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.

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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 assistance. 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.’

He was right. She hated that he was right. She was not armed, while he was armed to teeth. She couldn’t outrun him, she couldn’t overpower him. She had no option but to somehow brazen it out. What she must not do was show her fear. Clasping her shaking hands tightly together, Julia glared at the man. ‘I have no intentions of running away. I am not the trespasser. This is my tent, my property. You have no right to be here. I demand that you leave. Immediately.’

He stared at her in astonishment.

‘I asked you to leave,’ Julia repeated, this time in Italian.

Still, he made no move. ‘I heard you,’ he replied in the same language, before reverting to English. ‘This tent may be yours but this kingdom is not. You do not belong here. I repeat: what are you doing here?’

Julia bristled. ‘That, with respect, is none of your business.’

A flash of anger illuminated his countenance. ‘Do you have official papers? Who gave you permission to travel here?’

Though he spoke curtly, he had tucked his dagger back into his belt. Julia’s fear began to recede, allowing indignation to take hold. The arrogance of him! She crossed her arms. ‘Naturally I have papers, and they are in perfect order.’

‘Show them to me.’

He held out a peremptory hand. She was on the brink of informing him that he had no right at all to make such demands when it occurred to her that he could well be some sort of official, and it would not be prudent to antagonise him any further, especially if she wished to ask for his help. ‘If you will give me a moment, I’ll look for them.’

Thanking the stars that she had had the foresight not to keep her papers with the rest of her valuables in her dressing case, which had of course also been taken, Julia slid her fingers anxiously into the tiny slit cut into the lining of her clothes trunk. To her immense relief, the very slim packet of papers were still there, along with the equally slim stash of bank notes, which she decided to leave in the hiding place for the moment. Smoothing out the creases of her papers, she handed them over. ‘All present and correct and, as I think you’ll agree, in perfect order.’

The man frowned. ‘These relate to the kingdom of Petrisa.’

‘Exactly. Signed by the appropriate authorities,’ Julia agreed, ‘including the British Consul in Damascus.’ Who had recounted, as had Colonel Missett, the Consul-General in Cairo, several hair-raising incidents of robbery and murder designed to deter her from undertaking this journey. As it turned out, their dire warnings had proven to be all too accurate, but they had failed to dissuade her because they had underestimated her overwhelming motivation for accepting the risks—principally because she had chosen not to apprise either of the august gentlemen of the precise nature of her quest. It was her business, not theirs. Her life, not theirs. ‘Well?’ Julia demanded. ‘Satisfied?’

But the stranger was still frowning. ‘As you said, your papers are in perfect order. There is only one problem, and I’m afraid it’s rather significant. This is not Petrisa. This is the Zazim Oasis, in the kingdom of Qaryma.’

Julia’s jaw dropped. He was mistaken. Or he was lying, for some reason. Punishing her for being rude, perhaps. ‘Nonsense,’ she said stoutly, ‘I’ve never heard of Ka—Kareem...’

‘Qaryma.’

If he was right, then she was in deep water. She had no valid papers for this place, no permissions, which made her the trespasser, not him. She must not panic. Trespass was only a crime if it was committed deliberately, wasn’t it? Julia cleared her throat. ‘They told me—my dragoman said—are you certain this is not Petrisa?’

‘I could not be more certain.’

His tone was implacable. He was just a touch intimidating, but her instincts told her he was telling the truth. She had no choice but to believe him. She was quite alone, and, through no fault of her own, quite in the wrong. ‘It seems,’ Julia said carefully, ‘that I owe you an apology. I appear to have strayed over the border quite unintentionally.’

‘You must have had a guide, a translator, men to pitch your camp. Where are they?’

His tone riled her. Julia wrapped her arms tightly around herself. ‘I have travelled halfway across the world relying on my own initiative. I am not some helpless and witless female.’ Though she was, for the moment, almost completely without resources. ‘I have no idea where my guide and his men are,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘They left abruptly in the night.’

‘And your camels, your mules?’

‘They took everything.’ Saying it aloud made her feel like an absolute fool. Mortified, she glowered defiantly at the intruder. ‘There was nothing I could do to stop them, I think they put some potion in my tea last night.’

His hand, Julia noticed, went to the hilt of his sword, and he said something vicious under his breath in what she assumed was Arabic. ‘Did they harm you in any way?’

Her cheeks flamed. ‘No. I—no, they did not. Not in any way, if I understand your question correctly.’

‘For that, I give thanks. I am deeply sorry, madam, that you have had to endure such barbaric treatment. I assure you no citizen of Qaryma would behave so abominably towards a foreigner. Those scoundrels may not have violated you, but they have violated the sovereign borders of Qaryma with impunity.’

He looked both furious and puzzled by this fact. As he consulted her papers again his frown deepened further. ‘You really are travelling alone, without any companion?’

‘All the way from England,’ Julia said, with a small smile.

The man did not seem to share her pride in her achievement, but rather looked aghast. ‘You are married,’ he said, pointing at her wedding band. ‘Your husband, where is he? Surely not even an Englishman would expose a woman to the dangers of travelling without protection? If I were married, which I am not, I would most certainly not be so cavalier with my wife’s safety. It is a matter of honour, to say nothing of...’

‘...the fact that we are the weaker sex?’ Julia finished for him. ‘Fortunately, my husband did not share your views.’ Which wasn’t strictly true. Daniel’s quiet assumption that he was in every regard her superior had been one of the things about him which had irritated her. Though when it suited his purposes, which invariably meant something which would be beneficial to his research, he was amenable to acknowledging talents and abilities he had hitherto denied her possessing.

‘Actually, I was about to say that it was a matter of upholding the promise your husband made on his wedding day, to protect you.’

‘I am more than capable of protecting myself,’ Julia declared. A raised eyebrow, a sceptical look around the ransacked tent, made her flush.

‘You said your husband did not share my view.’

‘What of it?’

‘You spoke of him in the past tense.’

‘That is because I am a widow,’ Julia replied. ‘Daniel died of a fever contracted in South America over a year ago.’

‘My sincere condolences.’

‘Thank you.’ Back in Cornwall, she had grieved for the loss of the man she had known all her life, as a friend, a botanist colleague of her father, and for the last seven years, as her husband. She still missed the friend, the botanist, the companion, but the husband? Distance and time, six months of solo travel, had given her a very different perspective of her marriage.

However, the fact that Daniel had been, just as this man suggested, cavalier with her safety, was none of his business, just as the surprising fact that such a striking man was unencumbered was none of hers. What she needed from him was his help, not his history. In fact, she couldn’t believe she had wasted so much precious time before seeking it.

Julia smiled in what she hoped was a conciliatory manner. ‘Now that you are apprised of my situation, you will understand why I must crave your assistance in pursuing the men who betrayed my trust. They cannot have travelled too far, and—and you see, they have something of mine that I must—I simply must retrieve.’

But he was already shaking his head. ‘Oh, please,’ Julia interrupted when he made to speak, the anguish she felt evident in her voice. ‘I beg of you. I don’t care about the mules or the camels. I don’t even care about the money or jewellery they stole, other than Daniel’s fob watch, which is of enormous sentimental value to me. But there is one other precious item that matters more than all my other possessions put together. They took my gold, but I still have access to other funds. I can reward you amply, if you will only...’

‘I am not a dragoman, madam, and I most certainly neither want nor need your money.’

The look he gave her made her flinch. ‘I beg your pardon, it was not my intention to insult you, only I am desperate. I cannot tell you how—how vital it is that I...’

‘No.’ He unpicked her fingers from his sleeve. ‘It would be a fool’s errand, mark my words. Whatever they have taken will already have been sold off in a market somewhere. Stolen goods are always moved on quickly, and there is always an unscrupulous buyer willing to ask no questions in return for a bargain.’

‘But...’

‘I myself am a trader—a reputable one I might add, but I know how these vagabonds operate. I am sorry. I wish it were otherwise, especially in relation to the watch, but I’m afraid you must give your possessions up for lost.’

His tone was firm and quite unequivocal. Forced to accept the truth of what he said, Julia felt sick with disappointment. She pictured Daniel’s trunk being haggled over in a souk. The specimens, so valuable to her, would most likely have been deemed worthless by the thieves, cast out of the drawers to wither in the heat of the desert sun. Her paints, her little trowel would be sold, but her notebooks, her drawings—no, they would mean nothing to those men. They would have no idea of their enormous significance.

Anger made her absolutely determined not to be defeated. If she could not recover her precious work, she would simply have to find a way of starting again. There was no way on earth she was returning to Cornwall without having completed her task. She had come so far, had triumphed over so many hurdles on the way, she would not—she absolutely would not!—allow a treacherous band of Bedouins to best her.

‘Very well,’ Julia said briskly, ‘if you will not assist me in pursuing these thieves, perhaps you will help me to employ a more reliable dragoman? All I ask is that you escort me back over the border to Petrisa, assist me in exchanging some bank notes for local coin, and then I can purchase new camels, mules...’

She trailed to a halt, for he was once again shaking his head firmly. ‘I am afraid there is no prospect of my doing any such thing. There is no question of my going back. I have critically important business of my own to attend to here in the capital city, Al-Qaryma.’

Julia stared at him in dismay. ‘You mean you will leave me stranded here, without valid papers, without the means to make my way back to Petrisa? What on earth am I expected to do?’

* * *

It was an excellent and very pertinent question Azhar thought, eyeing the Englishwoman with a mixture of irritation and curiosity. She was older than he had thought at first, perhaps twenty-six or seven. Not in the first bloom of youth, but too young to be widowed, and certainly far too young to be wandering about alone in a foreign country, no matter how competent she thought herself.

Though he had to concede that she must be more intrepid than confident, if her claim to have travelled all the way from England alone was to be believed, and he had no reason to doubt her—there was honesty as well as intelligence in those wide-set eyes the colour of palm fronds. She might lack judgement, but she had courage, and she had resilience. In spite of his annoyance at this most unwanted distraction, Azhar couldn’t help but find her—in her own unique way—appealing.

She was not beautiful exactly, her face was too long for that, her brow too high, but she was memorable, with that thick mass of dark-red hair and those big green eyes. Her body, under the hideous nightgown she wore, would be deemed too thin and too tall here in the East, but Azhar found her lean suppleness alluring. The colour of her hair spoke of a fiery temper, a tempestuous nature. And that mouth, when it was not set in a firm line, had a hint of sensuality about it.

Appalled at the carnal direction his thoughts had taken, he dragged his eyes away. As if he did not have enough to concern himself with, now he must take responsibility for a complete stranger. For he had no option but to do so. He most certainly could not abandon her to her fate. His anger flared again at the thought of the miscreants who had robbed and abandoned her. That the reprobates she had employed had had the temerity to breach Qaryma’s borders with impunity astounded and infuriated him. The situation must have changed radically since he was last here. Ten years ago, no one would have dared treat the kingdom with such disrespect.

Azhar sighed heavily. One problem at a time. He turned his attention back to his most pressing dilemma. ‘I cannot in all conscience abandon you here, but neither can I escort you back across the border. I therefore have no option but to take you with me to Al-Qaryma.’

She looked dismayed rather than delighted. ‘But I don’t have the correct papers. I’ll be thrown into gaol.’

A fact Azhar himself had pointed out. He should have held his tongue. ‘Fear not, I will have your papers validated when we reach the city.’

‘How can you promise such a thing? I thought you said you were a trader?’

Why couldn’t she simply say thank you! ‘I am, and a successful one. As such I have many high-ranking contacts. Do not fear, I am not without influence, Madam...?’

‘Trevelyan.’

‘Trevelyan,’ Azhar repeated slowly. ‘It does not sound typically English.’

‘That is because it’s not English, it’s Cornish. Both my husband and I are natives of Cornwall, which is quite the most beautiful county in England, Mister—Sayed...?’

Sayed, the common formal form of address to which he had answered for many years. It was how he had defined himself, a nameless and rootless sir. ‘You may call me Azhar.’

‘Azhar,’ she repeated carefully.

‘It means shining, or bright.’

‘My name is Julia. I’m afraid it doesn’t mean anything in particular, though I expect you think I should be called Burden or Encumbrance.’

She crossed her arms, inadvertently lifting her breasts higher under her cotton shift. To his annoyance, Azhar felt his blood stirring. Desire, which had departed entirely with the arrival of that fateful summons which had brought him here, returned now at this most inopportune time. He could not afford to be distracted. He most certainly had no time to be intrigued, far less beguiled by this English widow, especially since she was actually the complete antithesis of everything those words implied.

‘What you are, Madam Julia Trevelyan, is an enormous inconvenience,’ Azhar said. ‘The day marches on. I am going to hunt for some food and then prepare a meal. You are welcome to join me. I will not drug you, though I may inadvertently poison you, since my culinary skills are somewhat rudimentary. I shall, however, endeavour not to. A dead English woman is the last thing I wish to have on my hands.’

* * *

‘Cornish,’ Julia threw at him as he left the tent, but Azhar chose not to hear her. ‘So I’m an enormous inconvenience, am I?’ she muttered. ‘How inconvenient do you think it was for me, Mr You-Can-Call-Me-Azhar, to be robbed blind and left for dead?’

Receiving no answer from the tent flap, Julia sighed. She was being most ungrateful. At least he was not abandoning her. She considered spurning his invitation to share his food, but then her stomach reminded her that she had not eaten since yesterday. She could sit here, sweltering and ravenous, with only her pride to keep her company, or she could get dressed, grovel, and get some badly needed sustenance.

Deciding to eschew martyrdom, Julia began to pick up the clothes she had been wearing the day before from the heap they formed on the sand floor beside her bedroll.

With no shocked and disapproving husband to witness her uncorseted body, after the first few days of travel in the desert she had abandoned the daily contortions required to lace herself into her stays. There was nothing in the world, she had discovered, as uncomfortable as sand trapped against delicate skin by stiff whalebone. The heat which the combination of corsets and desert sun produced transformed discomfort into torture.

In fact, her entire wardrobe was quite unsuited to the climate. As she pulled on a rough woollen skirt and cambric blouse over her nightgown before adding a jacket, perspiration blossomed all over her back. Not for the first time, Julia wished she had had the courage and sense to outfit herself with some of the loose tunics and cloaks more appropriate for the conditions. She had been on the brink of purchasing some in a souk in Damascus, but imagining Daniel’s disapproving face looking over her shoulder, she had changed her mind. She deeply regretted that now, as much irked by her instinctive loyalty to her dead husband’s opinions as she was by her very British wardrobe. He himself had never been less than impeccably turned out, whether in a mangrove swamp or halfway up an Alpine mountain. While Julia considered herself Cornish before all else, Daniel had been the living embodiment of the quintessential Englishman abroad.

No, that was not true. Above all else, Daniel was a man of science. He’d called her his woman of science. Back in the early days, she’d been inordinately proud of that. Now—oh, now was not a time for looking back. Now, it was time to turn her mind to making good on her vow. She had been so close, after all this time able to see the light of true freedom at the end of the tunnel. Her duty to the past discharged, she might finally look forward to a future of her own making. For an instant, dejection threatened to overpower her, but very quickly she rallied. In this city to which she was now destined to travel, she would hire a new and reliable guide. In this strange kingdom, she might find undiscovered and rare plant specimens. Even this dark cloud might have a silver lining.

She pulled on her stockings and laced up her boots. Daniel had always derided the notion of fate, but Julia was no longer obliged to agree with Daniel’s opinions. She had opinions of her own now. Fate had set her path on a collision course with this mysterious man of the desert. It was up to her to make sure she made the best of the situation.

Chapter Two

The spectacular beauty of the desert sunset never failed to take her breath away. Julia watched, fascinated, as the vivid orange and gold-streaked sky gave way to a pale, soft night-blue, as if the sun, on its rapid descent to the horizon, dragged a stage backdrop behind it. The sparse puffy clouds segued from dark grey to pewter then white as the sky darkened to indigo and the stars made their appearance, a blanket of silvery jewels hung so low in the sky that she felt she could almost touch them. The moon was butter-yellow. The desert landscape was dark and moody, the dunes clearly outlined, softly rolling, sharply falling. The air changed, from dry and dusty to soft and salty. She breathed it in, lifting her face to the sky where the biggest stars were now surrounded by pinpoints of light, relishing the soft breeze which made the palm trees around the oasis quiver.

She saw the hawk first, the bird of prey she had learnt from Hanif to be an essential companion for any desert traveller. It dropped out of the sky, seemingly from nowhere, to perch on the wooden camel saddle. A moment later, Azhar emerged from the gathering gloom, his sleek Saluki hound prancing at his heels. She was struck anew by the air of authority that she’d noted when she’d first spotted him on the camel. It was more than simply being perfectly at ease in his surroundings, but it was not quite arrogance. She could quite easily find him intimidating. She could also, all too easily, find him rather devastatingly attractive.

Devastating? Was that the right word? She wasn’t sure there was a word for it, that ability of his to be both captivating and challenging at the same time. No, not challenging, perhaps imperious was a more appropriate description. Someone capable of being irresistible but not susceptible in return. Inviolate? But now she was being fanciful in the extreme. Though Azhar really did have a face that would stop any woman in her tracks. Julia longed to draw those sharp planes, the sensual curve of his mouth. Yes, it was the mouth, even more than the hard, graceful body, that made one think of searing kisses. Or it would, if one had any idea what searing kisses were. She had no doubt that Azhar knew. Odd, that she could be so certain the experience would be exquisitely pleasurable, when exquisite pleasure was as unfamiliar a concept to her as searing kisses. Indeed, she herself was getting rather hot under the collar, looking at him and thinking such unaccustomed thoughts.

It must be the desert, the sweltering heat and the savage beauty of it wielding its exotic magic. Watching Azhar as he collected various items from the mule packs, Julia felt they could be the only people here on earth under this vast canopy of stars, so far away from Cornwall, so different from the life she had known in every possible way. She could be anyone or no one. She could think wild, strange thoughts, she could even choose to act on them, and no one would ever know.

Not that she would dare. She’d felt this way once before, she remembered, in South America. Daniel had been shocked to the core when she’d kissed him passionately, had been appalled at the idea of making love under the stars, even though they were married and quite alone. As Azhar approached, the memory made her blush with mortification, eradicating any traces of her other, fanciful thoughts.

‘So you have decided to join me after all,’ he said.

Julia forced a bright smile. ‘If there is enough food to share, then yes please.’

‘Can you light a fire? The food I have foraged won’t cook itself.’

Her smile slipped. It was true, she should have been tending to practical matters instead of daydreaming, but she would rather not have that fact pointed out. ‘I can light a fire,’ Julia said tightly. ‘I can skin that rabbit you have there, and I can even cook it. Give me it.’

The request unintentionally sounded more like a demand. Azhar’s expression became haughty. How did he do that? A raising of the brows. A flinty glint in his eyes. The way his mouth set. ‘It is not a rabbit, it’s a hare.’

And, yes, once more he was correct. ‘If it is, it’s a very small hare,’ Julia declared. ‘In England they are twice that size.’

He took a dagger from his belt and set about expertly skinning their dinner. ‘We are in Arabia, not England. This hare is a product of its harsh desert environment.’

His hawk, perched motionless on the camel seat, watched with what Julia was convinced was a hopeful look in its beady eyes. ‘You know, I am not one of those arrogant people who travel the world in an effort to prove that England is a superior nation to all others, if that is what you are thinking.’

Azhar smiled faintly—very faintly—but it was a smile none the less. Julia considered that progress. ‘I have never been to England,’ he said, ‘which I understand is green and verdant, so I am willing to believe that the hares are bigger than they are here in the desert. Now, will you light the fire, if you please? I would prefer to eat some time before dawn.’

She set the fire quickly, coaxing it to life with what she hoped was a satisfying display of expertise, conscious all the time of Azhar’s eyes on her. It was most unsettling. ‘There, you see I am quite capable.’

‘Indeed.’ The hare lay neatly jointed in the cooking pot. The hawk and the hound were picking delicately through their share of the trimmings. From the folds of his tunic, he produced a handful of fragrant wild herbs. Pouring water over the hare to make a simple stew, he set the pot on the fire.

‘You know, it is not my fault that the men I hired proved to be scoundrels,’ Julia said, for his ‘indeed’ had rankled. Was it her fault? she wondered. Would Daniel have chosen better, more reliable guides? Certainly, if he was here he would not hesitate to make such a claim. No, what Daniel would do, was find a way to make it her fault. She recalled now, that he had blamed her for the loss of their barge. She had distracted him at a vital moment, he had said as they lay sodden, shivering, on the muddy bank of the river. Simply relieved to be alive, Julia hadn’t argued with him at the time, and later—oh, later, she had done as she always did, and tried to banish the memory. She’d thought she had succeeded, too. Odd, how so many of these incidents had popped into her head lately. Which reminded her of something else.

‘Azhar, may I ask you a question which has been baffling me? Why do you think Hanif waited so long to rob me?’

What do you mean?’

‘I’ve been travelling in the desert for over a month. Why wait until now, when they could just as easily have drugged me on the first night, or within the first week.’

‘A month!’ Azhar’s eyes flashed fury. ‘That suggests that they deliberately waited until you had crossed over the border from Petrisa.’

‘Why would they do that?’

His mouth thinned. ‘The only reason I can think of is that they considered it safer to act here. Which would imply that the enforcement of law and order is much more lax in Qaryma,’ he said grimly. ‘If that is true, then things have changed radically.’

‘Changed? It has been some time since you have been here, then?’

‘Ten years,’ Azhar said. ‘I have not been home for ten years.’

* * *

‘Home? Qaryma is your home?’

Julia Trevelyan was looking at him inquisitively. Azhar cursed inwardly. He had no idea how the word had slipped out. He had houses, but he had no home. ‘Was, not is,’ he said. ‘Explain to me if you will, what is it that has occupied you for so many weeks here in the desert?’

The words sounded more like a command than a request, but they had the required effect. Though she hesitated for a moment, Julia accepted the deliberate change of subject. ‘Specimens,’ she said. ‘I’ve been collecting plant specimens. I’m a botanist.’

He was surprised into a snort of laughter. ‘Plants! You are here to collect plants?’

‘Not so much plants as roots and seeds,’ Julia Trevelyan replied haughtily. ‘And what I mostly collect are drawings and notes, of the plants themselves, their habitat, companion plants, that sort of thing.’

‘You are an artist, Madam Trevelyan?’

‘Julia. If you are Azhar, then I ought to be Julia. I have some draughtsmanship skills.’

‘And your drawings, where are they?’ he asked, though he had guessed the answer.

‘Gone,’ she confirmed. ‘Along with my paints and my notebooks and all my specimens. They were in a special trunk. It had lots of little drawers, and—and trays and—and the like.’

She was frowning heavily, clutching her fingers tightly together. Her determination not to cry was much more affecting than the sight of tears. ‘It is this trunk you wished so desperately to recover, even more than your husband’s watch?’ Azhar asked, recalling with regret the harsh dose of reality he had administered earlier.

Julia nodded and forced a shaky smile. ‘As you so emphatically pointed out, they will be long gone. I am hoping—that is I would very much appreciate if, when we arrive in Al-Qaryma, you might help me procure another guide.’ Another smile. ‘With your assistance, I’m sure I’ll find someone more trustworthy than Hanif.’

Now she truly had astonished him. Another woman—even another man—would have been too affected by their recent experience to wish to do anything other than to count their blessings and return to the safety of their home. ‘You cannot wish to remain in the desert after what has happened?’

‘It is my only wish. I have to start again. Please, Azhar,’ she said, gazing at him across the fire, her big green eyes wide, her expression earnest, ‘please say you’ll help me.’

‘What did you intend to do with the specimens you collected? Sell them? As an international trader, I am aware there is a lucrative market for exotic plants, especially in light of the recent fashion for establishing botanical gardens.’

‘Yes, yes, my husband and I have supplied plants to several such gardens with specimens garnered on our trips to South America, though Daniel, ever the purist, refused to sully his scientific research with commercial gain and so would not accept payment for them. I personally would have been more than happy, given our straitened circumstances—but that is beside the point.’

A husband who chose to subject his wife to poverty, whatever his scientific principles seemed a most relevant point to Azhar, but he refrained from saying so. ‘What, then, is the point?’ he asked.

‘A book. My husband’s book. His magnum opus. His life’s work.’ Julia gazed down at her lap, deep in thought for several minutes, before giving her head a little shake, as if to clear it. ‘It is a treatise. A comprehensive illustrated guide to rare and exotic species of the plant kingdom. But it is not yet complete, and it was his dearest wish—his dying wish—his only wish—that I complete it for him.’

Her tone confused him. Brittle. Perhaps she was simply trying not to become upset. ‘A compliment indeed,’ Azhar said, ‘to entrust the completion to you.’

Julia shrugged. ‘My father is a renowned naturalist, a specialist in the flora and fauna of Cornwall. The illustrations for his book on the subject were mine. I first met Daniel when Papa took him on as an assistant. Even before we were betrothed, I worked on specimen drawings for him, and for almost all of the seven years of our married life I have travelled with him, taking notes, drawing and painting. So you see, Daniel did not mean it as a compliment. There is no one more suited.’

Her explanation, the toneless voice in which she spoke, confused him even further. Emotionless, or too filled with emotion? Azhar had no idea. ‘This trip you have made, halfway across the world and all alone, it is then a pilgrimage of sorts?’

‘It is, in the sense that it is a journey I must complete. But only so that I may then start my own journey, free from encumbrance. My husband’s life’s work has perforce been my life’s work, and always will be until I complete this one final marital duty. But I grow weary of doing my duty. There, I have said it now. Finally, I have said it.’

She glared at him, daring him to speak, but Azhar was so taken aback at the change in her, he said nothing.

Julia appeared to take his silence for condemnation. ‘You think I’m callous, don’t you?’ she demanded. ‘You most likely think I’m selfish and unfeeling, but you don’t know the facts.’

She obviously wanted to tell him, however, and Azhar’s curiosity was now well and truly piqued. ‘What is it I don’t know?’

She hesitated only fractionally. He could see the point where she cast caution to the winds, and wondered if she was aware of how her face mirrored her emotions in a most transparent fashion. He suspected not.

‘Daniel made me promise him on his deathbed that I’d complete his masterpiece,’ Julia said. ‘On his deathbed, that was all he could think about—his book. So of course I promised, because how could I refuse a dying man’s last wish?’

What could he reply to such a question? The parallels with his own situation struck Azhar with some force. Was the universe playing a trick on him?

Fortunately, Julia did not seem to expect him to speak. ‘But that still wasn’t enough for Daniel,’ she continued. ‘I had to promise that I’d keep it a secret, even from my father, that he had not completed the treatise himself. I had to promise that I’d come here to Arabia alone to complete the missing chapters. I had to promise that I’d finish all the colour plates, make a fair copy of everything, and have it bound into two editions, folio and quarto. Daniel was most specific about the binding for each. And the named recipients. I had to promise that I’d obtain permission from Mr Joseph Banks, the president of the Royal Society, for a dedication, and I had to promise that I’d petition Mr Banks on Daniel’s behalf to sponsor him for posthumous fellowship.’ She broke off, frowning down at her fingers, which she had been using to count off each promise, and then her brow cleared. ‘Oh, yes, and I had to promise that I’d persuade Mr Banks to grant Daniel membership of the Horticultural Society of London.’

‘Your husband had great confidence in your powers of persuasion,’ Azhar observed.

‘No, Daniel had great confidence in the results of his years of exhaustive research,’ Julia replied. ‘To be fair, his book is an excellent work, and his categorisation is innovative too. It is his legacy to the scientific world, and does deserve to be recognised. I don’t expect to have any trouble persuading Mr Banks to grant his wishes.’

Julia pushed her hair back from her face, adjusting her position to face him more squarely. ‘You know, I always thought that it was a love of science that drove Daniel, wanting his work to be recognised in the rarefied echelons of the scientific and academic communities as one of the definitive reference guides in its field. I respected him for that, but I wonder now if it was fame he actually coveted, his name he wished to be remembered.’

Azhar was forming his own, extremely uncomplimentary opinion of Julia’s dead husband, but he wisely chose not to share it. ‘Does it make any material difference?’ he asked.

Julia pursed her lips, and then smiled. ‘You know, I don’t think it does. Whatever his reasons, my task remains the same.’

‘You have taken on a very heavy burden.’

‘I thought so at first, and indeed there are aspects of it which—but actually, I have found the experience of travel most liberating. I have not been at all lonely you know. In fact I’ve very much enjoyed my own company. And last night’s events aside, I have been quite captivated by the beauty of Arabia. Besides,’ she added, her smile becoming wry, ‘I had no option. One cannot refuse a dying man’s wishes.’

Azhar winced. Her words were so very nearly his exact thoughts on the summons that brought him here. Tomorrow—but he suddenly, desperately did not want to think of tomorrow. Not yet. ‘So it is at your husband’s command that you are here, alone?’

‘You’ll understand now why I found it somewhat ironic when you asked if I had his permission to travel,’ Julia replied. ‘Daniel is dictating my actions from beyond the grave just as effectively as he did before he passed away.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘But not for much longer. I’ll finish his book, I’ll make good on all those promises, and that will be an end of it. My whole life I have been doing another’s bidding, drawing and painting to order. First for my father, then for Daniel. I have earned my right to freedom, and by heavens, I am going to enjoy it.’

Freedom. These last ten years Azhar had believed himself free, but from the moment he’d opened that summons he knew he’d been fooling himself. Freedom required the severing of all ties, all burdens, the honourable discharge of duty, just as Julia said. The last ten years had changed him for ever, shaped him into the man he was now, living the life he wanted to live. It was not the summons itself, with the unwelcome and completely unexpected news it contained, nor was it the command from beyond the grave that drove him here. It was this need for an absolute ending, for true freedom, which had driven him so many miles across the desert sands.

He and Julia sought the same thing. ‘You crave your freedom. It would be churlish of me,’ Azhar said, ‘not to assist you in achieving that most desirable state of affairs.’

She beamed at him. ‘You’ll help me to find a guide, camels—and paints—will I be able to purchase paints?’

So little, she asked of him. She cared not for the dangers she had faced nor those to come, with her goal in sight. He, of all people, could understand that. He was forced to admire her. Her tenacity. Her fortitude. Her determination to make the best of an appalling lot. Not a tear had she shed. She had not theatrically thrown herself on his mercy, nor had she played the damsel in distress, though her situation would have been ample excuse to do so. She did not expect him to save her, she merely wished him to assist with providing her the means to save herself. She really was a most unusual female. ‘I will help you,’ Azhar said. ‘I will take you to Al-Qaryma, and there you will find all you require.’

Her face lit up. ‘Thank you, Azhar. Thank you so much.’

To his surprise, she grabbed his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Her mouth was warm on his skin. His body reacted instantly, sending blood coursing to his groin. Horrified, he snatched his hand away.

‘I’m sorry. I did not mean—I didn’t think—I...’

Her embarrassment fortunately masked his own discomfort. ‘It has been a long and emotional day.’ Azhar stirred the cooking pot. ‘You must be hungry. Let us eat, and then you must rest. We will start for Al-Qaryma at dawn.’

* * *

They ate directly from the cooling cooking pot using their fingers. Julia, by now accustomed to the practice, and remembering to use only her right hand, ate with relish, not at all concerned at the lack of cutlery or the need to share.

Her confession had given her an appetite. She couldn’t believe she had imparted all those intimate thoughts to this complete stranger. She had portrayed herself in a stark and very unflattering light. She was not at all proud of her feelings. She felt enormously guilty for even having them, never mind voicing them. Her resentment must have come over loud and clear, yet Azhar had not condemned her. On the contrary, he had seemed, from the little he had said, to be sympathetic to her stance.

Besides, it had felt good, finally, to articulate a little of what she was feeling. Daniel had reserved all his passion for his book, forcing her to bottle hers up. She had no idea if she was even capable of expressing it, for after that first time, the only time she’d ever dared to initiate any sort of intimacy and had been rejected, she had been careful not to alarm her husband with anything more than a tepid response to his own infrequent overtures. It seemed to satisfy him. Certainly he had never seemed dissatisfied, which was the same thing, wasn’t it?

Recalling the way her stomach had lurched when she had kissed Azhar’s hand, Julia wasn’t so sure. It had felt like some sort of alchemical reaction between her skin and Azhar’s. There had been a connection from his hand to her lips to her belly that set her blood tingling. And all she’d done was kiss his hand!

To her eternal embarrassment and his. What had possessed her? She slanted a look at him as he threw the remnants of their frugal meal towards his Saluki, and there was her explanation. Azhar was simply one of the most stunningly attractive men she had ever encountered.

One of the most intriguing too. He gave very little away. He was a rich trader. He was not married. He’d been away from this kingdom, his home, for ten years. That was the sum total of what she knew of him. The reason for his absence from home was definitely off the list of subjects he’d be willing to discuss however, and the last thing she wished to do was estrange him. Best if she stuck to more neutral topics.

‘Thank you very much,’ Julia said when he turned back to her, wiping his fingers on a large square of white lawn kerchief. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever eaten such a delicious hare.’

She was rewarded with a smile. ‘Not even a fat English one?’

‘Not even an enormous Cornish one,’ Julia said, laughing. She leaned back to gaze up at the night sky. ‘We had a telescope at our—my father’s—home in Marazion Bay, but the stars in the desert sky feel so close one almost doesn’t need one. I have tried to paint it, but it’s impossible to replicate such beauty.’

‘You do not confine your art to botanical specimens, then?’

‘I’ve had little time to paint anything else but—no, not wholly. When all this is over, I can paint what I like. And perhaps also what other people like too, since I’ll have to find some way of earning my living.’

Azhar frowned. ‘Your husband did not make provision for you?’

‘What little we had will be consumed by this trip and the production of his book. Daniel assumed I would return to live with my father.’

‘But you have other ideas?’

‘I love Papa, but I do not intend to substitute one master for another,’ Julia said wryly. ‘I do not mean to imply that he is unkind or uncaring. My father is, as Daniel was, a sort of—oh, a sort of benevolent autocrat. Kind, and caring, but utterly selfish. Papa and Daniel both assumed my time theirs, their wishes mine. It never occurred to either of them that I might have wishes of my own. You see, a benevolent autocrat.’

‘You have a peculiarly apt way of describing things.’

‘But you understand? Your own father...’

‘Is dead.’

Once again, his expression was blank. He hadn’t moved, but she felt as if he had physically detached himself. It was an extremely effective method of closing down a subject, though it sent her curiosity soaring. Julia reminded herself of the need to keep him on her side. Silence stretched and became uncomfortable. She had to think of something to say. Anything.

‘Are you familiar with the botanical gardens in Cairo, Azhar?’

A blank look was her answer.

‘They were first established during Napoleon’s occupation. A Monsieur Delile was the director then, a correspondent of my husband’s. Monsieur Delile wrote the botanical chapters of Travel in Lower and Upper Egypt, you know.’

‘No, I did not.’

‘And you do not care to know,’ she said, deflated. ‘You would rather be alone.’

‘No!’ Not only Julia, but the Saluki hound flinched at this harsh exclamation. Azhar grimaced. ‘Forgive me. This journey has been—I have been—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘Please. Stay a while. Tell me—tell me a little more of your own journey. Did you stop in Cairo on your way to Damascus? It is a city I know well. One of my residences is on the outskirts.’

Julia eyed him warily. She was far more interested in what it was, precisely, about this journey that made him so—so edgy, yes that was it. But already, she knew him well enough not to pursue the subject. ‘You have more than one residence, then? I assume that trade—whatever you trade in—is lucrative?’

‘Silks and spices, mostly. I work hard but yes, it is lucrative. Though I travel a good deal, and have other residences in Damascus and Naples, I spend several months of the year in Egypt. I am well acquainted with Colonel Missett, your Consul-General, though apparently he is shortly to be replaced by a new man, Salt.’

‘I didn’t know that. Do you by any chance mean a Mr Henry Salt? It is such an unusual name, I wonder if it might be the same person.’

Azhar raised his brow. ‘You know him?’

‘A little. I have read his Voyage to Abyssinia, naturally.’

‘Naturally?’

Julia grimaced. ‘Naturally, because Mr Salt is—was—another of my husband’s correspondents.’

‘In fact, I too have read Mr Salt’s account of his voyage to Abyssinia. It is a country with which I trade. I found his insights—interesting.’

‘You mean they were in opposition to your own?’

‘Our experiences of the country were very different.’

‘You mean because your interest in the country is primarily commercial? From what I understand, a large part of Mr Salt’s mission there was to promote trade too. Will you be cultivating his acquaintance in Cairo? Though I believe it is the Pasha who holds the real power there. Are you...?’

Azhar laughed. ‘Yes, I am very well acquainted with him also. In my line of business it pays to be as well connected as possible. Permit me to tell you, madam—Julia—that you are a most singular female.’

‘I don’t know whether that is a compliment or an insult.’

‘A compliment,’ Azhar said, ‘most assuredly, a compliment.’

In the firelight, his eyes seemed like molten gold. She knew she must be imagining the flicker of desire in them, it was the firelight reflected, but for a moment she allowed him to hold her gaze, to imagine what it would be like if he leaned over, closed the distance between them, touched his mouth to hers. Her stomach knotted, making her shiver.

Then reality intervened. Recalling the way he’d snatched his hand away from her earlier, Julia scrabbled to her feet, breaking the spell which could only have been one-sided. ‘It is late, and I am very tired.’

Azhar too got to his feet, with a feline grace she could never hope to emulate. ‘We will set out at dawn.’

‘What about my things—the tent, my clothes...?’

He waved his hand dismissively. ‘My mules can carry your personal effects. I will send someone for the remainder.’

Send someone! So he had family in this city they were visiting. Julia added this snippet to the very small list of things she knew of him. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For coming to my rescue today. For promising to help me when you have business of your own to attend to, and I’m sure the last thing you wish is to be encumbered with an inconvenient Englishwoman.’

‘Cornish,’ Azhar said softly. ‘Goodnight, Julia.’

‘You have not set up your tent.’

‘Goodnight, Julia,’ he said, firmly this time.

He meant to stand guard. And he wanted to be alone. And he didn’t want her commenting on it either. She was getting rather good at understanding his silent communication method. ‘Goodnight, Azhar.’

* * *

It had been a very long day. Clinging to the camel’s hideously uncomfortable box seat behind Azhar, her bottom quite numb, Julia tried to ignore the increasing queasiness that assailed her as they swayed alarmingly atop the beast. The well-named ship of the desert was making her seasick. She would have given much to have been able to travel on one of the pack mules as had become her custom, but with her few remaining personal possessions to add to their existing burden, it had not been possible.

The initial excitement of sitting so intimately close to Azhar, their bodies perforce pressed together, had quite worn off. She was unbearably hot in her woollen skirt and jacket. The sheet which he had formed into a headdress for her provided much more protection from the sun than her hat, but her head was thumping all the same, her eyes were gritty with sand, and her skin damp with sweat. She had never in her life felt so unattractive.

In stark comparison, Azhar was even more good-looking in the daylight. His skin was burnished bronze, the colour of the sand dunes in the shade. His eyes gleamed, dark gold like the sun. His hair seemed almost blue-black, a sleek glossy cap when he took off his headdress to refold it. She couldn’t see a single drop of perspiration on his brow, while in contrast her hair clung in lank tendrils to her forehead and her nape. It was so unfair, and really quite irritating, the way he seemed quite unaffected by the heat, drinking sparingly from his goatskin flask when they stopped, while she had to fight not to empty hers in one long, greedy gulp.

When the sun was at its zenith they had temporarily broken their journey, but Julia had the distinct impression this was for her benefit only. While she dozed fitfully in the shade, Azhar sat staring out at the desert wastes. The frown creasing his brow, the way his mouth was set, gave an austerity to his features today, making him more intimidating rather than handsome. She had a hundred questions to ask, not least of which was where she would spend the night, but with every mile they covered, he grew more distant and remote.

‘Al-Qaryma.’ Azhar brought the camel to a halt at the top of a sand dune, waking Julia from her I-am-not-going-to-be-sick trance, clicking his tongue to bring his camel to its knees and dismounting with annoyingly fluid ease, before helping her to scrabble awkwardly down.

One look at the view, however, and she forgot all about her nausea. The small city rose dramatically from the verdant green fields surrounding the large oasis, which shimmered in the late afternoon sun. Clusters of buildings hugged the contours, interspersed with the sparkle of fountains, connected by dusty grey ribbons which were the narrow winding roads. And above them all, sitting at the top of the low hill, was a huge palace, the domed roofs glittering white, the towers which fronted it trimmed with emerald and gold. ‘It’s beautiful,’ Julia said, gazing entranced. ‘It’s like a magical city, rising up out of the desert. My goodness, how you must have missed it. If this was my home, I don’t know if I’d be able to tear myself away from it, never mind stay away for ten years.’

Azhar was staring at the view, his frown so deep it brought his brows together. ‘It is undeniably beautiful, but a gilded cage is still a cage,’ he said.

‘What a strange thing to say. Whatever do you mean?’

‘What I mean is that this city is no longer my home. This kingdom no longer forms the limits of my horizon,’ Azhar said. ‘I have no home. I have no people. I have no country. I answer to no one. My heart and my life belong to me alone.’

‘You must lead a very lonely life.’

His smile was fleeting but unmistakably sensual. ‘My determination never to burden myself with a wife does not preclude my enjoying the company of women.’

‘I doubt you’ve enjoyed the company of this particular woman,’ Julia responded tartly, because that smile was making her tingle. ‘I’ve been nothing but an inconvenience.’

He shook his head. ‘You underestimate yourself.’

Was he teasing her? He could not seriously mean he enjoyed her company. His attention had turned back to the view of the city. His expression was almost impossible to read. ‘Azhar, what has brought you back here? You have been away for so very long.’

‘Not long enough. I never believed I would return. You know, the parallels of our situations struck me forcibly last night,’ he said bleakly. ‘In fact, you will be surprised to know that my reasons for this journey are very similar to yours. I too come in order to secure my freedom. I am also here at the behest of a dead man.’

‘What can you mean? What dead man? Azhar...’

But he was already walking towards the camel. ‘No more questions. Now is the time for action. All will become clear in due course.’ He clicked his tongue and the ship of the desert once more dropped obediently to its knees.

Completely at a loss, Julia allowed him to lift her on to the camel. He mounted in front of her, and set the beast back on its feet. Their little caravan headed down into the valley, past the blue pool of the oasis, the vibrant green of the irrigated fields, and Julia, her head spinning with the onslaught of colour and scents, focused on staying upright in the saddle.

Questions jostled for room in her head, but there was no prospect of answers for the moment. On they went, through the winding streets, past piazzas with tinkling fountains, souks closed now for the day, the air still redolent with the cinnamon and mace, cardamom and cumin they had been selling. People were staring. In fact, a lot of people were staring, nudging each other, summoning yet more people. It was unusual for a woman to ride on the same camel as a man—that much Julia knew. Was that all it was? Perhaps their interest was exacerbated by her Western clothing. In all likelihood they had never seen a Western woman before. Yes, that was it. Though it was beginning to look as if the entire city was turning out to look at them as they passed.

Feeling extremely uncomfortable and extremely anxious, Julia was thankful to be able to hide behind her improvised veil. Azhar, she only then noticed, had not covered his face. Risking a glance back, she saw that they were being followed by a growing crowd. The nudges, the murmurings and mutterings were perfectly audible even above the hooves of the mules and camels, but Azhar looked resolutely straight ahead, his gaze unswerving. On they went, and the trail of people behind them turned into a procession, the mutterings and murmurings a sort of wailing—no, not wailing. It was not an unhappy sound. She could not see the women’s faces, but the men were smiling, the children were laughing.

‘Azhar,’ Julia hissed, ‘what is going on?’

Still he remained silent. Still they continued on. In front of their little caravan, the inhabitants of Al-Qaryma threw themselves down on to their knees. Someone had strewn rose petals in their path. Rose petals! Julia could hear singing from the human tide of people behind them. Bells began to peal. This was more, much more than mere hospitality. It was not Julia they were interested in either, but Azhar. Ten years he had been gone, yet all these people had come out of their houses to celebrate his return. Why? Who on earth was he?

She had the first inkling of an answer when he finally brought the camel to a halt at the palace. Two guards, armed with glittering scimitars, dressed in immaculate white, threw the gates wide and fell on to their knees in obeisance. More guards, two long lines of sentries, stood to stiff attention. From the high windows of the palace which looked out over the courtyard, Julia could see faces peering down. Behind them, the people crowded in. As Azhar clicked his usual command and the camel dropped obediently to its knees, the crowd fell silent.

Azhar dismounted. Julia slid down, her body drenched in cold, clammy sweat. ‘Azhar?’ she whispered, but his eyes were fixed on the huge portico, the formal entrance to the palace, where a man was emerging.

Dressed in a gold tunic, his headdress encrusted with precious jewels, the man made his way towards them. He was tall, would once have been considered handsome, but his body was running seriously to fat. Above the short, precisely trimmed beard, his cheeks were florid, his chin jowly. There was an air about him of entitlement, arrogance even, and a hint of petulance about his mouth. He was clearly privileged and in a position of power, and Julia suspected that he used both to his advantage. A man who demanded not only respect but subservience. A fraction of a second too late, late enough for this royal personage to notice, Julia dropped to her knees and bowed her head.

To her astonishment, Azhar remained standing. She watched from beneath her lashes as he approached. The man’s smile was rigid. The barely disguised resentment in his expression made Julia shiver. The packed courtyard crackled with tension. He halted in front of Azhar and uttered one word. Julia’s grasp of Arabic was basic in the extreme. Brother, she thought he had said, but that could not be. They were the antithesis of each other.

The slightest inclination of his head was all Azhar gave, but the royal person eased himself with difficulty to his knees and kissed Azhar’s hand before getting up again, turning to the crowd, uttering the ritual words of welcome, and thanking God for Azhar’s arrival.

Cheers erupted and cries of the traditional words of welcome rung out, over and over. Julia could restrain herself no longer. ‘Azhar!’ The sudden hush made Julia realise she had most likely broken every single protocol, if not committed treason, but it was too late now. ‘Azhar,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Will you please tell me what on earth is going on?’

He turned towards her, and it felt as though every single person in the courtyard was holding their collective breath. ‘Julia. Allow me to present to you my brother, Prince Kamal, Sheikh al-Farid. Kamal, this is Madam Julia Trevelyan. She will be our guest for a few days.’

Automatically, Julia dropped a curtsy, although the man completely ignored her, saying something over her head to Azhar. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, earning herself a shocked intake of breath from the crowd as she interrupted him, but she was beyond caring. ‘If this is your brother then you...’

‘I am Sheikh al-Farid, Crown Prince Azhar of Qaryma,’ Azhar replied with a pronounced sneer. ‘Welcome to my kingdom.’

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