heavy wool blankets and animal skins stretched over a simple wooden frame, but this tent was larger, more akin to the type used by Bedouins, not a man travelling alone. It was then that he noticed the absence of any signs of life. No one would abandon such a precious possession willingly. The thick quality of the silence left him in no doubt that there was neither man nor beast here, but if experience had taught him one thing, it was always to be prepared, to expect the unexpected. As his camel, the string of mules in train behind it, began the slow descent, Azhar’s hand went instinctively to the hilt of his scimitar.

  * * *

  Julia Trevelyan awoke with a start, sitting straight up on her bedroll. Her heart was beating so rapidly it felt as if it were in her throat. Her linen shift clung to her skin, damp with sweat and gritty with sand. It was stiflingly hot. The air was so dry it hurt to breathe. The bright glare of the desert sun glinting through the seams and gaps of the musty tent told her it must be well into the afternoon, but that was quite impossible.

  Her head was pounding. The inside of her mouth felt as if it had been coated in camel hair. Reaching for the goatskin flask of water she kept by her bedclothes, she struggled to undo the cap, her fingers were shaking so much. She drank greedily, so desperate to slake her thirst that the precious water trickled down her chin on to her chest. The ache in her head flared into a searing stab of pain. Her brain felt like it was on fire. She tipped the remaining contents of her flask over her head in an effort to cool herself. Hanif, her dragoman guide, would be horrified at such flagrant waste of a precious resource, but Julia was beyond caring, and besides, the oasis where they were camped had a plentiful supply.

  Where was Hanif? Why had he not woken her? What time was it? Julia fumbled for Daniel’s pocket watch, which she kept by her bedroll, but it was not there. She must have set it down somewhere else. It was not like her to misplace such a precious object. She frowned, causing the band of pain around her head to tighten. She couldn’t even remember going to bed.

  The silence struck her then. She listened intently. Nothing. Not a rustle. Not a voice. Neither the shrill bray of a mule nor the plaintive bleat of a camel. Despite the stifling heat, she shivered. She was being foolish. Hanif and his men were being very well paid for their as
sistance. They would not have abandoned her here.

  Alone.

  In the middle of a desert.

  A wave of panic sent her heart pumping wildly. She was being ridiculous. Julia pushed back the blanket and got to her feet. Too quickly. The tent swam. She staggered. Shooting stars of light sparked before her eyes. Was she ill? Too much sun, perhaps? Not enough water?

  She lurched to the front of the tent, sticking her head through the gap between the goatskin flaps. The sun cast a blinding white glare over everything. The day was well advanced. In utter disbelief, she gazed at the space where the encampment had been. There was nothing left, save the cold embers of last night’s cooking fire. All of the camels were gone. All of the pack mules were gone. The water of the oasis lay completely still. Not a frond on the shady palm trees stirred. She was alone, quite alone.

  Anger and confusion dissipated the worst of her fear. Why had she not woken sooner? Hanif and his men could not have packed up the entire camp in silence, and she was a notoriously light sleeper. Why hadn’t she heard anything? Only now, turning back into the tent, did she notice that her clothes were strewn all over the floor. The large leather-bound trunk in which she kept them lay open, empty. Julia’s stomach lurched. Where was the other trunk? The trunk that constituted the sole reason she was here, so far from home, so far from England. She almost couldn’t bear to look. ‘Please, please, please,’ she whispered, as she made her way to the rear of the tent.

  It wasn’t there. But it must be. It must be somewhere. Her knees shaking, she stumbled into the darker corners, but there was no sign of it. Frantically now, she began to search, pulling up her bedroll, shaking out her pillow, casting petticoats and skirts into the air in a fruitless attempt to find the small trunk and its precious contents. But it was gone, and with it the drawings of desert flowers she had so meticulously made, the plant specimens she had so painstakingly collected, labelled and neatly stored. She had almost completed her quest. Her notebooks were alive with colour, the tiny drawers of the trunk almost full. The pledge she had made was so near to fulfilment, her freedom finally within reach. Now, all was lost.

  She couldn’t believe it. This simply couldn’t be happening. Please let it be some awful nightmare from which she would awake. Sinking down on to the sand, Julia struggled to hold back the tears. She never cried. She could cope, she told herself firmly. Hadn’t she been coping exceptionally well all these past months on her own? She had been in worse situations before. Once, the barge she and Daniel had been travelling on had sunk in the middle of a fast-running muddy river in the depths of a jungle. They had floated, the two of them, clinging to the wreckage as it tumbled downstream, she remembered, until the waters had become shallow enough for them to wade ashore. They’d lost everything then. No, not quite everything. Daniel’s watch and his purse had been secured to his person. Practical as always.

  Her purse! Julia retrieved her pillow from the corner into which she had tossed it in the frenzy of her search, but no amount of probing and pummelling produced the leather pouch filled with gold coins. They must have taken Daniel’s watch too. A tear sprung to her eye. They had been right here, standing over her sleeping body, wreaking carnage in her tent, and she had not awoken.

  Dear God, what else had she slept through? Somewhat belatedly, Julia checked her body for any signs of molestation. The relief when she found none was palpable. She began to tremble, thinking of what she had been spared. They could easily have slit her throat.

  Stop!

  That way lay despair, and she had no time to despair. ‘No point in imagining the worst,’ she told herself firmly. ‘Time to take stock, not give way to a fit of the vapours.’ She was unharmed. Her gold was gone, her only cherished memento of Daniel—his watch—was also gone, but hopefully her secret stash of bank notes was safe.

  A soft thud of hooves on the sand outside the tent prevented her from checking. They had come back, realising the error of their ways! Relief flooded her, quickly followed by fury. She had been far too complacent, far too accommodating. It was time she made it clear who was in charge here, reminded them whose money was funding this expedition.

  But Hanif already had her purse and everything else of value. He had no reason to return. In fact, he had every reason to flee. Catching herself in the nick of time from storming out of the tent, Julia instead eased open the flap a mere inch and peered cautiously out.

  The lone figure sitting on the high boxed seat of a camel trailing three pack mules was just a few yards away, and a complete stranger to her. His head and most of his face was covered by a white keffiyeh held in place by a braid of dark-red scarves, leaving only his eyes, a pair of high cheekbones and the bridge of his nose exposed. She could only guess at his age. Not old. Five-and-thirty, perhaps less. He wore a long, loose tunic in the same dark red as the agal which held his headdress in place, a cloak she knew was called an abba, made of unbleached cotton or muslin. His long brown riding boots turned up at the toes. The simple attire, which was slightly dishevelled and covered in a fine coating of dust, suggested he had travelled far. Despite her apprehension, there was something about the man that held her attention. Was it his easy command of that highly strung beast that gave him such a forbidding presence? The hooded hawk which perched beside him on the saddle? Or the way he sat, shoulders ramrod straight, surveying the desert as if he and only he had a right to be here?

  He clicked his tongue and the camel dropped obediently to its knees allowing him to dismount fluidly, his billowing robes hinting at an athletic body beneath. His hand was on the hilt of the lethal-looking scimitar which hung from a loose belt on his hips. Now, Julia thought, while he was occupied with hitching the three mules, now would be the time to run for cover in the shrubs surrounding the lagoon, or even into the lagoon itself.

  She was about to melt back into the protective gloom of the tent, planning to crawl out from under the rear of it, when she saw the rangy silver-grey Saluki hound. Unfortunately the dog spotted her at the exact same moment. The animal’s ears pricked, its sleek body quivered as it turned towards her. Julia retreated hastily, but even as she tried to create an opening at the base of the tent, the front flap was thrown open and first the hound, and then its owner entered.

  Grabbing the first weapon that came to hand, she turned to confront the intruders. The dog was close enough for her to feel its breath on her bare feet, its hackles raised, teeth bared. ‘Stay where you are,’ Julia ordered, waving her weapon at its master. ‘If you value your life, you will not take a step further.’ She spoke in Italian, the language she had used to communicate with Hanif, for her Turkish and her Arabic were rudimentary at best. Certainly not up to the dire situation she currently found herself in.

  The nomad ignored her and stepped further inside. He had not drawn his sword, but wielded a wicked-looking dagger. Julia’s blood ran cold. He was at least a head taller than her, and at five foot six in her stocking soles, she had been the same height as Daniel. ‘I mean it,’ she said, brandishing her weapon and, in her terror, lapsing into English. ‘If you take one step further, I will...’

  He didn’t take one step, he took several, and all of them so quickly that she had no time to move before he closed the gap between them. A firm hand covered her mouth, preventing her from screaming. A powerful arm clamped around her waist, binding her tight against a hard and unforgiving body. The dagger on the end of that arm looked sharp enough to scythe through metal, to say nothing of clothing or delicate flesh. The hairbrush she had been rather preposterously wielding dropped to the sand as Julia struggled frantically, wriggling and kicking with all her might. The dog barked, but made no attempt to savage her.

  Seemingly utterly indifferent to her efforts to free herself, the man lifted her effortlessly off her feet and held her against his side while he made a quick tour of the tent. Only when he had assured himself that it was empty did he release her, pulling the keffiyeh away from his face and clicking his fingers to send his hound obediently
back to guard the doorway of the tent.

  Night-black hair, cut very short, showed his stark bone structure to advantage. A wide brow, high cheekbones, a surprisingly clean-shaven chin with a small cleft in the middle, drawing attention to the perfect symmetry of his face. His thickly lashed eyes were golden-brown in colour, rather like a setting sun. His nose was strong, but the austerity of his countenance was offset by the sensuality of his mouth, which on a less masculine face would have looked too feminine. All of this the artistic part of Julia’s brain absorbed in seconds. He was one of the most striking men she had ever seen. Under different circumstances—very different circumstances—her fingers would have itched to draw him, to capture his potent and haughty demeanour, his languid physical grace.

  He picked up the hairbrush and handed it to her. ‘What were you planning to do with that, comb me to death?’ he demanded with a curt laugh, although his eyes betrayed no sign of amusement. ‘What are you doing here? Why are you alone in the desert?’

  He spoke in perfect English with a soft accent, unmistakably Arabic but equally unmistakably cultured. This man was most definitely not the poor nomad she had taken him to be. Julia took a step back, eyeing the open doorway of the tent.

  ‘I do not recommend it,’ he said. ‘I can easily outrun you. And even if I couldn’t Uday here of a certainty could.’ The hound’s ears pricked up at the mention of his name. ‘Uday means fleet-footed, and he is. Very.’

  The dog bared its teeth, almost as if it were smiling contemptuously at her. He and his master were well matched. Julia moved, not because she doubted that the animal would live up to its name, but because she could think of no other viable course of action.

  Two steps only, she had taken, before he caught her again and set her down well inside the tent. ‘Madam, you will come to a great deal more harm running in the heat of the sun without a hat or shoes or water, than you will endure at my hands.’