The sketch books, charcoals, pencils and watercolour paints which Azhar had miraculously sourced for her yesterday, were set on the table. It was extremely thoughtful of him to take the time to do so, when he had much more weighty matters to attend to. She had spent the whole morning sketching in the garden, retiring to this delightful salon to escape the worst of the afternoon heat and add splashes of colour to her outline drawings. She couldn’t quite believe her good fortune. To have been rescued by a prince, taken to his magical castle and given her heart’s desire! Julia smiled to herself. This might feel like a fairy tale, but she was hardly fairy-tale-princess material. Azhar however, was very much a prince. An extremely attractive, thoughtful prince, who might well think her unusual and extraordinary, but who was going to disappear from her life in a month’s time. She had better not get too used to his charming company and his delightful smile and that way he had, of encouraging confidences from her that she would not normally give.
But on the other hand, provided she did remember this was a moment—or a month—out of time, it meant a whole month to enjoy all this. She curled her toes into the luxurious pile of the rug, woven in vibrant jewel-like colours, which covered the floor. An enormous three-sided couch sat in the conservatory-like windowed recess, strewn with cushions decorated with gold tassels, worked in the most intricate of silk embroidery. Further seating was provided by larger cushions and several low gilded chairs, which were set around the table. The windows were draped in long, pale voile curtains which protected the room from the heat, though the room itself faced north. Above her, the ceiling was also ornately worked, a lattice of cornicing in gold, crimson and emerald.
Pulling back the gauzy curtains, she gazed out at the view of the courtyard beyond, as enraptured today as she had been for each of the last three mornings. Unable to resist the allure of the early light, she opened the latch on one of the long windows and stepped outside.
The courtyard was enclosed by three walls, the fourth formed by the room from which she had entered it, and was thus completely private. It was hot already, though the air had that damp, salty taste of early morning. The sun was still low, the pale blue sky decorated with a few stray puffy pink clouds. A lemon tree grew in one corner, a wooden bench forming a crescent around its trunk. A long rectangular pool ran from the step down from the windows right up to the perimeter wall. Tall, precisely trained jasmine shrubs stood sentry-like in ceramic tubs on either side of the pool. The scent from the delicate white flowers was heady as Julia brushed her fingers along the dew-tipped leaves. Two steps led down into the pool, which was lined with iridescent turquoise tiles. Lifting the hem of her nightgown, Julia dabbed her toes in the cool water, shivering with pleasure as it lapped against her skin, up to her calves, then her knees as she went down the steps. She was about to give in to the temptation to immerse herself completely, when a noise from the terrace startled her.
Julia waded out of the pool, the hem of her nightgown flapping around her wet ankles. The maidservant bowed her head, though not quickly enough for Julia to miss the quickly suppressed smile. ‘Good morning, Aisha,’ Julia said in Arabic, clasping her hands and bowing in the customary greeting.
The maid smiled shyly, ushering her to the table, which had been set for breakfast.
‘Shukran,’ Julia said. ‘Thank you, Aisha.’ Seating herself on a large cushion, she forced herself to wait to be served, knowing that to help herself would be a huge breach of etiquette. The coffee poured from the tall silver pot into the delicate china cup was thick and dark and sweet. There were pastries filled with candied fruit and nuts, dusted with sugar powder; a thick yoghurt swirled with honey; and melon, peaches and fruit Julia had never seen before, delicately carved into flower shapes, served with orange water.
‘Eat with gladness and health,’ the girl said in Arabic, the phrase familiar to Julia as the one traditionally spoken before eating.
‘Shukran,’ she said again, feeling quite inadequate, making a mental note to improve her vocabulary with all speed. Crossing her legs awkwardly underneath her, she began to eat, closing her eyes as the buttery, flaky pastry melted on her tongue. The bittersweet coffee scalded its way down her throat, ridding her of the last vestiges of sleep. Sated, she was cleaning her fingers in a copper bowl of water scented with rose petals when Aisha returned, indicating that it was time for Julia to dress by holding open the connecting door to the bedroom.
The clothes laid out on the divan were not hers. Instead of thick brown wool and white cambric, these were a swathe of colours in the softest of fabrics. ‘For me?’ she asked, and Aisha nodded. Though it would be most improper of her to accept such a gift, Julia hesitated only a moment. Azhar would not have selected the clothes himself. She would recompense him, she would not wish to be beholden to him, nor accept his charity, but it would be churlish to refuse them.
The garments were not only practical but beautiful. The pale-green soft cotton shift, worn over pantaloons of the same material, had wide sleeves gathered into ruffles at her wrists. A wide sash of intertwined silks in shades of green was tied at her waist to hold the shift in place. Over this, the abba cloak was draped, the pretty beading embroidered around the hem keeping it in place. The keffiyeh which Aisha folded expertly before placing it on her head was made of the same cotton as her shift, held in place by another band of multi-coloured silks. The veil was of some filmy, incredibly light material that allowed Julia to breathe easily. Yellow ankle boots with pointed toes made of calfskin so soft that they felt like slippers completed her outfit. Julia gazed in wonder at the exotic creature in the long mirror looking back at her, astounded by the transformation. She could look like an Arabian princess after all!
‘You like?’ Aisha asked.
‘I like very much indeed,’ she replied, twirling around. Back in England, this clothing would be deemed indecent, despite the fact that she was showing almost no flesh at all, and she could understand why. The flimsy layers of material clung in soft folds to her body, emphasising her own clearly uncorseted curves. Aisha had expertly pleated her hair into one long thick braid which she had pulled over her shoulder. There was something decadent about that fiery red plait, something exotic about Julia’s eyes flashing from above the flimsy veil. And something really quite delightful about the caress of the loose apparel on her skin too. She looked and felt utterly different. A sultry creature, fit for the desert.
Fit for a desert prince? What would Azhar think of this new Julia? Singular and extraordinary is how he’d described the old one. He’d said he thought her company delightful. Now, clad in her desert attire, for the first time in her life, Julia felt almost deserving of the description. She twirled around in front of the mirror again. Her headdress, her veil and her long plait of hair swirled sinuously in a wide arc. She felt decadent and daring, and, yes, she felt desirable too. It was all a fantasy of course, a fanciful conceit, but a deliciously distracting one.
A month out of time, she had here in the magical city of Al-Qaryma before reality must again be embraced. For a month, she would allow herself to be this alluring creature. And for a whole month, she would enjoy the company of the man who had helped create her new persona. Whatever that entailed. In a month, the mirage would fade and she would be Julia again. But not now. Not yet.
* * *
Azhar was waiting for her in the main courtyard of the palace. A small circle of guards stood around him. He seemed, by the various gestures he made, to be issuing a complex string of commands. Aside from a scarlet headdress fastened with a band of gold silk, his dress was the same simple attire he had worn when she first encountered him at the oasis. Unlike Kamal, he had a natural air of command, and no need of ostentatious dress to artificially bolster it. The guards certainly gave him their full attention. A gentle breeze tugged his cloak out behind him, making the tunic underneath cling to his lean, muscular frame. The combination of austerity and beauty in his features took Julia’s breath away anew. Suddenly shy in her new cloth
ing, and uncertain as to whether he would expect to be treated as man or prince in the presence of others, she hovered in the lee of the portico waiting on him to notice her.
When he did, he dismissed the men curtly, and strode quickly over to her. ‘Forgive me for keeping you waiting. I am concerned that the palace guard are not being used to the best of their abilities. Some of the practices I have discovered are incredibly inefficient and ridiculously wasteful. It seems my views are shared by several of the men too. I have implemented some changes now, but I will have to take a proper look at the detail later. Talking of which...’ Azhar studied her appreciatively. ‘My compliments, Julia. A quite remarkable transformation from English rose to desert flower.’
His lips brushed her fingertips, making her shiver. ‘I certainly feel much cooler and more comfortable dressed like this,’ she replied, feeling quite the opposite. ‘I am much obliged to you for being so thoughtful. I will of course recompense you for the expense you have obviously gone to on my behalf, once I have exchanged my bank notes.’
‘Of course you will.’ Azhar spoke as coolly as she, but his eyes and his set expression told a different story.
‘I mean it. It would not be proper for me to...’
Azhar stiffened. ‘Julia, I rather think you left the boundaries of propriety behind when you headed out into the desert alone, but if it makes you happy, I will keep a tally of your expenses.’
‘I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m sorry.’
‘No, it is I who must apologise. I sometimes forget that your customs are very different from ours.’ Azhar’s mouth softened again. ‘You are my honoured guest, Julia. As your host, it is my duty to ensure that your every comfort is provided for, and you cannot deny that in those inappropriate English clothes you were very uncomfortable indeed.’
‘I looked like a wrung-out dish rag, if truth be told. Thank you for being too much of a gentleman to point that out.’
Azhar laughed. ‘I have no idea what that is, but I assure you, even if I did, nothing would be further from my thoughts. What I do know is that what you are wearing is an infinite improvement. Now, if we are quite finished discussing fashion, we should ride out now while the sun is still low. Have you brought your drawing materials?’
‘Yes. Another thing I must thank you for, and which should be added to my growing pile of expenses.’
‘I assure you, my coffers can bear the strain. I don’t know what other botanical equipment you will require, but if you provide me with a list I will have it delivered to your quarters. Now, let us commence.’
He led the way across the courtyard, where not one but two camels were waiting, and Julia’s heart sank. After several futile attempts at mastering the art of mounting her own camel, horribly aware of Hanif and his men laughing behind their hands, she had chosen to ride one of the pack mules. With hindsight, this had been a mistake, an indication to the dragoman of her inexperience. She could not possibly ask Azhar to bring her a mule, but she wasn’t at all sure she could get herself on to the high seat of the camel without help, never mind steer the beast.
Azhar, having stowed her drawing supplies away in the saddle bags of his own camel, took both sets of reins from the camel driver and dismissed the man. In response to the strange clicking sound, Azhar’s mount dropped down and the horrible groaning, growling noise which all camels made when forced to kneel began to emanate from the beast.
‘Do you wish me to help you?’ he asked. ‘There is a knack to it.’
‘I know,’ Julia said grimly. Her palms sweating, she approached her own camel and attempted to imitate the clicking sound. What emerged reminded her embarrassingly of a slightly hysterical chicken. Screwing up her face for another attempt, she must have managed by some small miracle to produce something approximating the correct noise, since her camel, albeit reluctantly, dropped down with a loud groan of complaint. She knew from bitter experience that she had to get herself into the saddle quickly, before the camel changed its mind, so threw herself at the high box seat, scrambling on to it as the camel, true to the form of every camel of her experience, and regardless of Azhar’s restraining foot on its front leg, reared up alarmingly.
As the beast kicked its back legs out and Julia lunged forward, she was aware of Azhar yanking on the reins and calling out. She clung desperately to the pommel and managed to stay on board. Just. The invariable second attempt to dismount her had succeeded the last time, for she was not expecting it. This time however, when the camel immediately kicked its front legs out, instead of flying backwards in the saddle before tumbling over and landing on her behind, she leant quickly forward and clung on for dear life. Honour satisfied on both sides, the camel stood compliantly still and Julia, catching her breath, turned to Azhar with a triumphant smile, which quickly faded when she saw his grim expression.
‘I assumed you knew what you were doing.’
‘Well, in theory...’
He cursed under his breath. ‘In theory? In practice you might have been killed.’
‘Nonsense, I’ve fallen off several times before, and was only a little shaken up.’
Azhar cursed again. ‘You could have fallen and broken your neck. I thought—I assumed that since you had spent over a month in the desert—did that scoundrel of a dragoman teach you nothing? How on earth did you manage?’
‘I rode a mule,’ Julia confessed, ‘and before you feel the need to point out to me that by doing so, I contributed to my own downfall by displaying inexperience, I have already worked that out for myself.’
She looked down. It seemed a long way down, and the cobblestones, unlike the soft desert sand, did look rather lethal. Julia shuddered. ‘I’m sorry. I remember now, you said that the last thing you want on your hands is a dead Englishwoman,’ she said, in a poor attempt at a joke.
She was rewarded with a poor attempt at a smile. ‘Cornishwoman,’ Azhar reminded her. ‘But it is true, I would very much prefer if you managed not to kill yourself while you are under my protection. Can you manage to stay in the saddle if I lead your camel?’
Julia opened her mouth to demand the reins, and then thought better of it. ‘I believe so.’
‘If you think at any point that belief is unfounded, you will inform me of that fact,’ Azhar said curtly. In a matter of moments he had mounted his own camel and drawn alongside her, surprising her by reaching across to press her hand reassuringly. ‘My drawings look like tarantula tracks. It is not a weakness to admit to a lack of proficiency, Julia.’
* * *
The souks were already opening as they wended their way through the bustling streets of Al-Qaryma, the familiar scents of spices blending with the early morning freshness of the day. He could be in any city in the East, Azhar told himself, his keffiyeh fixed over his face, refusing to acknowledge the people who dropped to their knees as he passed, the little knot of children who ran after them. Yesterday, the Council had been shocked when he categorically refused to permit them to arrange the ceremonial audiences and formal celebrations which preceded any coronation. The people had been waiting three months already. Another month would make no material difference.
The Council had been even more taken aback by his refusal to take up his throne. But Kamal had been the custodian of Qaryma for more than a year as their father’s illness increasingly sapped his strength. Kamal was more than capable of continuing to deputise, was he not? Azhar had demanded. The response to this question had not been unequivocal. Though some of the newer members of Council had indeed been enthusiastic, Azhar noticed that the elders were more restrained in their support for his brother, and even more reserved in their response to Azhar. Traditionalists, men who had been loyal to his father for almost as long as he had reigned, Azhar could not decide whether they judged him harshly for having left, or for having returned.
He sighed impatiently. It mattered not. They had no option but to do his bidding. He needed neither their acceptance nor their approval. When he chose to inform them of the rea
l state of affairs, they would understand his actions—not that he required their understanding either. What mattered now, was to make the most of the time he had bought for himself. And in doing so, to enjoy the company of the unusual and extraordinary woman who accompanied him.
As they left the city and the oasis behind, along with the discomfiting attentions of the people who thought him their Crown Prince, Azhar brought Julia’s camel alongside his. In her Eastern dress, she looked at the same time both exotic and yet unmistakably not of the East. The soft fabrics emphasised the slim lines and soft curves of her body. The bright colours highlighted the vivid green of her eyes, the burnished auburn of her hair. She had curled her legs around the pommel of the saddle. There was a tantalising glimpse of flesh above the top of her boot, below the gather of her pantaloons. Dragging his eyes away from it, he discovered she was watching him, trying to assess his mood. Behind his keffiyeh, he smiled. ‘Would you like to attempt taking the reins yourself?’
Her eyes became wary. ‘Azhar, I am a more-than-competent horsewoman, but I suspect I will never master the art of riding a camel. Nor will ever have cause to, since they are in rather short supply in England.’
‘No doubt English camels, if they existed, would be twice the size of our scrawny desert ones.’
‘Now you are mocking me.’
‘Not mocking, merely gently teasing you,’ Azhar said, bringing the camels to a halt. ‘But I dislike the fact that you mock yourself by berating your inability to control a camel.’
‘It is a stupid thing, not to be able to ride the ship of the desert when one has spent the last month travelling in that desert.’
‘You are very harsh on yourself. Had your dragoman made an effort to teach you, I have no doubt you’d have mastered the art long before now.’
The Widow And The Sheikh (Hot Arabian Nights, Book 1) Page 7