Hot Arabian Nights. Marguerite Kaye

Indeed, she herself was getting rather hot under the collar, looking at him and thinking such unaccustomed thoughts.

      It must be the desert, the sweltering heat and the savage beauty of it wielding its exotic magic. Watching Azhar as he collected various items from the mule packs, Julia felt they could be the only people here on earth under this vast canopy of stars, so far away from Cornwall, so different from the life she had known in every possible way. She could be anyone or no one. She could think wild, strange thoughts, she could even choose to act on them, and no one would ever know.

      Not that she would dare. She’d felt this way once before, she remembered, in South America. Daniel had been shocked to the core when she’d kissed him passionately, had been appalled at the idea of making love under the stars, even though they were married and quite alone. As Azhar approached, the memory made her blush with mortification, eradicating any traces of her other, fanciful thoughts.

      ‘So you have decided to join me after all,’ he said.

      Julia forced a bright smile. ‘If there is enough food to share, then yes please.’

      ‘Can you light a fire? The food I have foraged won’t cook itself.’

      Her smile slipped. It was true, she should have been tending to practical matters instead of daydreaming, but she would rather not have that fact pointed out. ‘I can light a fire,’ Julia said tightly. ‘I can skin that rabbit you have there, and I can even cook it. Give me it.’

      The request unintentionally sounded more like a demand. Azhar’s expression became haughty. How did he do that? A raising of the brows. A flinty glint in his eyes. The way his mouth set. ‘It is not a rabbit, it’s a hare.’

      And, yes, once more he was correct. ‘If it is, it’s a very small hare,’ Julia declared. ‘In England they are twice that size.’

      He took a dagger from his belt and set about expertly skinning their dinner. ‘We are in Arabia, not England. This hare is a product of its harsh desert environment.’

      His hawk, perched motionless on the camel seat, watched with what Julia was convinced was a hopeful look in its beady eyes. ‘You know, I am not one of those arrogant people who travel the world in an effort to prove that England is a superior nation to all others, if that is what you are thinking.’

      Azhar smiled faintly—very faintly—but it was a smile none the less. Julia considered that progress. ‘I have never been to England,’ he said, ‘which I understand is green and verdant, so I am willing to believe that the hares are bigger than they are here in the desert. Now, will you light the fire, if you please? I would prefer to eat some time before dawn.’

      She set the fire quickly, coaxing it to life with what she hoped was a satisfying display of expertise, conscious all the time of Azhar’s eyes on her. It was most unsettling. ‘There, you see I am quite capable.’

      ‘Indeed.’ The hare lay neatly jointed in the cooking pot. The hawk and the hound were picking delicately through their share of the trimmings. From the folds of his tunic, he produced a handful of fragrant wild herbs. Pouring water over the hare to make a simple stew, he set the pot on the fire.

      ‘You know, it is not my fault that the men I hired proved to be scoundrels,’ Julia said, for his ‘indeed’ had rankled. Was it her fault? she wondered. Would Daniel have chosen better, more reliable guides? Certainly, if he was here he would not hesitate to make such a claim. No, what Daniel would do, was find a way to make it her fault. She recalled now, that he had blamed her for the loss of their barge. She had distracted him at a vital moment, he had said as they lay sodden, shivering, on the muddy bank of the river. Simply relieved to be alive, Julia hadn’t argued with him at the time, and later—oh, later, she had done as she always did, and tried to banish the memory. She’d thought she had succeeded, too. Odd, how so many of these incidents had popped into her head lately. Which reminded her of something else.

      ‘Azhar, may I ask you a question which has been baffling me? Why do you think Hanif waited so long to rob me?’

      What do you mean?’

      ‘I’ve been travelling in the desert for over a month. Why wait until now, when they could just as easily have drugged me on the first night, or within the first week.’

      ‘A month!’ Azhar’s eyes flashed fury. ‘That suggests that they deliberately waited until you had crossed over the border from Petrisa.’

      ‘Why would they do that?’

      His mouth thinned. ‘The only reason I can think of is that they considered it safer to act here. Which would imply that the enforcement of law and order is much more lax in Qaryma,’ he said grimly. ‘If that is true, then things have changed radically.’

      ‘Changed? It has been some time since you have been here, then?’

      ‘Ten years,’ Azhar said. ‘I have not been home for ten years.’

      * * *

      ‘Home? Qaryma is your home?’

      Julia Trevelyan was looking at him inquisitively. Azhar cursed inwardly. He had no idea how the word had slipped out. He had houses, but he had no home. ‘Was, not is,’ he said. ‘Explain to me if you will, what is it that has occupied you for so many weeks here in the desert?’

      The words sounded more like a command than a request, but they had the required effect. Though she hesitated for a moment, Julia accepted the deliberate change of subject. ‘Specimens,’ she said. ‘I’ve been collecting plant specimens. I’m a botanist.’

      He was surprised into a snort of laughter. ‘Plants! You are here to collect plants?’

      ‘Not so much plants as roots and seeds,’ Julia Trevelyan replied haughtily. ‘And what I mostly collect are drawings and notes, of the plants themselves, their habitat, companion plants, that sort of thing.’

      ‘You are an artist, Madam Trevelyan?’

      ‘Julia. If you are Azhar, then I ought to be Julia. I have some draughtsmanship skills.’

      ‘And your drawings, where are they?’ he asked, though he had guessed the answer.

      ‘Gone,’ she confirmed. ‘Along with my paints and my notebooks and all my specimens. They were in a special trunk. It had lots of little drawers, and—and trays and—and the like.’

      She was frowning heavily, clutching her fingers tightly together. Her determination not to cry was much more affecting than the sight of tears. ‘It is this trunk you wished so desperately to recover, even more than your husband’s watch?’ Azhar asked, recalling with regret the harsh dose of reality he had administered earlier.

      Julia nodded and forced a shaky smile. ‘As you so emphatically pointed out, they will be long gone. I am hoping—that is I would very much appreciate if, when we arrive in Al-Qaryma, you might help me procure another guide.’ Another smile. ‘With your assistance, I’m sure I’ll find someone more trustworthy than Hanif.’

      Now she truly had astonished him. Another woman—even another man—would have been too affected by their recent experience to wish to do anything other than to count their blessings and return to the safety of their home. ‘You cannot wish to remain in the desert after what has happened?’

      ‘It is my only wish. I have to start again. Please, Azhar,’ she said, gazing at him across the fire, her big green eyes wide, her expression earnest, ‘please say you’ll help me.’

      ‘What did you intend to do with the specimens you collected? Sell them? As an international trader, I am aware there is a lucrative market for exotic plants, especially in light of the recent fashion for establishing botanical gardens.’

      ‘Yes, yes, my husband and I have supplied plants to several such gardens with specimens garnered on our trips to South America, though Daniel, ever the purist, refused to sully his scientific research with commercial gain and so would not accept payment for them. I personally would have been more than happy, given