Hot Arabian Nights. Marguerite Kaye

with a plain brown scarf. Beneath it, his skin was tanned almost mahogany, his fair brows bleached by the sun.

      The first impression Julia had of Christopher Fordyce however, was by no means either brown or nondescript. Like Azhar, this tall, lithe figure had a presence, an indefinable air of command. Like Azhar, his features were almost perfect, and like Azhar he had a patrician air about him. Even more like Azhar, it was his eyes which drew her attention, though the Englishman’s were a deep and brilliant blue, almost exactly the colour of cornflowers. She would never have forgotten this man if she had met him before. Whatever his business here in Qaryma, it was nothing to do with her. He looked nothing like any servant of the British crown she had ever encountered on her travels.

      ‘Mr Fordyce,’ Azhar said, holding out his hand in the English manner. ‘How do you do. Allow me to present Madam Julia Trevelyan, an eminent English botanist, who has been studying our native flora.’

      ‘How do you do, madam?’ Christopher Fordyce made his bow to her curtsy. ‘How very extraordinary, to meet an Englishwoman so far east in the desert.’

      The emotion he expressed was not reflected in either his expression or his tone. Mr Fordyce wasn’t in the least bit surprised nor very interested to find one of his countrywomen here, dressed as he was, in native clothing. Which made Julia extremely curious indeed.

      Turning towards Azhar, she saw her feelings reflected in his eyes, if not his face. ‘I am told you have been trespassing on my lands,’ he said.

      ‘Yes.’

      Azhar’s brows quirked. ‘May I enquire why?’

      ‘I am embarked on what one might call a personal quest.’

      Azhar sighed. ‘Is it incumbent on everyone in England to have a quest? A royal decree perhaps?’

      Julia stifled a giggle, though Mr Fordyce looked puzzled. ‘My quest has nothing to do with the British crown. As I said, it is of a personal nature.’

      ‘So personal that it precludes you obtaining the appropriate permissions to travel within our borders.’

      ‘Frankly, I find it the most effective method of obtaining an audience with someone in authority,’ the English man replied. ‘Much quicker than going through the palaver of getting official papers and jumping through any number of diplomatic hoops to get to the man at the top.’

      ‘A very risky strategy, if I may venture an opinion,’ Azhar said.

      Mr Fordyce smiled disarmingly. ‘But successful, on most occasions. Such as today. Shall we get down to business?’

      ‘Do we have business to—er—get down to?’

      ‘Indeed.’ Like a conjurer producing a rabbit from a hat, Christopher Fordyce produced a bracelet. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen this, or anything like it?’

      It was not a bracelet but an amulet, intricately worked and set with diamonds and enamel. ‘It looks very old,’ Julia ventured.

      ‘It is. Thousands of years old. And very valuable too. In fact it’s priceless.’

      ‘There is some damage. It looks as if a stone has been lost or removed.’

      ‘You are very observant, madam. I’m not sure what it is that is missing, but I am sure that whoever the true owner is will provide me with the answer.’

      ‘True owner?’ Azhar frowned, turning the delicate item over in his hands. ‘May I ask how you came by this, sir?’

      ‘Oh, quite legitimately, I assure you. It was left to me by my mother. As to how she came by it,’ Christopher Fordyce said, his expression darkening, ‘that is another matter entirely. I presume it is not part of Qaryma’s crown jewels, Prince Azhar?’

      ‘No, it is not.’

      ‘You are sure?’

      ‘Certain. We produce our own diamonds here in Qaryma. They have a very distinctive colour and clarity. The stones in this bracelet are quite different. Of magnificent quality but definitely not from here. This bracelet is certainly Arabian but I’m afraid your search for the rightful owner must continue.’

      ‘Then I will thank you for your time, assuming I’m no longer under arrest.’ Mr Fordyce hid the amulet in the folds of his tunic, turning to go with an insouciance that Julia couldn’t help but admire.

      Azhar, however, was less sanguine. ‘Wait! Where are you going now? You surely do not plan to wander Arabia, casually dropping in on each kingdom and asking if they happen to have lost any of the family jewels.’

      ‘More or less, though I have it narrowed its place of origin down to six likely candidates, and you’re now the third I’ve eliminated. The quality of the gold and the gems, together with the distinctive style of the enamelling act as a sort of signature. It’s astonishing that such exquisite workmanship was possible more than two millennia ago.’ Mr Fordyce smiled ruefully. ‘You must forgive my over-enthusiasm. ‘I’m a bit of an amateur archaeologist.’

      ‘I suspect you are more expert than you modestly claim, Mr Fordyce. And please do not apologise for your overenthusiasm. It seems to be another English trait. Only this morning I witnessed Madam Trevelyan here become excited by a patch of green slime. Where do you intend to go next? Perhaps I can help you with permissions?’

      ‘A kind offer but there is no need. I shall stick to my tried-and-tested method.’

      Azhar laughed and held out his hand. ‘Then I will wish you good luck.’

      ‘I don’t need luck. It is a mere process of elimination, but thank you. Good day, sir...madam.’

      ‘What an extraordinary man,’ Julia said, as the door closed behind the Englishman and the guard.

      ‘With extraordinarily bad timing,’ Azhar said. ‘I have plans for tonight.’

      ‘To be fair to him, he hardly overstayed his welcome. What plans?’

      Smiling, Azhar held out his hand. ‘Come with me, and I’ll reveal all.’

      * * *

      ‘What is this place? Where are you taking me?’ Julia clung to the rope which served as a banister on the spiral stair of the turret. She had lost count of the number of steps they had climbed at somewhere around eighty-something. In front of her, Azhar held the lantern high, but she still had to take great care not to miss her footing.

      ‘Only ten more steps,’ Azhar said. ‘There are one hundred and fifteen in total,’ he added, pre-empting her question.

      The door was curved to fit snugly into the turret wall. With some relief, Julia stepped through it, and found herself on the roof of the palace. ‘Azhar!’

      ‘What do you think?’

      She gazed around her in wonder. The roof was huge, almost like an outdoor room with a knee-high parapet for walls and the star-filled night sky above forming a celestial ceiling more beautiful than the most ornately decorated ceiling in the most opulent of rooms. A tent had been set up in the middle, but it was not at all a practical tent. It was the kind of tent a child would dream up, made of scarlet silk, decorated with gold tassels. Open on one side to face out to the desert, the interior was a decadent haven of silk and velvet, luxurious rugs, huge cushions and one even larger divan. A crystal chandelier hung from the centre, the candles casting flickering shadows. Flowers floated in huge glass bowls, throwing their exotic scent out into the night.

      And what a night. Leaning precariously out over the parapet, Julia saw the desert, soft undulating sands, peaked dunes, the distant high mountains. And above, casting the chandelier into shadow, the waxing buttery moon, the huge slivery discs of the stars. ‘Azhar,’ Julia said, ‘it is breathtakingly beautiful. But how on earth did you manage to get all of this up those narrow stairs?’

      He laughed. ‘There is another, much easier way to access this roof. Do you really wish me to spoil the effect with