Hot Arabian Nights. Marguerite Kaye

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 clothing, 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.’