‘I couldn’t have finished it at all if I had not met you,’ Julia said.
‘Nonsense, you are the most determined woman I have ever met. You would have found a way. If I had not stumbled upon you that day, someone else would have come to your aid. The Zazim is a busy oasis.’
‘I am very, very glad that it was you who stumbled upon me, Azhar. More glad than you will ever know.’
There was a catch in her voice. There was something in her eyes that squeezed his heart. He knew she cared. He did not want to know how much. ‘Will you be comfortable here on your own for today?’ he asked.
He saw her expression reflect the slight brusqueness in his voice. He could see her pondering whether to accept the deliberate change of subject, or whether to pursue her train of thought. When she decided the former, he felt guilt as well as relief. ‘Of course I will,’ she said. ‘You know that I can easily lose myself in my sketching, and drawing this moss will tax my ability to its limits. Have you business elsewhere?’
The notion had come to him in the night. He wasn’t at all certain if it was a good idea, and until he knew that, he wasn’t prepared to share it, not even with Julia. ‘I will return in good time for us to ride back to Al-Qaryma before nightfall,’ Azhar said briskly.
Julia didn’t look intimidated, she looked hurt, but once again, unusually, she bit her tongue. He almost wished she would not. ‘That gives me plenty of time to get to work,’ she said brightly.
‘Julia.’
‘Yes?’
He paused. ‘Let me get your drawing materials from the saddlebags.’
* * *
She was settled with her sketchbook and pencil by the side of the small pool when Azhar left, though he was fairly sure she was not as engrossed as she contrived to look, and even more certain he could feel her gaze burning into his back as he headed into the desert. He knew she had come to care for him, and not only as a lover. Her anguish at his plight was obvious, far beyond that of a mere friend. She meant it when she said she wanted to spare him pain. She meant it when she had said, before they set out yesterday, that she would rather sacrifice their last few days together if doing so was best for him and his blasted kingdom. Julia cared. He knew that, of course he knew that, but knowing was one thing, hearing how much she cared—was it cowardly of him to have cut her short?
What was he afraid of? The answer was obvious, but it was not fear which kept him silent, even to himself, on the subject of his own feelings. Duty again, cursed duty. He had no right to feelings. When he married, as he must, he would have to be able to try to love his chosen wife with a clean conscience. He could not care for Julia. He would not allow himself to care for Julia. And so he must not allow Julia to care for him.
So deep in his musings had Azhar been that he had not noticed how far he had travelled. No one knew when the first King had been buried in the Royal City of the Dead, for the epitaphs on the earliest tombs had been worn away by the desert winds. Unlike the mighty pyramids and the vast underground tombs filled with necessities for the afterlife now being excavated in Egypt, Qaryma’s royal dead were buried in simple sarcophagi hewn from the indigenous red rock, one large monument at the centre for the King, his family ranged around him, their final resting places meriting only small markers.
Azhar was familiar with the site, for he had visited his mother’s grave every year. The marker had sat in isolation on the outer edges of the sprawling city of tombs. Now, it was in the shadow of the newest, largest sarcophagus. In death as in life, he thought wryly. Faced with this incontrovertible evidence of his father’s death, sorrow took a wrenching hold of him, squeezing the breath from him. Dropping to his knees and bowing his head, Azhar tried to fight the tears. Kings did not cry.
He read the simple inscription. Kings did not cry, but he was not yet a king. Leaning his head against the warm red rock of his father’s tomb, Azhar wept.
His tears did not persist for long but they cleansed him, and they brought his father closer to him here, in the City of the Dead, than he had ever been in life. ‘I wish that we could have made our peace while you still breathed, but I hope you are listening now,’ Azhar said in a low voice, still husky from emotion, his head bowed as he stood by the tomb. ‘I am sorry for the long silence that existed between us, but it would be to fly in the face of nature to expect anything else from either of us. You called my bluff. I called yours. In that way I am made in your image, Father, but in so many others, I have made myself. I will not be the man you were. I will be a better king. I will try to be a loving husband and father. I will grant my son the freedom you did not grant me. I will allow my son the true freedom to choose.’
The words were a vow. His own solemn oath, to which he would be true even before the oaths he would take at his coronation. Azhar touched the sarcophagus in farewell. He knelt before his mother’s marker and promised once more to make a better husband than his father had. And then he turned away, out of the Royal City of the Dead, to ride his camel back to Julia, knowing now that he would tell her where he had been and why, knowing now that it had been absolutely the right thing to do.
* * *
They returned to the palace in the late afternoon, to be met in the First Court by the Head of the Royal Guards.
‘I am informed that an Englishman crossed the border without official papers,’ Azhar told Julia. ‘The border guards intercepted him and brought him here. I can only assume that the British Consul in Damascus has become concerned by your lengthy absence and has despatched an official to search for you. Does the name Christopher Fordyce mean anything to you?’
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ Julia replied.
‘He is currently being detained in the Second Court, in the waiting room of the Divan, will you accompany me while I interview him?’
‘Of course. I cannot imagine that he can have any connection with me,’ Julia said, following him through the gate to the Second Court. ‘Though I admit it does seem an odd coincidence that Qaryma should have two English visitors in such a short space of time.’
‘We do not have that honour,’ Azhar said with a smile. ‘One of you is Cornish, remember.’
However, Christopher Fordyce appeared more Arabian than English or even Cornish. He looked to be in his late twenties, and was dressed for the desert in a simple cotton tunic and trousers which were either very dirty or had been dyed the colour of sand. Slung around his hips was a plain brown belt holding a sheathed scimitar and a long, thin dagger, also sheathed. His headdress was also pale cotton of some indeterminate colour tied with a plain brown scarf. Beneath it, his skin was tanned almost mahogany, his fair brows bleached by the sun.
The first impression Julia had of Christopher Fordyce however, was by no means either brown or nondescript. Like Azhar, this tall, lithe figure had a presence, an indefinable air of command. Like Azhar, his features were almost perfect, and like Azhar he had a patrician air about him. Even more like Azhar, it was his eyes which drew her attention, though the Englishman’s were a deep and brilliant blue, almost exactly the colour of cornflowers. She would never have forgotten this man if she had met him before. Whatever his business here in Qaryma, it was nothing to do with her. He looked nothing like any servant of the British crown she had ever encountered on her travels.
‘Mr Fordyce,’ Azhar said, holding out his hand in the English manner. ‘How do you do. Allow me to present Madam Julia Trevelyan, an eminent English botanist, who has been studying our native flora.’
‘How do you do, madam?’ Christopher Fordyce made his bow to her curtsy. ‘How very extraordinary, to meet an Englishwoman so far east in the desert.’
The emotion he expressed was not reflected in either his expression or his tone. Mr Fordyce wasn’t in the least bit surprised nor very interested to find one of his countrywomen here, dressed as he was, in native clothing. Which made Julia extremely curious indeed.
Turning towards Azhar, she saw her feelings reflected in his eyes, if not his face. ‘I am
told you have been trespassing on my lands,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
Azhar’s brows quirked. ‘May I enquire why?’
‘I am embarked on what one might call a personal quest.’
Azhar sighed. ‘Is it incumbent on everyone in England to have a quest? A royal decree perhaps?’
Julia stifled a giggle, though Mr Fordyce looked puzzled. ‘My quest has nothing to do with the British crown. As I said, it is of a personal nature.’
‘So personal that it precludes you obtaining the appropriate permissions to travel within our borders.’
‘Frankly, I find it the most effective method of obtaining an audience with someone in authority,’ the English man replied. ‘Much quicker than going through the palaver of getting official papers and jumping through any number of diplomatic hoops to get to the man at the top.’
‘A very risky strategy, if I may venture an opinion,’ Azhar said.
Mr Fordyce smiled disarmingly. ‘But successful, on most occasions. Such as today. Shall we get down to business?’
‘Do we have business to—er—get down to?’
‘Indeed.’ Like a conjurer producing a rabbit from a hat, Christopher Fordyce produced a bracelet. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen this, or anything like it?’
It was not a bracelet but an amulet, intricately worked and set with diamonds and enamel. ‘It looks very old,’ Julia ventured.
‘It is. Thousands of years old. And very valuable too. In fact it’s priceless.’
‘There is some damage. It looks as if a stone has been lost or removed.’
‘You are very observant, madam. I’m not sure what it is that is missing, but I am sure that whoever the true owner is will provide me with the answer.’
‘True owner?’ Azhar frowned, turning the delicate item over in his hands. ‘May I ask how you came by this, sir?’
‘Oh, quite legitimately, I assure you. It was left to me by my mother. As to how she came by it,’ Christopher Fordyce said, his expression darkening, ‘that is another matter entirely. I presume it is not part of Qaryma’s crown jewels, Prince Azhar?’
‘No, it is not.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Certain. We produce our own diamonds here in Qaryma. They have a very distinctive colour and clarity. The stones in this bracelet are quite different. Of magnificent quality but definitely not from here. This bracelet is certainly Arabian but I’m afraid your search for the rightful owner must continue.’
‘Then I will thank you for your time, assuming I’m no longer under arrest.’ Mr Fordyce hid the amulet in the folds of his tunic, turning to go with an insouciance that Julia couldn’t help but admire.
Azhar, however, was less sanguine. ‘Wait! Where are you going now? You surely do not plan to wander Arabia, casually dropping in on each kingdom and asking if they happen to have lost any of the family jewels.’
‘More or less, though I have it narrowed its place of origin down to six likely candidates, and you’re now the third I’ve eliminated. The quality of the gold and the gems, together with the distinctive style of the enamelling act as a sort of signature. It’s astonishing that such exquisite workmanship was possible more than two millennia ago.’ Mr Fordyce smiled ruefully. ‘You must forgive my over-enthusiasm. ‘I’m a bit of an amateur archaeologist.’
‘I suspect you are more expert than you modestly claim, Mr Fordyce. And please do not apologise for your overenthusiasm. It seems to be another English trait. Only this morning I witnessed Madam Trevelyan here become excited by a patch of green slime. Where do you intend to go next? Perhaps I can help you with permissions?’
‘A kind offer but there is no need. I shall stick to my tried-and-tested method.’
Azhar laughed and held out his hand. ‘Then I will wish you good luck.’
‘I don’t need luck. It is a mere process of elimination, but thank you. Good day, sir...madam.’
‘What an extraordinary man,’ Julia said, as the door closed behind the Englishman and the guard.
‘With extraordinarily bad timing,’ Azhar said. ‘I have plans for tonight.’
‘To be fair to him, he hardly overstayed his welcome. What plans?’
Smiling, Azhar held out his hand. ‘Come with me, and I’ll reveal all.’
* * *
‘What is this place? Where are you taking me?’ Julia clung to the rope which served as a banister on the spiral stair of the turret. She had lost count of the number of steps they had climbed at somewhere around eighty-something. In front of her, Azhar held the lantern high, but she still had to take great care not to miss her footing.
‘Only ten more steps,’ Azhar said. ‘There are one hundred and fifteen in total,’ he added, pre-empting her question.
The door was curved to fit snugly into the turret wall. With some relief, Julia stepped through it, and found herself on the roof of the palace. ‘Azhar!’
‘What do you think?’
She gazed around her in wonder. The roof was huge, almost like an outdoor room with a knee-high parapet for walls and the star-filled night sky above forming a celestial ceiling more beautiful than the most ornately decorated ceiling in the most opulent of rooms. A tent had been set up in the middle, but it was not at all a practical tent. It was the kind of tent a child would dream up, made of scarlet silk, decorated with gold tassels. Open on one side to face out to the desert, the interior was a decadent haven of silk and velvet, luxurious rugs, huge cushions and one even larger divan. A crystal chandelier hung from the centre, the candles casting flickering shadows. Flowers floated in huge glass bowls, throwing their exotic scent out into the night.
And what a night. Leaning precariously out over the parapet, Julia saw the desert, soft undulating sands, peaked dunes, the distant high mountains. And above, casting the chandelier into shadow, the waxing buttery moon, the huge slivery discs of the stars. ‘Azhar,’ Julia said, ‘it is breathtakingly beautiful. But how on earth did you manage to get all of this up those narrow stairs?’
He laughed. ‘There is another, much easier way to access this roof. Do you really wish me to spoil the effect with practicalities?’
She gazed up at him, quite entranced. ‘No.’
‘This will be our last night together. Tomorrow, on the eve of the coronation, there are many rituals I must endure, and after that...’
‘I will watch the ceremony and then I will leave with my escort,’ Julia said. ‘The arrangements you have made are faultless, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk them over again. As you say, this will be our last night...’
Her throat clogged with tears. She stared out over the desert defying them to fall. She would not cry. She had promised herself she would not cry. She did not want to mar the perfection of this last night.
‘Julia, have I upset you? Is it too much?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘on the contrary, it is not enough, but it is all we will ever have.’
Azhar flinched at the raw emotion in her voice. He had deduced that she cared too much, and was reluctant to acknowledge it, she knew that. This morning she had allowed him to prevent her speaking out, but she had been wrong to do so. So close to the beginning of her new life, she would not allow Azhar to smother her feelings.
She smiled up at him. She fluttered her fingers over his hair, his cheek, let her hand rest on his shoulder. She had thought it would take courage, but it was actually straightforward. ‘I love you,’ Julia said. ‘I love you with all my heart.’
He did not flinch this time, he froze.
‘I know you can’t love me or won’t love me or don’t love me, but I love you. I love you, Azhar, and if I allowed you to prevent me telling you that, I would have left Qaryma feeling I had been untrue to myself.’
‘Julia.’
He tried to pull her into his arms, but she resisted. ‘I know it doesn’t change a thing,’ she said gently. ‘Even if you did love me, I know that it would be impossible for us to make a life together. Y
our duty is to Qaryma. Your kingdom requires all of you. Aside from the fact that I would never be considered an acceptable wife, I don’t want to be a wife who will be second best. I don’t know what my life will be but it is mine, Azhar, as you said last night. I am not offering you my heart, but I want you to know that I carry you in it, and always will. So you see,’ she whispered, brushing his lips with hers, ‘you have nothing to fear from my love, and nothing to feel guilty about.’
He was silent for a long moment, staring out at the desert, the pulse beating in his throat the only indication of the strength of whatever emotion held him in its grip. ‘You are right,’ he said finally, slowly. ‘I cannot love you, Julia, I have not that right, but nor do I have the right to deny you your feelings. I am...’ He stopped to clear his throat, his hands clenching and unclenching. ‘I was about to say that I am honoured, but in fact I am humbled by your courage and your honesty. I can say without any doubt at all that I will never meet another woman like you.’
His crooked smile, his trembling voice, melted her heart. ‘And I can say without any doubt at all that I will never meet another man like you,’ Julia said. ‘I know you can’t love me, but you can make love to me, one last time.’
This time when he swept her into his arms she did not resist. ‘And that I will do, my brave desert rose,’ Azhar said, kissing her fervently.
* * *
Julia loved him. Julia, brave Julia, had told him that she loved him because she wanted him to know, and for no other reason. She loved him, and she was right, it changed nothing, though what she said could feel momentous if he allowed it to. His feelings for her ran far, far deeper than they should. He could not articulate them, but he could show her. He could do as she asked, and make love to her. He could be hers tonight, for all of tonight, and in the morning—he would deal with that when the sun rose.
‘Julia,’ he said, simply for the pleasure of saying her name. ‘Julia.’ She tasted so sweet, he could never tire of kissing her. Their mouths were formed perfectly for each other. The soft little sigh she made when he stroked the curve of her breast through her tunic stirred his blood.
The Widow And The Sheikh (Hot Arabian Nights, Book 1) Page 20
