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

by Marguerite Kaye

  Her stomach knotted. She ran her fingers through the short, soft silk of his hair. ‘Azhar?’

  ‘We are not on a camel now.’

  ‘No, we are most certainly not on a camel.’

  ‘So I wondered if it might be possible that the moment might be...’

  ‘Propitious?’

  ‘Precisely,’ Azhar said, dipping his head towards her ‘Very, very propitious. And very well chosen, in my humble opinion.’

  Her eyes drifted shut as his lips caressed hers, sending shivers of delight over her skin. He kissed her slowly, flattening his hand on her back to mould her to him as his lips shaped themselves to hers. He kissed her as if he was tasting her, as if he was savouring her. The combination of the twilight, the pent-up heat of the desert sun glowing on her skin, the alluring desert man holding her tightly against him, the seductive shimmer of her desert clothes, the persistent flicker of desire that had lingered all day waiting to be ignited, made her stomach flutter, and it made the blood sparkle in her veins. She ran her fingers up his back, relishing the sensation of fine silk rippling against the knot of his spine, and their kiss deepened. His tongue touched hers, and Julia let out an odd little sigh of delight. And then, as slowly as it had begun, the kiss ended, fluttering to a stop.

  Opening her eyes, Julia blinked. Was that the searing kiss she had speculated about when they were alone in the desert? She certainly felt hot, but perhaps there were different degrees of kisses. ‘I am even more glad than usual that we are not on a camel,’ she said. ‘I have never been kissed like that before. Thank you very much.’

  ‘Julia, you are most welcome. It was a pleasure, in every sense of the word.’ Azhar pressed his lips to her brow. ‘I must leave you. I am expected to dine with my brother, and then tomorrow I have urgent business which will keep me fully occupied for the next few days.’

  ‘The palace guards to sort out.’

  ‘Amongst other things. I discovered, from talking to the women at the oasis today, that there have been problems with the importing of some necessary supplies which need investigating, and there is an issue with certain traders at the souk which—but you will not be interested in these matters.’

  ‘I thought that you were leaving these matters to Kamal?’

  Azhar shrugged. ‘Trade is my business. It is simpler for me to take care of them.’

  Julia hid a smile. Impossible for him not to, more like. She wondered how long it would be before he wrested control from his brother. Definitely less than a month. ‘Do not worry about me,’ she said. ‘Between your beautiful garden and the oasis today, I have enough material to keep me busy for at least a week. Please don’t feel obliged to spend time with me.’

  ‘It is a pleasure, not an obligation, but if you are content to get on with your cataloguing, then we will agree to meet in the garden in three days’ time. I will have your maid bring you water to bathe.’

  ‘Thank you, after so long on that saddle that will be most welcome.’

  ‘Hot water can be most soothing for tired limbs and bodies.’ Azhar’s smile was wicked as he ran his hands down her back. As his fingers curled into her bottom, he let out a soft moan, and his smile faded as his lips found hers once more.

  She was left in no doubt this time. The kiss they shared was not only searing but carnal. There was no gentle introduction, no softness, this kiss was hard and dark and wild. His tongue tangled with hers. She bent back, opened her mouth to him, dug her fingers into his shoulders to steady herself as he pulled her tight against him. There could be no mistaking his arousal. The feel of him, rigid between her thighs, elicited an answering throb between hers. She curled her leg around him, surrendering to the urge to press herself closer and he groaned, kissing her harder, deeper, until she was forced to drag her mouth away in order to breathe.

  His breathing too was ragged. For a long moment they stared, dazed, into eyes dark with desire. The strength of her passion took her aback. All of a sudden, she remembered Daniel’s horrified look that night, under another foreign sky. Mortified, Julia started to disentangle herself. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I’ve never—I did not mean to—I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘The same feeling which came over me, I hope.’ Azhar caught her as she turned away, forcing her to face him. ‘Passion. In my culture it is recognised as a perfectly natural and healthy appetite, and has been for millennia. There is nothing to apologise for or reproach yourself about, Julia.’

  ‘There’s not? Only I thought that—I thought that a woman—such a lack of restraint, it was...’

  ‘It was quite intoxicating.’

  ‘You mean you’re not shocked?’

  ‘Shocked! In the name of all that is sacred, what kind of a man was your husband? No, do not answer that, I have already a very good idea.’ Azhar smoothed her hair back from her brow. ‘There is nothing more effective in igniting a man’s desire than a woman’s passion. To see the fire in your eyes, to feel the fire in your blood as you touch me, it sets me on fire too. Do you imagine I would prefer to kiss a woman who responds only with—with compliance? No, I would not. No red-blooded man would. Never apologise for passion. Restraint, Julia, has no place in lovemaking.’ Azhar kissed her briefly once more on the mouth. ‘I am now officially late. Enjoy your bath. My only regret is that I cannot share it with you.’

  ‘Azhar!’

  He laughed. ‘My English rose. So easily shocked. There is much you might learn of the East before you leave. You have only to ask. I am not without expertise in this field.’

  ‘Cornish,’ she called after him, ‘I’m a Cornish rose if I’m any kind of rose.’ But he merely laughed again, grabbing his headdress from the couch before closing the door to her apartment softly behind him.

  Not without expertise. The meaning was far beyond Julia’s ken, but that did not prevent a shiver of longing to course through her. The notion of herself as pupil to Azhar in the arts of love was a sinfully delicious one. It seemed this new Julia was brazen as well as different.

  * * *

  Two days later, Julia set down her brush with a sigh of satisfaction and stretched out her arms. She had almost finished the specimens she had taken from the Oasis of the Red Rock and the Tumbling Waterfall. She wished she could remember how to pronounce the name in Arabic, but though she could hear the word in her head as Azhar had said it, she could not reproduce it.

  Setting this last painting aside to dry, she made for the terrace where Aisha had left a jug of lemon sherbet, careful to push the curtains back in place to protect her precious drawings from the destructive rays of the sun. Tomorrow morning she would see Azhar again for the first time since they had kissed. As she remembered those kisses her stomach knotted. She very much wanted to acquire more of the knowledge he had hinted at, though she wasn’t sure she’d have the courage to ask. It seemed impossible to imagine such a conversation in the cold light of day. A practical demonstration under cover of darkness now—but, no, she couldn’t even bring herself to imagine that.

  She took a sip of the refreshing citrus drink, wandering restlessly over to the seat under the lemon tree. Restraint, Azhar had said, had no place in lovemaking, yet restraint was all Julia knew. No man wants a woman to respond with compliance, he’d said. Yet again, compliance was all Julia had ever offered. It was all Daniel had expected—or wanted? Did that make her husband less of a man or Julia less of a woman?

  Leaning her head back against the bark of the tree, she closed her eyes, trying to remember how it had been, making love with Daniel. Awkward, because she knew nothing of the matter, her mother having died when she was eight and the only other woman in their household being Papa’s housekeeper, a dour Cornishwoman who had never married. So, yes, it had been awkward at first, because Julia hadn’t known what to expect and Daniel—but had Daniel been any more experienced than she?

  She sat up, startled by this thought, which had never before occurred to her. Why not? Julia furrowed her brow. Was it possible that
she had simply assumed that, because he was a man, he must know better than her, or because he was Daniel, and even before they were married she had acquired the habit of accepting that Daniel always knew best? Julia cringed. That made her sound awfully weak-willed. Even rather pathetic. But was it true?

  She considered this carefully, staring down at the sugary dregs of ice in her glass. Upon reflection, it was highly unlikely that Daniel had been intimate with any woman before their wedding night unless it was one of the rough women who walked the streets around the tin-mining ports of Portreath or Hayle—but, no, she could not countenance that he would be so inclined. ‘Good grief,’ Julia muttered, half-appalled and half uncomfortably amused, ‘I do believe poor Daniel was as innocent as I.’

  They had progressed, after those first attempts, to the point where Daniel achieved satisfaction, but Julia had never felt more than the faintest of stirrings in response to her husband’s touch. She had learned through trial and error how to arouse herself, but she had never dared share that knowledge with Daniel, knowing that she would be mortified, and convinced that he would think it sordid. Had she, by keeping it to herself, deprived them both of pleasure? And had her restrained response restrained her husband?

  With a sinking feeling, Julia was forced to admit that it was very possible. For the first time in weeks, she surrendered to that familiar feeling, a combination of helplessness at having wasted so many years of her life, and profound regret that she had not had the courage to try to alter it for the better while Daniel was alive. How she resented Daniel—and to a lesser degree, her father—for creating that Julia. And how she despised herself for remaining that version of Julia for so long.

  It was her own fault.

  ‘No.’ She jumped to her feet, waving her arms about, as if by doing so she could disperse these destructive thoughts. She was done with this self-indulgent way of thinking. She had left that Julia behind when she had set out on her travels. She was a new Julia now, and when she had fulfilled all of her deathbed promises, the new Julia would be free.

  ‘And in the meantime, I should remember that I was not the only one who was restrained during our lovemaking,’ she told the lemon tree. ‘Daniel wasn’t interested in my pleasure. Quite the contrary. Daniel positively quenched my pleasure the one and only time I attempted to display it.’

  Julia returned to the terrace, putting her glass down on the tray with a decided thump. ‘Well, Daniel,’ she said, gazing up at the celestial blue sky, ‘I am done with having my pleasure quenched. And now, I would very much like to discover what it’s like to have it sated.’

  * * *

  Julia spent a fitful night full of tedious and endless dreams in which she was required to chase after complete strangers with notes she had forgotten, messages she could not remember. Waking as the sun came up, she threw back the damp, tangled sheets and with it her mood, determined to waste no more time on what might or might not have existed in the past, and concentrate on the task which would allow her to put it behind her for ever.

  Opening the lacquered cabinet which contained her new clothes, she allowed herself a moment of sheer sensual pleasure, running her hands through the swathes of silky, filmy materials, admiring the bright profusion of colours. She would never have chosen such colours herself, her practical streak leaning her towards brown, black or grey. As an artist, it wasn’t that she lacked an eye for colour, but she’d never applied it to herself. It was Aisha who was responsible for this selection of garments, enough to allow her enough variety of choice for the month she was to remain here, but neither too opulent nor too numerous to make Julia feel embarrassed, for she knew, no matter what Azhar claimed, that he would not allow her to pay for them. His attention to detail extended beyond business. He was a very thoughtful man. Who would be out of her life in a month’s time, her conscience reminded her. But Julia dismissed her conscience. She had better things to do than count the days.

  She selected a pair of dark-blue pantaloons trimmed at the pleated ankles with black beading, and tied at the waist with a black silk sash. The turquoise tunic was weighted with the same beading along the hem and the wide flowing sleeves. Her hair was glossy from the oils with which Aisha had treated it before washing, and scented from the rosewater in which it had been rinsed. Julia had always disliked her hair, thinking the flamboyant colour detracted from her serious nature, and the serious nature of her work too. Another thing that had changed here in the desert. She liked the idea of herself as fiery, even if it was merely a conceit. She left it loose over her shoulders, pulled on a pair of turquoise slippers, and a swathe of turquoise silk to cover her hair and face while she made her way through the palace and would be on public view. Picking up her drawing materials, Julia left her quarters and headed for the garden.

  * * *

  Azhar poured himself a cup of the coffee which he’d had sent out to the kiosk. Hearing footsteps, he got to his feet expecting Julia, but it was his brother who appeared, and judging by the expression on Kamal’s face, he had not come here to admire the garden. Azhar’s heart sank.

  ‘You’ve been spying on me,’ Kamal exclaimed, as soon as he got close enough to the kiosk to be heard.

  ‘Good morning, Brother. Will you take a cup of coffee with me?’

  Kamal ignored him, panting as he climbed the shallow steps to the terrace to throw himself without ceremony on to one of the low chairs. ‘What do you mean by it, going out to the mines and questioning the workers?’

  ‘You have been misinformed. I went to the village, not the mines,’ Azhar said, his voice hardening. ‘It sounds to me as if you have been spying on me, rather than the other way round. And your spy, if I might be offered an opinion, is singularly inept.’

  ‘I am acting as temporary ruler at your express request, I would remind you. Naturally, I expect to be informed of anything untoward.’

  ‘Naturally. But I wonder why my paying a visit to one of my own villages would be viewed as untoward,’ Azhar asked coolly.

  Folding his hands over the taut mound of his ample stomach, Kamal shifted uncomfortably. ‘You gave them no warning. The normal protocol is to send advance notice of an impending royal visit to allow an appropriate welcome to be prepared.’

  ‘And to prevent any surprises, presumably. In any event, it was not a formal visit. I took Madam Trevelyan to meet the herbalist, Johara.’

  Kamal sneered. ‘To indulge her bizarre obsession with our plant life. How very thoughtful of you. It might be better in future if you brief me more specifically on your intentions when abroad in the kingdom.’

  ‘Better for whom, Kamal?’

  His brother shrugged. ‘I merely wish to avoid any unfortunate misunderstandings.’

  Azhar eyed him over the rim of his coffee cup, wondering what misunderstandings, unfortunate or otherwise, Kamal was referring to. He had left the village on good terms with the women, and Johara had been so impressed by Julia that she had insisted Azhar bring her for a return visit. Yet Kamal was uncomfortable. Was he hiding something or perhaps his nose was simply out of joint? ‘I made my intentions clear when I addressed Council,’ he said. ‘During this interim period I shall be taking the opportunity to become reacquainted with Qaryma.’

  ‘If you intend to visit other villages, other mines...’

  Azhar stiffened. ‘I will go where I choose, speak to whom I choose when I choose. You may be acting Regent, but I am not accountable to you.’

  Kamal’s eyes flashed with temper. ‘No, but I am accountable for this kingdom.’ He heaved himself to his feet. ‘Things have changed, Azhar.’

  ‘Which is precisely why I have decided that in this interim period...’

  ‘You have decided!’ Kamal hissed a vicious curse. ‘Ten years you have been gone, and you think you can pick up the reins as if you had been gone ten minutes, making changes here and changes there to things that have been functioning perfectly well without you. Ten years you have been out in the world making your fortune, caring noth
ing for what happens back here, but still expecting me to protect your inheritance. Ten years I have been here, supporting our father through his illness, taking up his responsibilities when he was too weak—and what have you been doing? You have no right to criticise me, certainly no right to judge me.’

  ‘Kamal...’

  ‘You do not deserve this kingdom or its riches. You never wanted them. They should be mine!’

  ‘Kamal!’ But his brother threw off his restraining hand and stormed down the steps of the kiosk. ‘You speak in anger but you are absolutely right,’ Azhar muttered wearily under his breath. ‘I have never wanted to rule, and I do not deserve to own any of it.’

  * * *

  As Julia turned the corner and took the path leading to the kiosk, Kamal came barrelling towards her, pushing her violently from the path as he passed, his face scarlet, creased with rage. Stooping down to retrieve her headdress and her scattered drawing materials, she stared at the departing Sheikh in astonishment.

  ‘Are you hurt? Let me help you.’ Azhar, who had obviously come after his brother, bent down to help.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. What on earth happened to make him so angry?’

  Azhar shook his head, leading the way to the terrace and pouring them both a cup of the bitter dark coffee he preferred unsweetened, and which Julia was learning to enjoy. She waited while he sipped, drummed his fingers on the table, sipped again, staring out at the garden. He was dressed today in dark-blue trousers under a striped blue tunic. Shadows smudged the skin under his eyes. A pulse beat in his throat and the fact he flexed the fingers of his left hand compulsively were the only signs that his temper was not completely under control.

  Finally becoming aware of her scrutiny, he looked up. ‘As a parting shot he called me the illegitimate son of a donkey, which may sound ludicrous to you, but in our language is a great insult. Treasonous in fact, when directed at a future king.’