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

by Marguerite Kaye

  The personal consequences were potentially ruinous for him. No wonder Azhar did not want to face them. With a sickening jolt, Julia discovered that she was not particularly eager to think about them either. Despite her resolution not to wish for more time with him, she had been hoping there would be some times in the future that they might spend together. She had fantasised about trips she might make once she was free, when Azhar had resumed his old life, to visit him in his home in Naples perhaps, or even return to Damascus again. Her dreams were vague, she had no idea the form these visits might take, or whether Azhar would welcome them, but they existed none the less.

  Julia swore under her breath. ‘What the devil are you thinking?’ she demanded of herself. ‘That once you have finally freed yourself from Daniel, you will immediately set about attaching yourself to a man who has made it perfectly clear that he wants no attachments?’

  But she wasn’t contemplating any sort of formal arrangement. She did not want to marry any more than Azhar did. ‘What, then?’ she asked. ‘You become his occasional mistress, spending nine months of the year pining for the three months or three weeks or whatever it is he allots to you? And you think a man as attractive as Azhar would take no other lovers? How would you feel about that?’

  She did not want to think about that, and that fact should be caution enough for her. She cared. She was very, very close to caring too much. Azhar liked women, he’d told her so. Women. Plural, not singular. Stupid, foolish, unrealistic Julia to imagine that he would want only her when there was a world of women for him to choose from while she waited alone for a summons as if she was part of a harem. Where was the freedom in that?

  The answer was starkly simple. There was none. It was folly, utter folly to allow herself to think that way—or even to dream. She had come to care for Azhar, there was no harm in admitting that, but to cherish any notion that this was anything other than a moment out of time was madness.

  Outside, the sky was a strange shade of violet. Aisha, bringing her afternoon mint tea, closed the windows leading on to the terrace, indicating that there was a storm brewing. ‘Prince Azhar had a visitor today,’ she said, speaking in the mixture of English, Arabic and gestures in which she and Julia customarily communicated. ‘The Prince of Murimon, an old friend. For ten years, since Prince Azhar left, he has not been here, but he is every bit as tall and handsome as I remember,’ she added with a saucy smile. ‘After our Prince, the second most handsome man in Arabia. Now they will be rulers together.’

  After Aisha had gone, Julia sipped her mint tea pensively. Outside, the sky looked bruised, a mixture of violet and pink, the clouds an odd golden brown, leaden with dust. She felt tense and edgy, a little like the weather, as the sky grew more ominous. On impulse, she opened the long window and stepped out on to the terrace. The paving was gritty, covered with a thin film of sand. She sat down on the edge of the pool, dabbling her feet in the water. The surface of the water was gritty too.

  Azhar had not mentioned any friends in their various conversations. Another bond he had cut from his life when he left Qaryma, determined to set himself free of his past. He had severed every single tie, and now he would have to sever them all afresh, if he were to leave again.

  If?

  She lay back on her hands and gazed up at the sky. A single large drop of rain fell on to the tiles. Above her, the clouds swirled. The surface of the pool rippled and the leaves of the lemon tree shivered as a breeze blew up. Another fat drop of rain fell, followed by a distant rumble of thunder, and then the skies opened.

  It was warm, soft rain, not the cold, sharp rain of home. The thunder grew closer, more muffled than the sharp cracks of noise that used to split the sky above Marazion Bay, but she relished both all the same, leaning back on her hands, closing her eyes, letting the rain fall on her face, soak through her tunic, darken her hair and empty her mind.

  * * *

  Having received no answer to his knock on Julia’s door, Azhar entered, calling her name. The window was open, the gauzy curtains flapping in the breeze. A rumble of thunder was followed almost immediately by a bolt of lightning that lit up the rain-drenched courtyard outside. And illuminated Julia, splayed like a fallen angel on the tiles beside the pool, her feet in the water, her hair streaming out behind her.

  His heart in his mouth, Azhar dashed out into the storm, calling her name. So convinced was he that she had been hit by the lightning, when she sat up Azhar thought he was hallucinating.

  ‘Julia?’

  She smiled at him dreamily. ‘Isn’t it fantastic?’

  ‘It’s dangerous to be out here in a storm. Come in.’

  Her clothes clung to her body. Her hair hung in long ropes down her back. Her feet were bare. ‘I love it,’ she said, making no move.

  A clap of thunder sounded in the distance. The rain stopped with a suddenness that made the silence seem to ring. Above them, the clouds began to part, and the sun shone weakly through. Julia stared up at the sky looking acutely disappointed. ‘It’s finished.’

  ‘When I saw you lying there on the ground, for a horrible moment I thought you were dead, struck by lightning.’

  ‘I was imagining being on the beach at Marazion Bay.’

  ‘Then you must have a very vivid imagination, because you look as if you have been swimming in the sea there. This bay, it is in Cornwall?’

  ‘Marazion Bay. Near my father’s home. I learned to swim in the surf there, and to sail.’ Julia’s eyes lit up. ‘It is almost a perfect crescent of sand, set into the cliffs. The path down is almost as steep as a staircase. In the winter, the sea is treacherous, the waves can be thirty feet high. The noise they make as they crash on to the sand is like a lion’s roar, and even when you’re sitting high above the tide line, the spray can drench you.’

  ‘You are drenched now. Come inside,’ Azhar said, leading her back into the sitting room and closing the latch on the window.

  * * *

  ‘Aisha told me you had a visit from an old friend today,’ Julia said a few moments later, having changed her tunic for a flowing robe of soft lemon muslin sprigged with pale blue flowers.

  ‘Kadar. Prince Kadar of Murimon, as he is now. The kingdom of Murimon is on the coast, some distance from here.’

  ‘Was he here on official state business? You must have been delighted to see him after all this time.’

  ‘Kadar was merely passing through. Yes, it was good to see him. You also have good reason to be glad he came to Qaryma.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘He brought you a present.’ Azhar handed her a small package.

  ‘A present? But I’ve never even met him.’

  ‘Open it.’

  Julia did as he bid her, staring incredulously at the timepiece. ‘It is Daniel’s watch. How on earth did your friend come by it?’

  ‘It was recovered from rogue traders at the port in Murimon. He asked me to pass on his apologies, and his regrets that urgent business prevented him from making your acquaintance.’

  ‘But how did he know it was mine, or that I was here?’

  ‘When we first arrived at Qaryma I sent out word of the crime which had been committed against you. I know the markets, I know the places where such thieves operate, but I confess, I held out little hope of recovering any of your possessions. It is not your trunk containing your precious notebooks and sketches unfortunately, but I remember you said this watch held great sentimental value for you.’

  ‘It does.’ Julia pressed it open and read the inscription. ‘It is so—symbolic of Daniel,’ she said softly. ‘Practical and reliable.’ She blinked, for she was close to tears. ‘I’m sorry, it is not like me to be at a loss for words. I hadn’t realised how much I’ve missed it. Thank you, Azhar. What a considerate gesture.’

  ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘No,’ she said fiercely, ‘it is not nothing. It matters a great deal to me that you thought of this, of me, when you had so much else to deal with—I am—I do
n’t know what to say.’

  Azhar kissed her forehead. ‘You have said enough. My reward is seeing your delight at being reunited with it.’

  Julia sank on to the divan, flicking open the case once more and studying the fascia. The mechanism vibrated slightly in her hand. ‘Daniel is buried in the family plot beside his father, but his mother is still alive. I wonder if I should return this to her when I am back in Cornwall.’ She gazed, mesmerised by the second hand as it relentlessly counted down the time she had left here in Qaryma, second by inexorable second. She wished it would go slower. Absurd thought. Snapping the case shut, she set it down on the table beside her painting materials. ‘Only one more week after the end of this one, and I shall be setting out on that journey,’ she said.

  She had meant it as a warning to herself. Her voice wobbled. Azhar flinched. ‘Your task will definitely be completed by then?’ he asked.

  How she longed to lie. ‘Yes,’ Julia said. ‘I will even have time to do some paintings of the secret garden in the Fourth Court.’

  ‘I wish...’ Azhar picked up Daniel’s watch and opened it, staring at the second hand mesmerised, just as she had done. Setting it down, he cleared his throat. ‘If you had time to spare, I would very much like a painting of your bay in Cornwall. It would be good to imagine you there. Looking at it would make you seem not so far away, somehow. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Perfect sense, I shall make time,’ Julia whispered. Azhar took her hands between his, rested his forehead against hers. A tear escaped from her eye, trickling down her cheek, and was swiftly followed by another, which splashed on to his hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be. Don’t cry, Julia. Please don’t cry.’

  ‘I am not crying,’ she said, but another tear fell, and then another. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Julia.’ He caught her in his arms, pressing her tight against his chest, stroking her hair. ‘Julia, don’t be sad.’

  She hugged him tightly, breathing in the warm male scent of him, relishing the familiar hard strength of him. ‘I’m going to miss you so much, Azhar.’

  He did not reply, but her yearning was reflected in his eyes as he picked her up and carried her into her bedchamber. Their kisses was all-consuming, urgent, kisses fuelled by hunger, a primal craving to amass as many kisses as they could before the time arrived when there could be no more. They made love with the same passionate abandonment, pressing themselves together, clinging together, skin on skin, as if trying to meld themselves together, become one entity, crying out together, then lying together, sated, slick with sweat, their hearts hammering, mindless at last.

  * * *

  Azhar sat on the throne in the Audience Chamber of the Royal Kiosk awaiting the arrival of the Chief Overseer of the diamond mines. He had made the decision to summon the man last night, after leaving Julia’s chamber. The watch—that fateful watch—ticking away the hours and minutes relentlessly, had compelled him to take the action which he had known in his heart for some days was inevitable.

  This summons would, he knew, set in motion an inexorable chain of events which would bind him to Qaryma for ever. He could not bear to think about it. If he thought about it he would hesitate, and he had hesitated too long already. Honour forced his hand. He would pay a heavy personal price for his sense of honour.

  A sharp rap on the door of the kiosk heralded the beginnings of proceedings. It did not take long. In the face of the compelling evidence which Azhar cited, the Chief Overseer prostrated himself at his Prince’s feet, sobbing and begging incoherently for mercy.

  Azhar ordered the guard to take him to the Cage, noting with satisfaction the surprise on the guard’s face and the horror on his prisoner’s. The name, he well knew, conjured up dark dungeons, perhaps even a torture chamber. In fact, the Cage was a suite of disused rooms which had once, many, many years ago, housed the illegitimate progeny from the harem, in the days when it held more than one wife and many concubines. In recent times the Cage had served as the schoolroom for the King’s legitimate sons, and was comfortably furnished. Azhar had chosen it merely as a secure place to hold the Chief Overseer until his fate was decided. He pitied the man, who was in one sense nothing more than a greedy puppet, but even a greedy puppet must be punished for the dishonour he had brought to the Council and to the kingdom he served.

  * * *

  The puppet master himself threw open the door of the kiosk a mere ten minutes later. Kamal flew into the chamber, his face red with rage. ‘Why did you summon my Chief Overseer? What game are you playing?’

  ‘Once again I must correct you, Brother. My Chief Overseer, and this is no game. I am the future King of Qaryma,’ Azhar said, surveying his brother haughtily from the throne. ‘Or had you forgotten? My actions are not to be questioned, even by you.’

  Kamal made a show of dropping slowly to his knees. ‘I see you have overcome your dislike of standing on ceremony.’

  ‘I have been forced to reassess my opinion on many matters since my arrival.’

  ‘You have certainly made your opinion of my regency very clear,’ Kama said, glaring at him defiantly. ‘I doubt there is any aspect of my rule which has met with your approval.’

  ‘It is not for want of trying, believe me, Brother.’

  Kamal swore. ‘Do not take me for a fool. Ever since you arrived here, you have been determined to undermine me, systematically removing my supporters from the Council, interfering in countless petty matters of state, questioning my Treasurer and examining my accounts. You travel to our villages with that English woman trailing behind you to whip up support—as if you needed to—and now I discover you have been interrogating a man who...’

  ‘Has been helping you misappropriate my diamonds.’ Azhar waited, but Kamal said nothing. ‘I know all about the whole sordid scheme,’ he said. ‘Not only has the Chief Overseer confessed fully to his role—’

  ‘But has implicated me in order to save his own skin,’ Kamal interrupted with a sneer. ‘By the heavens, Azhar, is it not obvious! If there has been any pilfering...’

  ‘The scale of the theft goes far beyond pilfering.’

  Kamal waved his hand impatiently. ‘You cannot possibly think that I would be involved in this.’

  ‘And you cannot possibly grasp how very much I have wanted to prove you innocent.’

  Something in his voice put fear in Kamal’s eyes. He scrambled to his feet. ‘Brother...’

  Azhar shook his arm free. ‘I came here intending to abdicate,’ he said. ‘I came here with the sole purpose of handing Qaryma over to you. You think I cannot resist claiming the crown and power. How wrong you are, Kamal. How very, very wrong. I wanted you to have it because you deserved it more, wanted it more.’

  ‘Then give it to me, I still want it. Free yourself from the burden, leave Qaryma in my hands.’

  ‘No. You have forfeited any right to be trusted with the safekeeping of the kingdom.’ With cold precision, Azhar ticked off the facts he had uncovered. Sick at heart, he watched as Kamal’s bravado turned to blustering rage, removing any faint hope that he would do the honourable thing and confess his guilt.

  ‘I hope you are not expecting me to apologise,’ Kamal spat at the end of the damning summation. ‘For ten years, I have remained here doing our father’s bidding while you indulged your selfish desire to see the world, making your personal fortune, earning your pathetically important reputation. For ten years I have served our father, this kingdom and these people, and for what? A few diamonds are as nothing compared to what I am owed for my sacrifice.’

  That the ‘few diamonds’ amounted to a significant part of Qaryma’s wealth was beside the point. It had never, for Azhar, been the value of the stolen goods which mattered, but the greed and the lies which motivated the crime. ‘You had ten years in which to prove yourself worthy,’ he said. ‘Ten years to prove to our father that you were fit to be his heir.’

  ‘Do you think I did not try?’ Kamal replied with a snarl. ‘I
reminded you when you returned that you were always his favourite. Do you think I said that to flatter you? Oh, yes, in the early days he was angry enough with you to turn to me, but he made it clear even then that I was second best. He never trusted me. Always, he watched me and questioned me. Always, he made it clear that I was but a poor substitute. And later—’ Kamal broke off abruptly.

  ‘Later?’ Azhar repeated. His brother shrugged. ‘What happened later?’ Azhar persisted.

  Kamal snorted with derision. ‘I thought you might have guessed, since you pride yourself on your astuteness. Didn’t you ask yourself how we knew where to send that summons, Azhar? Didn’t you ask yourself why, when he knew he was dying, our dear father did not summon his nominated heir earlier, why he settled for making me acting Regent instead?’

  ‘I did ask,’ Azhar said with a horrible sense of premonition. ‘I remember very clearly that I asked you, Kamal, when I first arrived here in Qaryma, why our father insisted the summons was sent after his death.’

  ‘And I told you that it was because he believed you wouldn’t return while he was alive,’ Kamal replied. ‘Which was true enough, but far from the whole truth. Our dear father knew all about your houses in Europe and Damascus and Cairo. He was so secretly proud of you, his wealthy, successful trader son, he arranged to have bulletins on your progress sent every six months.’

  Azhar felt faint. He sat down on the throne, gazing at his brother in disbelief.