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

by Marguerite Kaye

  The marble rooftop bath, no longer in regular use, had once been part of the hamam bath complex below. Julia’s face lit up with surprised pleasure when he led her round the side of the tent to show her it. He undressed her slowly, covering every new inch of skin with kisses as it was revealed. The hollow of her shoulder fascinated him. The valley between her breasts. The curve of her spine. The soft flesh of her belly and her thighs. In the moonlight, her skin gleamed like porcelain. Her eyes gleamed with desire for him. Though she waited, taking her cue from him tonight, he knew there would be a moment when her passion would be unleashed, and that moment would be his undoing.

  Azhar quickly stripped himself of his clothes. She watched him, supremely confident now in her own nakedness, her eyes devouring him unashamedly. She fluttered her fingers over his skin, shoulder, chest, flank, before languidly stroking his manhood, making him shudder involuntarily. She smiled that slow, sensuous smile that never failed to make his pulse quicken.

  He led her down the shallow steps which led into the huge bath. The water was warm, the bath deep enough for it to lap just above his knees. She twined her arms around him, pressing her breasts against his chest, and kissed him deeply. His erection pressed insistently between her legs.

  He angled her against the side of the bath and dropped to his knees before her, easing her legs apart. The scent of her arousal made his senses spin. He tilted her towards him, his hands on her bottom, his favourite of her curves, and kissed her between the thighs. So wet and so sweet she tasted. Her hands clutched at his shoulders. Her breathing quickened, making her belly contract. He licked his way over her, around her, into her, relishing the way each touch of his tongue made her tighter, wetter, made him harder. He knew her intimately now, knew how to take her to the brink and keep her there, before sending her over the edge at a moment of his choosing. That moment had arrived.

  She came fiercely. He pulled her into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist. Then Julia kissed him. Holding him tight inside her, Julia whispered in his ear, a guttural command that should have shocked him to the core, but instead elicited a much more primal reaction.

  He set her down on the shallow steps and thrust deeply into her, just as she had demanded. She cried out and arched up against him, taking him higher. He thrust again, harder. She wrapped her legs around his waist. The steps were slippery. Her hair was trailing in the water, her breasts thrust upwards by her arched back. He had never seen such an arousing image. He thrust again. Julia moaned and tightened around him. ‘Harder,’ she urged, but by then Azhar needed no urging, losing himself inside her, feasting his eyes on her, the combination of heat and wet skin and lapping water and the scent of her, and that cry she gave as she came again, tightening around him, sending him over the edge so quickly that he barely had time to pull himself from her, could do nothing but cling to her helplessly as he came, feeling as if he was being torn asunder.

  * * *

  Afterwards, they sat on cushions in the doorway of the tent watching the stars, a blanket draped loosely over them. There was food, but neither of them had eaten much. Nor did they have much to say, speaking with their eyes and their hands. The desert stretched out below them, darker and more mysterious now that night had fully descended, the moon partially obscured by a cloud. The air had that distinctive salty taste to it that on some days cast a dew, prompting the most rare of desert flowers to push their petals through the sands’ surface and bask in the sun for a few precious hours.

  As she and Azhar had done, basking in the sun for an all-too-fleeting period. ‘Salt and sand,’ Julia mused. ‘In Cornwall, the sand is every bit as golden as it is here, and the air is every bit as salty, and yet the effect is quite different.’

  ‘You prefer the Cornish version, naturally,’ Azhar teased. ‘Cornwall is the most beautiful county in England, after all.’

  ‘Did I say that? It’s true enough, but Qaryma is the most beautiful kingdom in Arabia.’

  ‘You have not seen them all.’

  ‘I don’t need to,’ Julia replied. ‘This is the most beautiful kingdom, and you are the most beautiful man.’

  ‘You cannot call a man beautiful.’

  ‘I am an artist, you told me so yourself, which means I have an eye for beauty, and I have always thought you beautiful Azhar, from the very first moment I saw you. Of course, I also thought you arrogant and selfish and just a little bit intimidating...’

  Azhar laughed. ‘I have never once managed to intimidate you.’

  ‘Not for the lack of trying, on occasion.’

  ‘I should have known better.’

  ‘You do now,’ Julia said. She was suddenly close to tears. She would miss this closeness they shared more than anything. Determined not to spoil things, knowing that any further declarations of love would sound horribly needy, she decided instead to show him. Pushing back the blanket, she kissed him, easing him on to his back. Her lips clung to his, silently telling him over and over how much she loved him, how very much she loved him. She kissed his mouth and his eyes and his cheeks and his throat. She kissed his chest, sucking gently on his nipples. She kissed around the curve of his ribs, and she kissed the dip in his belly.

  Her kisses had made him hard again. She touched the silken skin of his erection, circling her thumb over the tip. Azhar exhaled sharply. She put her lips where her thumb had been and kissed him. He let out a groan.

  She did it again, and was rewarded with another groan. Dare she? It was one of the most delightful things he did to her. Would he feel the same? She wrapped her hand around him. One slow stroke, and then a kiss. He throbbed in her hand. She did that again. No doubting that he liked it. And so did she. She wanted to do this, she wanted to give him what he had given her, and her desire emboldened her.

  ‘For you, Azhar,’ she said, positioning herself between his legs.

  ‘Julia, you do not have to...’

  ‘But I want to,’ she said, bending her head and taking him into her mouth.

  * * *

  They did not sleep. They sat entwined in the tent watching dawn break with its usual spectacle. The stars faded, the night sky lightened to soft grey, and the sun appeared, rising swiftly on the horizon, streaking the sky with orange and pink, before it settled, a pale yellow glow in a pale blue sky, and it was over.

  And so too was their desert idyll.

  ‘I have to go,’ Azhar said.

  ‘Yes.’ She had not permitted herself to imagine this moment, and now it had arrived.

  ‘Aisha has the details of your travel arrangements.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would it be easier for you to leave before the coronation?’

  ‘No, I want to be there.’ To witness him bind himself to his kingdom. To ensure that she could never, at any point in the future, fool herself into thinking that there could be a future for them.

  She knew that a clean break would be best, but Julia could not resist throwing herself into his arms one last time and clinging to him, though she did manage to resist the urge to beg him to stay. Later, she would be grateful for this small mercy. ‘Kiss me,’ she said.

  He did, but carefully, as if he was afraid he would break her. Little did he know her heart was already broken. ‘I love you,’ Julia said, ‘and I will never forget you.’

  ‘Julia...’

  His voice cracked. She had barely any control left over hers, but she managed a smile. ‘Goodbye, Azhar.’

  He hesitated. Stepped towards her. Changed his mind. ‘Goodbye, Julia,’ he said. And then he left her, taking the exit that led down to the hamam baths.

  Julia stood frozen to the spot in her rumpled clothes staring out over the desert. It was over. Tomorrow, Azhar would wed his kingdom and she would set out for home.

  No, it was not over, she told herself sternly, for her life was just beginning. Even if it felt quite the opposite.

  * * *

  Azhar stood on the dais which had been set up in the middle of the Divan. Heavily
veiled, Julia watched from a position in a far corner where her presence would not cause offence. His tunic was made of simple white silk, but his cloak and headdress were cloth of gold. Diamonds weighted the cloak down. Diamonds glittered in the band which held his headdress in place, and there were diamonds and pearls in the slippers he wore too. He had always carried an air of authority, no matter what he wore, but today, Azhar was without doubt a king.

  ‘By anointing thy hands with this sacred oil, we give to thee, our King, the strength and the power to rule your kingdom, to wage just wars, and to defend our people from the unjust.’

  Julia, reading from the translation which Azhar had thoughtfully sent to her, watched as he held out his hands to the Chief Celebrant. Beside her, Aisha craned forward excitedly. The maidservant had explained every step of the ceremony yesterday as she helped her to pack up her things. Julia knew that the oil was made of frankincense, the resin taken from the trees which grew in the far south of Arabia, many thousands of miles from Qaryma. The distinctive scent mingled with the heady perfume of the rose petals strewn at Azhar’s feet.

  Like every other subject in the kingdom—with the notable exception, presumably, of Kamal—Aisha saw this day as a cause for jubilation. What Azhar thought, Julia was finding it difficult to discern. She knew he would embrace his role as King, she knew he would give everything of himself, but what did he feel? What was he feeling right now? Where had his resentment gone, and his anger at being forced into this role he so desperately didn’t want? What had he done with his pride in his own trading business, and his love of travel? Was it possible to bottle all of that up and throw it away?

  ‘By anointing thy head,’ the Chief Celebrant intoned, ‘we give to thee, our King, the wisdom to govern justly, to rule absolutely and infallibly.’

  As Azhar bent his head obediently, Julia had the horrible sensation that the words of the ceremony to mark the beginning of his reign also served to mark the end of something precious. The oil dribbling from the ornately chased, heavily jewelled spoon would be viscous on his skin. Was he aware of her presence in this crowded room? Was he thinking of her? Had he slept since he left her on the rooftop yesterday morning?

  She had not. He did not look as if he had. The glow of their lovemaking had been replaced by a sallow tinge to his skin, dark shadows under his eyes. She wanted to go to him, to take him in her arms, to soothe away his cares. It was an agony to be able to do none of these preposterous things, and the very fact that she was thinking them made enduring this occasion to the very end a very necessary agony. Common sense and logic were weak defences against irrational love, Julia was discovering

  ‘By anointing thy heart, we give to thee, our King, the enduring and unquestioning love of our people. In the name of your revered father, King Farid, so suddenly stolen from his magnificent life, we do name you, Sheikh al-Farid, his most revered and most high successor, King Azhar of Qaryma.’

  King Azhar of Qaryma. He would never be her Azhar. He had never been her Azhar, Julia reminded herself sternly. But she wished he could have been. Stupid, stupid Julia, but still she wished he could have been.

  The Chief Celebrant handed Azhar the glittering ceremonial sword of Qaryma clad in its diamond-encrusted sheath. The huge emerald glittering in the hilt was reputed to have been discovered in a tomb thousands of years old, Aisha had told her. The first row of men in the audience, the most powerful in this kingdom and the members of Azhar’s Council, stood to play their allotted roles in the ceremony. Kamal, Julia noted, looked sullen and sulky, but nevertheless played his part dutifully. ‘Receive this kingly sword, our King, from our unworthy hands, and with this sword do justice, stamp out iniquity, and protect and defend your people.’

  The final words were spoken by all, echoing around the high walls of the throne room. ‘With this sword, our King, we most humbly beg that you restore the things that are gone to decay, punish and reform what is amiss, and confirm what is in good order.’

  The heavy ring of office was placed before Azhar on a velvet cushion as the sun crossed the dome above the throne. Golden rays bounced onto the crescent suspended over Azhar’s head, and onto the walls and pillars of the Divan. Azhar was enveloped in a golden glow, the sunlight setting his cloak ablaze, making him look like a golden deity.

  He pulled the sword from its sheath and raised it above his head. ‘I am Azhar, King of Qaryma,’ he declared. ‘I am the source of all power, all wisdom, all happiness. I am the infallible one. I make the laws and I enact the laws. None can question me. None can harm me. I am Azhar, King of Qaryma. Beloved and revered.’

  The familiar words brought a lump to Julia’s throat. She had no option but to accept that it truly was over. He was Azhar, King of Qaryma, and she was Julia Trevelyan, botanist cum artist from Cornwall with some outstanding deathbed promises to fulfil. Soon they would be separated by thousands of miles. The distance made no difference. The vows Azhar made had already torn them asunder. Azhar, King of Qaryma, stood alone at the pinnacle of power, quite out of her reach.

  For ever.

  * * *

  Julia said no farewells. Her journey from the palace through the deserted streets of Al-Qaryma was very different from the one she had made just a few weeks before. The streets were carpeted with the rose petals which had been thrown at the feet of the new King’s cavalcade as he paraded through the city, while she made her final preparations to leave. It looked as if everyone in Al-Qaryma was at the palace joining in the celebrations. All was silent apart from the jangle of the bells on the reins of her own much more modest cavalcade.

  She was escorted by a guard to her first overnight stop, the name of the oasis unfamiliar to her. There, she would meet her new dragoman and the men who would escort her all the way to Cairo. Azhar had obtained all the relevant papers for her. He had arranged for the caravan of camels and mules, a fresh supply of gold, and he had armed her guard. He had refused to accept her bank notes, asking instead that she carry his letters to his agent in Cairo. The letters would put an end to his trading business. Ten years of work, ten years of Azhar’s determination and dedication, of his ambition and his flair, to be ended by a packet of letters. Julia patted the package, tied in a leather purse around her waist, along with Daniel’s watch. Now that it was no longer ticking away her time in Qaryma, she found the watch reassuring. It reminded her of Daniel, but it also reminded her of Azhar, who had gone to such trouble to get it back for her.

  The two landscapes she had painted of Cornwall, she had left for Azhar in her rooms, along with one of the paintings she had made of the secret garden in the Fourth Court. She hoped he would not find them a painful reminder. She hoped he would look at them and think of her. She hoped, she was ashamed to admit, that he would miss her.

  The camels left the city streets and turned towards the desert. Tonight she would sleep under the stars once more. She would take solace in their beauty. She would not look back in sorrow to the desert Prince she had left behind, she would look forward in anticipation to the life she would make for herself. She would not regret her time here in Qaryma because she was done with looking back. There could have been no more perfect idyll.

  But it was over. She allowed herself one final glance over her shoulder. The heat haze made the city shimmer like a mirage. And like all mirages, it was not real. It really was over.

  Chapter Twelve

  Qaryma—two months later

  ‘And so, as I’ve just explained, this is where the source of the problem is located,’ Kamal said, pointing at a map of the entire region. ‘The centre of the illegal trade network lies here.’ He circled an area of the map with his finger. ‘I have come up with several strategies for dismantling this web of corruption.’

  Azhar listened with half an ear as his brother began to expound each of his proposals in detail. After a most reluctant beginning, Kamal was thriving in his new role with all the zeal of a convert. The qualities which had made him an accomplished thief served to make him an
equally accomplished thief-hunter. His devious mind was proving the scourge of the vagabonds he had once consorted with.

  As a result, their relationship was on a slightly better footing. They would never be close, that was impossible after all he had done. Kamal’s ambition and sense of entitlement would always leave him vulnerable to corruption, his weak character would always cloud his judgement. Azhar was not fooled into thinking his brother was either reformed or redeemed. He would never trust him, but he could respect the work he was doing and the difference he was making.

  And he did envy his brother’s new zest for life, his sense of purpose. For Kamal—at the moment at least—every day brought a new challenge to be embraced. Azhar’s life did not lack challenges, but Julia seemed to have taken his sense of purpose with her. As time passed, the pain of her leaving did not lessen. On the contrary, he missed her more now than yesterday, and more yesterday than...

  ‘What do you think? My own view is that we should go with the first option.’

  Azhar stared at Kamal blankly. Another thing that was happening more and more recently. Julia had always helped him see more clearly, helped focus his mind. But Julia was not here. ‘The first option,’ he hazarded. ‘Remind me again of the advantages.’

  Kamal rolled his eyes, but obliged. This time Azhar managed to keep his mind on the matter, and to agree with his brother’s proposal. ‘Thank you. Does this mean you will be leaving us again soon?’

  Kamal nodded. ‘I set off tomorrow. I must confess, I am very much enjoying the freedom this role gives me to see the world outside Qaryma. I can understand a little of your wanderlust, Brother. You must miss it.’

  The barb was deliberate and it was well aimed, but Azhar was accustomed to such sallies. ‘I have more than enough to occupy me within our own borders, thank you very much.’