Hot Arabian Nights. Marguerite Kaye

ate directly from the cooling cooking pot using their fingers. Julia, by now accustomed to the practice, and remembering to use only her right hand, ate with relish, not at all concerned at the lack of cutlery or the need to share.

      Her confession had given her an appetite. She couldn’t believe she had imparted all those intimate thoughts to this complete stranger. She had portrayed herself in a stark and very unflattering light. She was not at all proud of her feelings. She felt enormously guilty for even having them, never mind voicing them. Her resentment must have come over loud and clear, yet Azhar had not condemned her. On the contrary, he had seemed, from the little he had said, to be sympathetic to her stance.

      Besides, it had felt good, finally, to articulate a little of what she was feeling. Daniel had reserved all his passion for his book, forcing her to bottle hers up. She had no idea if she was even capable of expressing it, for after that first time, the only time she’d ever dared to initiate any sort of intimacy and had been rejected, she had been careful not to alarm her husband with anything more than a tepid response to his own infrequent overtures. It seemed to satisfy him. Certainly he had never seemed dissatisfied, which was the same thing, wasn’t it?

      Recalling the way her stomach had lurched when she had kissed Azhar’s hand, Julia wasn’t so sure. It had felt like some sort of alchemical reaction between her skin and Azhar’s. There had been a connection from his hand to her lips to her belly that set her blood tingling. And all she’d done was kiss his hand!

      To her eternal embarrassment and his. What had possessed her? She slanted a look at him as he threw the remnants of their frugal meal towards his Saluki, and there was her explanation. Azhar was simply one of the most stunningly attractive men she had ever encountered.

      One of the most intriguing too. He gave very little away. He was a rich trader. He was not married. He’d been away from this kingdom, his home, for ten years. That was the sum total of what she knew of him. The reason for his absence from home was definitely off the list of subjects he’d be willing to discuss however, and the last thing she wished to do was estrange him. Best if she stuck to more neutral topics.

      ‘Thank you very much,’ Julia said when he turned back to her, wiping his fingers on a large square of white lawn kerchief. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever eaten such a delicious hare.’

      She was rewarded with a smile. ‘Not even a fat English one?’

      ‘Not even an enormous Cornish one,’ Julia said, laughing. She leaned back to gaze up at the night sky. ‘We had a telescope at our—my father’s—home in Marazion Bay, but the stars in the desert sky feel so close one almost doesn’t need one. I have tried to paint it, but it’s impossible to replicate such beauty.’

      ‘You do not confine your art to botanical specimens, then?’

      ‘I’ve had little time to paint anything else but—no, not wholly. When all this is over, I can paint what I like. And perhaps also what other people like too, since I’ll have to find some way of earning my living.’

      Azhar frowned. ‘Your husband did not make provision for you?’

      ‘What little we had will be consumed by this trip and the production of his book. Daniel assumed I would return to live with my father.’

      ‘But you have other ideas?’

      ‘I love Papa, but I do not intend to substitute one master for another,’ Julia said wryly. ‘I do not mean to imply that he is unkind or uncaring. My father is, as Daniel was, a sort of—oh, a sort of benevolent autocrat. Kind, and caring, but utterly selfish. Papa and Daniel both assumed my time theirs, their wishes mine. It never occurred to either of them that I might have wishes of my own. You see, a benevolent autocrat.’

      ‘You have a peculiarly apt way of describing things.’

      ‘But you understand? Your own father...’

      ‘Is dead.’

      Once again, his expression was blank. He hadn’t moved, but she felt as if he had physically detached himself. It was an extremely effective method of closing down a subject, though it sent her curiosity soaring. Julia reminded herself of the need to keep him on her side. Silence stretched and became uncomfortable. She had to think of something to say. Anything.

      ‘Are you familiar with the botanical gardens in Cairo, Azhar?’

      A blank look was her answer.

      ‘They were first established during Napoleon’s occupation. A Monsieur Delile was the director then, a correspondent of my husband’s. Monsieur Delile wrote the botanical chapters of Travel in Lower and Upper Egypt, you know.’

      ‘No, I did not.’

      ‘And you do not care to know,’ she said, deflated. ‘You would rather be alone.’

      ‘No!’ Not only Julia, but the Saluki hound flinched at this harsh exclamation. Azhar grimaced. ‘Forgive me. This journey has been—I have been—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘Please. Stay a while. Tell me—tell me a little more of your own journey. Did you stop in Cairo on your way to Damascus? It is a city I know well. One of my residences is on the outskirts.’

      Julia eyed him warily. She was far more interested in what it was, precisely, about this journey that made him so—so edgy, yes that was it. But already, she knew him well enough not to pursue the subject. ‘You have more than one residence, then? I assume that trade—whatever you trade in—is lucrative?’

      ‘Silks and spices, mostly. I work hard but yes, it is lucrative. Though I travel a good deal, and have other residences in Damascus and Naples, I spend several months of the year in Egypt. I am well acquainted with Colonel Missett, your Consul-General, though apparently he is shortly to be replaced by a new man, Salt.’

      ‘I didn’t know that. Do you by any chance mean a Mr Henry Salt? It is such an unusual name, I wonder if it might be the same person.’

      Azhar raised his brow. ‘You know him?’

      ‘A little. I have read his Voyage to Abyssinia, naturally.’

      ‘Naturally?’

      Julia grimaced. ‘Naturally, because Mr Salt is—was—another of my husband’s correspondents.’

      ‘In fact, I too have read Mr Salt’s account of his voyage to Abyssinia. It is a country with which I trade. I found his insights—interesting.’

      ‘You mean they were in opposition to your own?’

      ‘Our experiences of the country were very different.’

      ‘You mean because your interest in the country is primarily commercial? From what I understand, a large part of Mr Salt’s mission there was to promote trade too. Will you be cultivating his acquaintance in Cairo? Though I believe it is the Pasha who holds the real power there. Are you...?’

      Azhar laughed. ‘Yes, I am very well acquainted with him also. In my line of business it pays to be as well connected as possible. Permit me to tell you, madam—Julia—that you are a most singular female.’

      ‘I don’t know whether that is a compliment or an insult.’

      ‘A compliment,’ Azhar said, ‘most assuredly, a compliment.’

      In the firelight, his eyes seemed like molten gold. She knew she must be imagining the flicker of desire in them, it was the firelight reflected, but for a moment she allowed him to hold her gaze, to imagine what it would be like if he leaned over, closed the distance between them, touched his mouth to hers. Her stomach knotted, making her shiver.

      Then reality intervened. Recalling the way he’d snatched his hand away from her earlier, Julia scrabbled to her feet, breaking the spell which could only have been one-sided. ‘It is late, and I am very tired.’

      Azhar too got to his feet, with a feline grace she could never hope to emulate. ‘We will set out at dawn.’

      ‘What about