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

by Marguerite Kaye

  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.’

  Chapter Three

  Azhar poured the last dregs of coffee from the pot. The thick, dark liquid, which he had always preferred without the customary sugar, seared its way into his stomach, adding to the edgy feeling which had kept him awake all night. His first night here in the palace for ten years. In the intervening period, he had not missed this place or this desert or this life, had taught himself never to think of any of it. Taught himself rather too well. Wrenched from his real life, returning so abruptly, it all threatened to overwhelm him. The allure of the desert itself was powerful. He had not forgotten its mystical beauty, but he had suppressed the memory of it. Yesterday, his first sighting of Al-Qaryma had stirred the depths of his soul. The world contained many other deserts, many other beautiful cities, but only here, in this kingdom, in this city, were his people.

  His people?

  No, they were not his people. Those crowds who had followed him through the streets yesterday, the people he refused to allow himself to acknowledge, they were not his. They were his father’s people, and now they would be Kamal’s.

  As if on cue, a discreet tap on the door preceded a manservant, who announced Kamal’s arrival. The dramatic change in his appearance struck Azhar afresh. Kamal had always been a greedy child, with a penchant for sweets and pastries that he made no attempt to curtail, but youth had protected him from the worst effects of over-indulgence. Now, at twenty-nine, two years younger than Azhar, his brother looked at least ten years older.

  Taking care to mask his thoughts behind a benign countenance, Azhar got to his feet. ‘At last. We did not have an opportunity to speak privately last night. It is very good to see you, Kamal. Get up, please, there is no need—you know I never did like to stand on ceremony.’

  Avoiding the proffered embrace, his brother instead bowed over Azhar’s hand. ‘Things are very different now you are soon to be crowned. As King, ceremony is precisely what you are required to stand on.’

  He had not imagined it last night, then, there was an appreciable edge to Kamal’s tone. ‘You must know I neither expected nor wanted this,’ Azhar said, taking a seat on the divan by the window, and indicating that Kamal should join him. ‘The summons I received came as a complete shock.’

  ‘Our father’s health had been in decline for some time. This past year, he was too frail to rule effectively. I was obliged to step in and assume control. With his blessing, I might add.’

  ‘An obligation I’m sure you discharged with great skill.’

  ‘One does one’s humble best, however temporarily the responsibility rests on one’s shoulders. The burden is yours now, my brother.’

  Yes, his brother was definitely hostile. An understandable emotion in one who believed his powers were about to be wrested from him—and that was another thing he’d forgotten about Kamal, how much he enjoyed wielding even the most insignificant scrap of power and influence. It would be very easy to put his mind at rest, but Azhar’s instincts told him to hold fire for the present. Though his intentions were set firm, though he had absolutely no doubt as to their validity, experience had taught him the benefits of keeping his own counsel until he was ready to act. Silence was a powerful ally. There was knowledge to be gleaned from keeping Kamal in blissful ignorance for the time being, and knowledge was even more powerful than silence. The time for Azhar to declare himself would come soon enough, but it was not now.

  ‘When I said the summons came as a shock,’ he said, choosing his words with care, ‘I referred not only to our father’s demise, but to the fact of my being named rightful heir.’

  Kamal looked astonished. ‘You jest! And it is a joke in poor taste, if I may say so. As if the King would ever have dreamed of disinheriting you.’

  ‘I am being perfectly serious. I believed my departure to be final and irrevocable.’

  ‘And yet you have returned none the less,’ Kamal replied with a tight smile. ‘I knew you would. I knew you would not be able to resist claiming your kingdom, even though you forfeited any right to it all those years ago.’

  Azhar flinched inwardly at the barely disguised animosity, though he kept his own expression neutral, reminding himself that his brother’s feelings were perfectly natural. Kamal had always adored his royal status, had always resented his subordinate status as second son. As far as he was concerned, Azhar had returned to snatch what had become rightly his. His resentment was understandable, if disappointing to witness. ‘You do me a disservice,’ he said. ‘I had no idea this kingdom was mine to claim. Our father...’

  ‘Oh, please, let us be done with this pretence! You were always his favourite, and you know it, Azhar. Firstborn, favoured son—that was you. Nothing I did was ever good enough for him.’

  His tone was horribly familiar. Azhar had forgotten how petulant Kamal could be when thwarted. One thing he had in common with their father, and another thing that had clearly not changed. As to his words, however...

  ‘You know perfectly well that is preposterous,’ Azhar said. ‘When I left, he forbade me to return. “If you defy me and leave now, it must be for ever. The decision, once made, is irrevocable,” were his actual words—not words that I am likely to forget.’

  ‘What else could he say, in the face of your determination to disobey him?’

  Azhar gritted his teeth. ‘He made it impossible for me to do anything else. There is a world outside Qaryma. All I wanted was to see it. I have lost count of the number of times I begged him for permission to experience a little of what the wider world has to offer.’

  ‘And the more you begged, the more determined he was to deny you, and the more determined you became to have your own way. You really were very alike in that sense,’ Kamal said. ‘Stubborn, determined to impose your will on everyone, able to listen to no other point of view. How ironic that the man who claims he never wished to be a king will now make a king in our father’s image.’

  Kamal was wrong. Azhar had never wanted the crown. He had come here with the express purpose of proving that. Although the words were said deliberately to rile him, they also provided the perfect opportunity to put Kamal out of his misery, but his brother’s attitude set Azhar’s resolve to wait. Unlike him, Kamal had acceded to their father’s will, but from the sounds of it, not without a simmering sense of resentment. ‘To return to my original point,’ he said. ‘The summons I received was a very great shock. When I left...’

  ‘You know, I never did understand why you were so set on going anywhere, Azhar. Everything you could wish for is here, but you were always determined to shake the sands of Qaryma from your feet, weren’t you?’

  ‘It was never my intention to leave for good. If he had granted me permission to travel before I reached my majority, I would have honoured any conditions he set on my return. But he would not give me permission, forcing me to wait until I no longer required it, on my twenty-first birthday. He could not deny me the right to leave, but he could deny me the right to return, and that is what he did. When I left, our father made it clear that the price for my wanderlust would be permanent exile.’

  Kamal snorted. ‘He said that out of desperation to keep you here. He never gave up hope that you’d come crawling back on your hands and knees. You’d have thought that he’d be pleased to have a second son on hand to inherit, a son who, unlike his first
born, was obedient and respectful and who actually wanted to rule, but, no—it was you he wanted. It was always you. All I was fit for was to send a summons to you upon his demise. He had Council witness it too. He could not have made his desire to exclude me clearer.’

  ‘If that is true, why then did he insist the summons was sent after his death? He appointed you as Regent. Why not summon me to fulfil that role?’

  ‘Ten years without a word from you, Azhar. Ten years!’ Kamal said bitterly. ‘Don’t you think you’d made it very clear by then that you would never return while he was still alive?’

  ‘He knew I didn’t want this. He knew I have never wanted it. He could not bend me to his will while he was alive. That summons was his attempt to do so from beyond the grave.’

  ‘A successful one too,’ Kamal said with malicious relish. ‘Our father could certainly be both capricious and vindictive. Perhaps by deliberately denying you the opportunity for any sort of reconciliation he was punishing you for turning your back on Qaryma and, more importantly, on him. Now it is too late to be forgiven, and you will have to live with that on your conscience. Poor Azhar.’

  Anger warred with hurt at his brother’s sarcastic tone. Pride kept both firmly under control. ‘I have no desire for forgiveness, having committed no crime,’ Azhar said curtly, getting to his feet. ‘You overstep the mark, Brother.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ Kamal fell to his knees, and Azhar made no move to prevent him. ‘It has been a somewhat difficult time, trying to protect your interests here, not knowing how long it would be before you returned.’

  ‘I have been remiss, I should thank you for running the kingdom in the interim,’ Azhar said, indicating that Kamal should rise.

  ‘Yours will be the only thanks I receive,’ his brother replied. ‘You cannot have failed to notice yesterday how pleased the people are to see you.’

  He had in fact tried very hard indeed to take no notice of anything on his arrival. Azhar waved his hand dismissively. ‘A show of respect, nothing more.’

  ‘They will be anxious to see you crowned.’

  ‘Because a coronation requires to be celebrated, and most lavishly.’ Azhar said wryly. ‘The best things come to those who wait. I have only just returned.’

  ‘But until you are crowned, there are certain powers which you cannot exercise. The authority invested in me as Regent...’

  ‘Can continue, I am sure, for the time being.’

  ‘Of course, if that is your wish, but—but I assumed you would take immediate control.’

  Kamal looked puzzled, as well he might. Azhar wasn’t too sure himself what he meant, save to buy himself some time. He turned away to gaze out of the window, at one of the sixty-five palace fountains. He had counted them once. Odd, that such a useless fact should stick in his mind. His journey here had been fuelled by a sense of urgency, a need to finally sever the ties of duty that bound him to this place. But the urgency had dissipated with his arrival. He had no doubts about his course of action, but he needed to consider how best to implement it.

  All he needed was a little time. Time to satisfy himself that Kamal was fit to govern or, if necessary, time to ensure that he could be moulded to be so. ‘I require time,’ Azhar said, turning back to his brother. ‘Whether you believe it or not, my inheritance has come as a shock to me, and my absence has been a long one. The coronation must perforce wait. I require time to reacquaint myself with the kingdom. In the interim, you will continue to rule, while I decide how best to implement the handover of power.’

  ‘How long do you envisage this interim period to be?’

  He had no idea. ‘I will inform you and the Council of my plans tomorrow.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  Julia. The thought of her was as refreshing as plunging into the cool, clear water of an oasis. Julia, his connection to the real world, his touchstone. Yesterday, reeling from the shock of his revelation, exhausted by the pace of the long day’s travel, she had clung to his sleeve, begging him not forget her amid all the hubbub of his return. As if that was possible.

  ‘Madam Trevelyan is an English botanist.’ Cornish, Azhar corrected himself silently.

  ‘What is she to you?’

  ‘I found her alone at the Zazim Oasis. Her dragoman and his men had absconded in the night, taking everything with them.’

  ‘Stupid foreigners, what do they expect! The desert is no place for a woman travelling alone. What was she thinking?’

  Azhar’s fists clenched. ‘I am more concerned with your own thoughts. A nefarious deed was perpetrated at one of our biggest oases. Those thieving brigands should not have dared cross our borders, never mind dishonour our lands in such a way.’

  Colour stained Kamal’s cheeks. ‘A kingdom without a king is weakened and open to abuse. How can I be expected to command respect without a crown?’

  Earn it, Azhar thought bitterly. Respect cannot be demanded. But there was nothing to be gained by antagonising his brother still further. ‘I could not leave Madam Trevelyan alone and without resources, so I brought her here. Any man of honour would have done the same.’

  Kamal shrugged. ‘As you pointed out, the Zazim Oasis is one of our biggest, and therefore a busy and popular stopping point. Someone else would have come along soon enough. As Crown Prince of Qaryma, I would have thought you had more pressing matters to occupy you.’

  ‘As Crown Prince of Qaryma, I am responsible for the well-being and safety of everyone in this kingdom, whether citizen or visitor.’ Suddenly weary of Kamal’s company, Azhar clapped his hands loudly. The door opened instantly. ‘Until tomorrow, Brother,’ he said, leaving Kamal no option but to bow himself out. Azhar smiled inwardly. His privileged position was not without its advantages.

  * * *

  Having spent a blissfully comfortable night in the lavish quarters assigned to her, wallowing in the luxury of a hot bath before collapsing on to the huge divan, Julia had spent the morning anxiously waiting for some word from Azhar. She knew he would have weighty matters to attend to, but he had promised not to forget her. She was therefore both relieved and delighted when a servant arrived and silently bid her follow him. Perhaps he was to take her to the souk to purchase essential supplies. The sooner she began her work again the better.

  She followed along behind as the servant led her through a series of marble-panelled corridors illuminated by glass skylights. The man walked quickly, forcing her to take a little running step every now and again in order to keep up. Through open archways she could hear the muted sound of voices. Silence emanated from other forbidding-looking, heavy doors where sentries stood in plain white robes, scimitars hanging from their leather-belted waists. What were they guarding—or who? How many lives were being lived out in this palace, in this city within a city? Where was this man taking her? And to meet whom? Completely disoriented, Julia followed him around another right-angled turn, to find the passage terminated in another of those huge, guarded doors.

  ‘What is this place?’ she asked, though she knew it was futile. Even if he understood her, the servant was the strong silent type. He was already backing away, and the guard at the door was ushering her forward with a face that seemed to Julia would brook no argument. Taking a deep breath, she stepped past him and entered the room.

  Save that it was not a room. She was on a low terrace leading on to one of the most beautiful gardens she had ever seen. Cypress trees grew in shady groves. Mosaic walkways meandered through manicured beds ablaze with exotic flowers. Tall marble pillars stood at the head of a long pool full of brightly coloured fish. Water gushed from the mouths of the playful stone dolphins in the fountain at the far end. Her senses swam with the profusion of scents and sounds. In one corner another fountain fed an oasis-like space proliferating with cacti and other succulents, some of which Julia had never before encountered. Another sinuous pathway took her through a gate to a rose garden, the blooms, like the stars in the night sky, so much bigger and brighter than those on view at home. B
eneath her feet, she could feel the gurgle of the complex subterranean irrigation system. Turning a corner at the edge of the garden, she found groves of orange, lemon and lime trees, more marble pillars and rustic bridges crossing the irrigation streams which had been allowed to bubble to the surface. Tucked away, almost hidden from view, was a small marble kiosk in the classical style, rather like a Greek temple, though on a much smaller scale. And standing at the entrance, looking very like he’d just stepped down from Mount Olympus, was Azhar.

  He was dressed in loose trousers and a long dark-blue tunic fastened at the neck with black frogging. The simple lines of the tunic emphasised the breadth of his shoulders and chest. He wore no headdress, the sunlight making his night-dark hair shine like silk. He really was an extraordinarily good-looking man.

  Prince. Not man, Prince. Crown Prince, no less. She would do well to remember that rather significant fact. She dropped a hasty curtsy. ‘Your Highness.’

  ‘Azhar is quite sufficient when we are alone, Julia.’

  Emboldened by his smile, she gave in to the allure of the welcoming shade and the entrancing man, and joined him on the terrace of the kiosk. ‘I’ve never seen such a wonderful garden. The sheer profusion of species quite takes my breath away. The irrigation system must be quite ingenious to allow such different varieties as roses and succulents to grow in the same soil, under this unforgiving sun. My father would be astonished, and most envious.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I recall you said your father was a botanist, as well as a—how did you put it—a benevolent autocrat?’

  ‘You must think me most disrespectful. I was somewhat overwrought.’

  ‘You had just cause. In fact I can think of no woman I have ever met who would have been less overwrought, all things considered. Please, sit down and take some mint tea with me.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She did as he bade her, sinking gratefully on to a low, padded chair while fanning her face. ‘I am honoured that you have found the time to grant me a personal audience.’