Hot Arabian Nights. Marguerite Kaye

turn to a fizz of excitement. His tunic had pale-blue-and-white stripes today, the boots which clad his long legs dark-blue leather. His cloak was plain white silk, billowing out in the gentle breeze around his muscular frame. His keffiyeh was also white silk, tied with a scarf of dark blue. He sat on the camel with that graceful ease, that unconscious air of command that Julia had noticed from their very first meeting. Azhar did not need a huge caravan to follow him, he did not require a posse of servants or even cloth of gold to proclaim his status. He looked every inch the sovereign.

      Despite the fact that his desert clothes covered all but his hands and the top half of his face, he still managed to look quite devastatingly attractive too. Beneath her veil, a smile tugged at Julia’s mouth. This man, this powerful, honourable, quite beautiful man, found her attractive. It astounded her, but she no longer doubted it, and the knowledge thrilled her, imbuing her with a confidence she had never possessed before. So far, this so-called journey of physical exploration of theirs had been focused entirely on her. She had been content—more than content—to allow Azhar to direct it, and to define each destination. Looking at him now, Julia decided to surprise him. She wanted to see him naked. She wanted to see him out of control. The small issue of her utter lack of expertise in such matters momentarily deflated her, but not for long. Instinct, she told herself, would take over, fed by passion. It was the most natural thing in the world, what occurred between a man and a woman. She simply had to let nature—her nature, previously dormant—run its course.

      * * *

      It took three hours to reach the village, by which time Julia’s mind was far from the night to come, with all its potential excitement, and focused only on keeping her numb bottom securely perched on the boxed saddle. Above them, the sky was now azure blue dotted with white clouds. A mountain range loomed on the far horizon, the jagged rock streaked pink and purple by the sun’s rays. The terrain had become progressively rougher over the last hour, the soft sand giving way to hard-packed mud and coarse gravel. The houses formed from adobe were built into the foothills, a cluster of domed roofs, arched windows and doorways which huddled together for protection. Three palm trees loomed high somewhere behind the houses, their green fronds vivid against the mud brown of the buildings, indicating that there must be an underground well nearby.

      They were expected. As Azhar dismounted, Julia was surprised to see a servant wearing the palace colours emerge from the shade to take the reins. She followed suit, managing with relative grace, and the servant took her reins too.

      ‘This is another of our diamond-mining villages,’ Azhar said, pushing back his headdress to reveal his face.

      ‘Where is everyone?’ Julia asked, puzzled. ‘Surely you don’t send women and children down the mines?’

      Azhar laughed, holding out his arm. ‘This way,’ he said.

      She followed him through an archway that she’d taken for a doorway, then stopped short with a gasp of surprise. The village was formed in the shape of a circle. In the centre were the palm trees and the small turquoise pool of the well. A huge silk canopy had been stretched across the space under the palm trees and anchored to the roofs of some of the houses, forming a vast open-sided tent, under which tables laden with food and drink were heaped. The villagers themselves were formed into two rows, men and women and children, in the classic pose of obeisance.

      Azhar stepped forward, making the traditional greeting and asking them all to rise. Still standing under the archway, Julia watched as the villagers did as he bid them with some alacrity, rushing forward to surround him in a babble of excited exclamations. She understood almost nothing of what was being said, but it was clear from the odd combination of deference and excitement that Azhar was no stranger to this village—or he had not been in the past. He was smiling, relaxed and at ease, showing none of the discomfort that had been apparent when faced with the huge show of adulation the first day they had arrived in Al-Qaryma, and again, on the first occasion they had visited Johara. Though now she thought about it, on the second visit to that oasis, Azhar had been as he was here, quickly discouraging the formal greetings and encouraging his people to approach him.

      His people. They clearly were his people, whether he wanted to admit it or not, and he was every inch the ruler of those people too, whether or not he wanted to admit that either. Such obvious affection and respect did not stem from what was due but what had been earned.

      Unsure of her reception, unwilling to detract attention from Azhar, and embarrassed once more by her limited Arabic, Julia would have happily remained in the background, but he seemed to have other ideas, indicating that she join him. Though her veil was firmly in place, her bright plait of hair and pale skin betrayed her foreign origins. She kept her eyes down, feeling absurdly shy, raising them only when a little ripple of applause broke out in response to Azhar’s introduction.

      ‘I told them that you are a famous English botanist, come to study our plants and to tell the world of the beauty of our desert,’ Azhar told her. ‘This is Fatima, a friend of Johara and also a noted herbalist,’ he added, introducing the older woman. ‘She says she has some plants which may interest you. Do you wish me to come with you, to translate?’

      ‘No, no,’ Julia replied hastily, ‘I would not deprive all these people who are clearly eager for your company after so long.’

      ‘This was a favourite place of mine, back in the—when I was—before. One of our best swordsman is a native of this village. He is the Chief of the Guards at the palace, and taught me how to fight with a dagger as well as a scimitar. Fatima is his sister. Go with her, I can see she is eager to impart her knowledge,’ Azhar said, translating his words into his own language for the sake of the other woman, and receiving a beaming nod in return.

      * * *

      She was gone a full hour, and could have spent another three in Fatima’s company. Compared to the other oases Julia had visited, this village was arid, so the small selection of hardy species which clung to life here was quite different from anything she had so far collected and documented. She took no samples, for the numbers of plants were sparse and she had no wish to disturb this fragile habitat, but her pencils flew over the paper as she took likeness after likeness, managing at the same time to extract sufficient information as to life cycles and usage with a combination of simple words and gestures.

      Returning to the canopied tent in the centre of the village, she wholly expected Azhar to be waiting impatiently for her to leave, but instead found him seated on a large cushion surrounded by a cluster of men and women, all of whom seemed to be talking at once. Mindful of her allotted role as objective observer, though she could not imagine what it was she would be expected to observe, Julia helped herself to a small plate of food and sat down on the periphery. The mood of the villagers seemed to be indignant. There was much shaking of heads and vehement denials of something. Whatever Azhar was saying, the villagers didn’t like it, to the extent where their indignation threatened to overcome their innate respect for their Prince. One man actually jumped to his feet, gesticulating wildly. Another said something that sounded inflammatory. The response was a shocked and suspenseful silence as they waited for Azhar to respond. As the silence stretched so long as to make the tension palpable, the man shuffled his feet, colour darkening his face, but when Azhar finally spoke his tone was mild, bidding the man to sit back down, and to explain the source of his anger, as far as Julia could understand.

      A small hand tugging at her cloak distracted her. She looked up to find not one but three children staring at her, and smiled. They needed no further encouragement, dropping on to the carpets which had been spread over the dusty ground, staring up with wide-eyed fascination at this unfamiliar and exotic stranger. On impulse, Julia opened her notebook at a fresh page and began to sketch. The simple line drawing of a camel was a resounding success. She tore out the page to be passed around and then drew a horse, which was met with the same reception. Morwenna, her father’s fat cat smiling malevolently at a mouse drew gales of laughter, encouraging Julia to abandon reality for the creatures who inhabited the Cornish tales she had loved as a child: a fantastical sea creature rearing out of the waves; a mermaid on a rock combing her fingers through her seaweed hair; and a wispy, wraith-like siren rising from the marshes. The smallest children fought to sit on her lap as she drew, watching entranced as her pencil flew