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

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘I doubt Daniel would share your confidence.’

  Azhar’s hands tightened on the reins. ‘Daniel is not here to disapprove.’ The man was a fool. He evidently took every opportunity to point out his wife’s inadequacies. But there was no point in castigating her for listening to such arrant nonsense. What she needed was encouragement. ‘Would you like to take the reins, just for a short while, Julia?’

  ‘What if it bolts?’

  ‘It takes a great deal of effort to make a camel bolt. It takes a great deal of effort to get a camel to do anything, if truth be told. Its reputation for stubbornness is well earned.’ Still, she looked unconvinced, eyeing the distance between the saddle and the sand dubiously. ‘Julia, even if you do fall on your most delightful rear, the sand here is very soft. The courtyard was a different matter entirely.’

  Above her veil, her eyes widened. ‘You think my—my rear is delightful?’

  Azhar laughed. ‘Very.’

  ‘How odd. No one has ever referred to it as delightful before.’ Julia frowned. ‘Actually, I don’t think anyone has ever referred to it in any manner at all before.’

  ‘Perhaps the men of your acquaintance are singularly unobservant,’ Azhar responded. ‘To say nothing of unappreciative.’

  ‘Perhaps it is these clothes.’

  ‘I was not admiring the clothes but the woman they adorn.’

  She was close enough for him to see the flush on her cheeks beneath her filmy veil. Close enough for him to give in to the urge to run his fingers down the length of her silky plait of hair. Close enough for him to hear her sharp intake of breath as he did so. Close enough for his leg to brush against hers. For him to slide his fingers up her arm, over the soft billowing folds of her tunic, to rest on her shoulder. So close he saw the flame of desire he was feeling reflected in her eyes. So tantalisingly close he could almost touch his lips to hers.

  But even as he shifted to close the final infinitesimal gap his camel bleated, and Julia’s balance on the box seat wavered, and Azhar caught at the reins he had almost dropped. ‘There is an old saying, that in the desert a camel is more useful than a kingdom,’ he said ruefully, ‘but as a location for lovemaking, it leaves a lot to be desired.’

  * * *

  Clutching the pommel of the saddle, Julia could think of nothing to say in response to this scandalous remark. How had they shifted from the subject of learning to ride a camel, to her rear—her delightful rear—to a kiss in the space of one conversation? How was it even possible that they had combined such disparate subjects? Her head whirled and her body thrummed. For once, she had no difficulty in reading Azhar’s expression, for it exactly reflected her own feelings.

  ‘Azhar...’ Realising that she still hadn’t a clue what she was going to say, she shrugged. ‘I’d like to try taking the reins, please, provided you keep a close eye on my progress.’

  ‘A most prudent suggestion,’ he said, giving her a slightly crooked smile.

  Julia laughed. ‘I’m not sure that prudent is the word I’d use to describe what I’m about to do.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but it is a great deal less dangerous than what I was in the process of attempting. And I am not referring to physical danger. I hope I did not offend you.’

  ‘You must be perfectly well aware that you did not. If you must know,’ Julia said daringly, ‘I’ve been wanting to kiss you.’

  Once again, she surprised him into a laugh. ‘I believe that is what they call serendipity,’ he replied, ‘because that is exactly what I too have been wishing to do. Though I could have chosen a more propitious moment.’

  The way he was looking at her was making her feel not only daring, but decidedly decadent. ‘Then I hope you choose better the next time,’ Julia said, taking up the reins, and urging the camel into action.

  It would have been a most dramatic gesture if it had worked. Sadly, the camel stayed firmly rooted to the spot. Julia tugged the reins tighter. The camel turned its long neck around and nonchalantly attempted to bite her. In her surprise, she loosened her hold on the reins, and to her astonishment the beast set off at a slow plod.

  ‘I thought you said you understood the theory,’ Azhar said, catching up with her on his own mount.

  ‘Obviously I was wrong. What do I do to change direction?’

  ‘If you will permit me to ride a little in front, your camel will naturally follow mine.’

  ‘And to stop?’

  Azhar laughed. ‘Do exactly what you thought you should do to start. We have about an hour’s ride to the oasis, do you think you can manage that?’

  Julia risked a glance to the side. She was riding a camel, in the most beautiful desert, in the kingdom belonging to this most beautiful man. A man who thought she had the most delightful rear. A man who wanted to kiss her every bit as much as she wanted to kiss him. ‘I know that I will regret saying this, but at this moment in time, I think I could manage anything.’

  * * *

  One hour later, she heartily regretted her words. Her rear felt not at all delightful, but quite numb. The relief she felt when Azhar’s camel slowed in front of her was immense. Bringing her own mount to a stuttering but effective halt, Julia dismounted by the simple process of sliding on to the sand, discovering to her cost that it lay in a very thin layer on top of crumbly red rock.

  ‘Did you hurt yourself?’

  Dazed, she shook her head, allowing Azhar to pull her to her feet. Having discovered that the best way to avoid seasickness from the swaying saddle was to concentrate only on the view in front of her, Julia’s vision had been focused entirely on Azhar’s back. Now, she took stock of her surroundings and gasped with surprise. ‘What is this place?’

  Azhar spoke the name in Arabic. ‘It means Oasis of the Red Rock and the Tumbling Waterfall,’ he elaborated. ‘Rather more prosaic in translation.’

  ‘There is nothing at all prosaic about this place, it is absolutely breathtaking.’

  The oasis was small, a hollow protected by a semi-circular rock formation about thirty feet high. The waterfall tumbled down from the centre of the rocks into a deep pool. Years of pounding water had carved out fantastical shapes on the rock face. Behind the cascade, a species of silvery-green moss grew in long fronds. Trees the same strange colour of silvery-green grew on either side, almost as tall as the rocks, their reflections shimmering on the ruffled surface of the water. The air was refreshingly cool and damp, the shadow cast by the rock formation a welcome relief from the heat, which was already searing, though it could not be much more than ten in the morning.

  The low stone houses, constructed of the same red rock, clung to the perimeter of the water on the shaded side, blending in so well with their surroundings, that Julia didn’t notice them at first. ‘It is so quiet,’ she said. ‘Does no one live here?’

  ‘At this time of day, the men will be at work,’ Azhar replied. ‘There is a diamond mine two hours’ travel from here. Only the women will be at home.’

  ‘And I suppose they will not reveal themselves to a stranger. Though—you know, it has only just occurred to me, when we arrived in Al-Qaryma you were recognised almost instantly, even though you have been away ten years.’

  Azhar finished hobbling the camels. ‘I was a grown man when I left, Julia, and I did not spend all of my formative years closeted behind the palace walls.’

  Curious as to how he had spent his days, she was distracted by a cry of welcome coming from the largest of the village houses. An old woman stood in the doorway, her lined face unveiled, her arms extended in welcome. When he saw her, Azhar’s face lit up. ‘Johara,’ he said to Julia. ‘She is a herbalist. I was afraid—but I should have known she would still be here. I think she will live for ever. Come, let me introduce you.’

  He got to Johara’s side in time to prevent the woman from falling to her knees, pulling her into an embrace and speaking gently to her in his own language.

  ‘Madam Julia Trevelyan,’ Azhar said, introducing her.

&n
bsp; The woman’s face was heavily lined, her tiny frame bent and frail, but her eyes, under their drooping lids, were a bright and fiercely inquisitive blue. Herbalist, wise woman, fey wife, healer or witch, depending on which culture they inhabited, Julia had encountered Johara’s kind several times on her travels, and knew that they commanded respect as well as fear. She dropped to her knees, bending over the woman’s gnarled hand, and muttered the traditional words of greeting in her halting Arabic.

  After helping her back to her feet, she was rewarded with a nod of approval from Azhar, and a look she could only term quizzical from the old woman, who then broke into a torrent of Arabic, accompanied by many gestures. Standing to one side, Julia watched as the doors to the other houses in the village opened, and women of all shapes, sizes and ages began to emerge, two, three sometimes as many as four from each. They were all heavily veiled. One by one, they came forward, bowed over, eyes to the ground, forming two lines in front of the herbalist and their Crown Prince.

  Feeling awkward, Julia shuffled to one side. Azhar, his back to the women, deep in conversation with Johara, seemed not to have noticed their arrival. Julia tugged on his sleeve to get his attention, motioning over his shoulder. He turned, most reluctantly, it seemed to her. Had he been ignoring them? She caught what looked like a momentary flash of annoyance, or embarrassment in his eyes, before he said some sort of formal greeting and indicated that they should rise. They did so slowly, their eyes above their veils quite patently expecting more from him, but Azhar spoke under his breath to Johara and turned away.

  ‘We are invited to take tea,’ he said to Julia, taking her arm, compelling her into the wise woman’s house without a backward glance.

  ‘That was a little rude, if I may say so.’ Julia shook herself free. ‘Those women wished only to show their respect to their future King, and you as good as turned your back on them.’

  Azhar’s mouth tightened. ‘I do not deserve—’ He broke off abruptly. When he spoke again, it was through gritted teeth. ‘I am not yet their King. I have not yet been crowned.’

  There was a faint flush on his cheeks. ‘That is sophistry. Does it embarrass you, their adulation?’ Julia asked, confused by the strength of his reaction, recalling now, Azhar’s refusal to acknowledge the crowds which had followed them through the city on their arrival. ‘It does seem a little strange to me, the bowing and scraping I mean, but then I come from a country which has locked one King up, and put an overweight, over-indulged and frankly over-excitable popinjay on the throne in his place.’ The similarities between the two Regents, Prince George and Prince Kamal, struck Julia suddenly. Now it was her turn to blush. ‘I did not mean to compare the two, of course. It is the merest—I mean I am sure that your brother is not a...’ Libertine? Rake? ‘Profligate.’

  ‘Are you? You seem very certain about everything else, for one who has spent less than fifteen minutes in his company.’

  Azhar gave her one of his haughty looks. Instead of inhibiting her, it made Julia’s hackles rise. ‘I am a most astute interpreter of character,’ she said.

  ‘So astute, that you employed a thief as your dragoman.’

  ‘Oh! That was most—’ Once again, she broke off. ‘You are quite correct, of course. It is I who have been unfair, leaping to judge a man I do not know. Not that I am acquainted with Prince George either, but his habits are well established, and—and anyway, Azhar, we have strayed very far from the point. Even if it does make you uncomfortable, all the women were doing was showing you the respect due to their Prince.’

  ‘Even a prince must earn respect, Julia.’ Azhar took off his headdress, refolded it and replaced it. ‘It was not my intention to be rude. I—’

  A woman bearing a huge tray of tea things interrupted him. She was followed by Johara, who ushered them both to take their places on the cushions by the low table. As the sweet mint tea was poured with due ceremony, Azhar asked Johara to explain her craft for Julia’s benefit, translating the old woman’s words and Julia’s eager questions. Though she had encountered some of the plants mentioned, many were strange to her, either due to their local names, or simply because she had never encountered them before. Questions, more questions and yet more, Julia threw at Johara via Azhar, as the encyclopaedic extent of the woman’s knowledge became apparent. Finally, Johara clapped her hands and summoned one of her daughters.

  The book which was reverently laid on the table was folio-sized, bound in dark-red leather, and clearly ancient. ‘You are privileged indeed,’ Azhar said. ‘This book has been passed from mother to daughter in Johara’s family for more than two centuries.’

  The illustrations were so beautiful that Julia gasped. Plants, flowers, trees and roots, one species to a page, below which were what she assumed to be recipes for medicinal potions, documented in minute Arabic script. Julia carefully turned the pages, tracing the delicate paintings with her fingers. ‘These are wonderful. Please tell Johara that I am extremely honoured, that I have never seen anything quite so exquisite. Shukran,’ she said, putting her hands together. ‘Please tell her that I am very, very grateful.’

  ‘Johara says that you are welcome to copy the drawings if you wish, but you must not transcribe the recipes, or a curse will befall you and your family,’ Azhar said. ‘It is a warning I would not ignore lightly. But I thought you may prefer to take the likenesses of some of the specimens in their natural habitat. Many of them grow here at the oasis. Johara’s daughter will show you where, if you wish.’

  ‘If I wish! When may we start? Oh, I did not mean to be rude, but...’

  ‘But you are anxious to begin your task,’ Azhar said, smiling. ‘We have about four hours before we must leave.’

  ‘Thank you. Oh, thank you so much, but what about you, what will you do while I am working?’

  ‘I have ten years of history to uncover, Julia. I shall not lack occupation.’

  * * *

  As Azhar waited for Johara to summon the women of the village, he watched Julia heading off to the other end of the oasis with mixed feelings. The honesty he had requested of her came at a price. She saw too much. More, he suspected, than she chose to share with him. He suspected too, that he would prefer her to keep those thoughts to herself.

  Her perception discomfited him, surprising him into confidences he would rather not make, forcing him to confront facts he would prefer to ignore. His people’s unwarranted adulation, for example. Did they not realise that he had abandoned them? He had expected resentment at his return, sullen acceptance at best. If only his brother had made more of an effort to endear himself to the people. He’d had ten years to prove himself worthy. But then, hadn’t Kamal always held the belief that birthright alone was sufficient? Recalling Julia’s comparison of his brother and the English—what did she call him?—popinjay Prince, Azhar snorted in amusement. It was apt, there was no denying that. He wasn’t quite sure what a popinjay was, but he could imagine.

  Yes, Julia saw too much, but Julia had not the full picture. If she did, she would understand—Azhar caught himself short. He needed her honesty, but not her understanding. He had no need to explain himself to Julia. Even if she was correct about the adulation. It was odd, he had no compunction in misleading Kamal and his Council, he had been most careful to tell no lies, even when he revealed only part of the truth. But it sat very ill with him to be misleading the people.

  Outside, the women had gathered. What he intended to do was for their own good. And his. It was the only possible outcome. But in the meantime, as Julia had pointed out, coronation or not, he owed those who thought themselves his subjects some respect. Picking up his keffiyeh, refolding it carefully, Azhar headed outside to demonstrate that fact.

  Chapter Five

  It was early evening by the time they returned to the palace. Azhar escorted Julia to her quarters, carrying her drawing materials, which he now set down on the table in her sitting room.

  ‘Thank you so much for this opportunity, Azhar. I have completed mo
re drawings in one afternoon than I have previously managed in two or three days in the open desert. I only wish I could speak your language more fluently, I have a thousand questions I’d have liked to have asked Johara. She is one of the most knowledgeable herbalists I have ever met.’

  ‘And you have encountered many such women on your travels?’ he asked.

  ‘Several. They have proved to be of immense help in compiling Daniel’s book.’ Julia smothered a yawn. ‘I beg your pardon, it has been a very long day, though a most productive one—at least from my point of view. I am afraid I was not of much assistance to you.’ She slanted him a look. He had pulled off his headdress, and was standing at the window, staring out at her little courtyard. ‘To be honest, I’m not exactly sure what you expect of me.’

  ‘To speak your mind, as you did today,’ Azhar replied ruefully. ‘It was not my intention to offend the village women, but I did. You quite rightly pointed it out to me, for which I am most grateful.’

  ‘But the important thing is that you took steps to remedy the situation,’ Julia said. ‘I saw you talking to them.’ She went over to stand next to him, pulling open one of the long windows to let in the faint evening breeze. ‘You do care, no matter how much you deny it.’

  Azhar stepped out on to the terrace, indicating that she should follow. ‘It is incumbent upon me, Julia, to behave honourably, that is all.’

  ‘As a prince of royal blood, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, but also as a man.’

  ‘That, I would never doubt. You could easily have left me at the oasis, but your conscience would not let you, and for that I will always be eternally grateful. To the man, not the Prince.’

  It was dusk, and though they were in the middle of a palace, in the middle of a city, it was that time of the evening when a stillness, a silence fell over everything like a cloak. Azhar slid his arms around her, pulling her towards him. There were only a few layers of cotton and silk between them. His hand slid down to rest on the small of her back. ‘Julia?’