Historical Romance: April Books 1 - 4. Marguerite Kaye

most dangerous horse race. His secret weapon is an English horse-whisperer...whom he does not expect to be an irresistibly attractive woman!

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      The Harlot and the Sheikh

      Daredevil Christopher Fordyce has always craved adventure. When his travels lead him to the kingdom of Nessarah he makes his most exciting discovery yet—a desert princess!

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      Claiming His Desert Princess

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       Author Note

      First of all thank you to Tahira, whom I met at a Mills & Boon ‘New Voices’ workshop. I thought she had a fabulous name—fit for a desert princess. She very kindly permitted me to use it. I hope she likes her namesake and thinks I’ve done her justice.

      More thanks for a name suggestion are due—this time to Mairibeth MacMillan, writer, friend and coffee mate, who named Tahira’s sand cat Sayeed (Hunter). Sayeed owes his slightly vicious predilections to two of my previous pet cats, both of whom were feral by nature, and loved by me and no one else!

      My final thanks go to a fictional character, Lord Henry Armstrong—is it permissible to thank your own creation? He made his first appearance in Innocent in the Sheikh’s Harem, as a conniving and ruthless diplomat with a bevy of daughters he was determined to marry off. That book spawned the Armstrong Sisters series, and at the conclusion of the last story, Unwed and Unrepentant, I thought I was done with him and he with me. But, like the proverbial bad penny, he just kept turning up unexpectedly. Thank you, Henry, I’ve loved delving into your secret and dark past in this book, you cad, you!

      This book rounds off the Hot Arabian Nights quartet. I hope that it finishes the series on a high, and that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

      MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published almost thirty books and novellas. When she’s not writing she enjoys walking, cycling (but only on the level), gardening (but only what she can eat) and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis (though not at the same time). Find out more on her website: margueritekaye.com.

       Chapter One

      Kingdom of Nessarah, Arabia—July 1815

      The moon was little more than a scimitar-shaped crescent in the night sky as Christopher moved stealthily towards the summit of the rocky outcrop which would provide him with the perfect vantage point. The heavens were strewn with hazy stars tonight, a scattering of dusty diamonds rather than the usual pincushion of bright-silver discs. Though he was pretty certain that the site he had come to reconnoitre was deserted, he had taken the precaution of leaving his hobbled camel at the nearest well, located over a mile away. The soft sand had given way to gravelly rubble underfoot. Patches of sparse scrub had forced their way through the hard-packed mud. Dusty and bereft of any greenery, their thick thorns snatched at his cloak as he crept forward, his soft-soled boots making no sound.

      The rock formation which was the focus of his interest rose out of the gentle swell of the ground like the battlements of an ancient keep. In this light it looked russet red in colour, the vertical striations glittering. A clearly identifiable track had been hacked through the scrub leading towards a cleft in the rock. Stooping to examine the ground, Christopher could make out the indentations created by heavy cart wheels rumbling across the terrain. He was definitely in the right place.

      His heart began to race with anticipation, but he mustn’t get ahead of himself. The whispered conversations he had overheard, the careful questioning of local contacts, his own research, might yet prove unfounded. The familiar tightening in his gut, the flicker of excitement which always accompanied such discoveries, was on this occasion leavened with a healthy dose of desperation. Never in his entire career had so much been riding on a mineral find.

      A single black cloud traversed the moon, casting a shadow over the rugged desert landscape laid out before him. For six months he had been scouring southern Arabia in search of the perfect confluence of natural resources without once finding this, the most elusive of them all. He had now exhausted his list of potential locations. Nessarah was pretty much his last throw of the dice.

      ‘But this time, I know I’m in the right place,’ Christopher muttered resolutely to himself. The answer had to be here. He had grown weary of this self-imposed quest, longing for it to be over. He could not contemplate failure.

      ‘And so I must succeed.’ His hand felt automatically for the pouch containing the amulet. He did not need to remove it to trace the shape cast from beaten gold, the smooth enamel interior, the setting of each individual precious stone, and the oddly-shaped gap which might hold the key to the origin of the piece. He carried it with him everywhere, a tangible reminder of all he had lost, not least his own identity.

      His entire life had been shown to be a sham built on false foundations on that fateful day shortly after the funeral when he had discovered the relic, along with the document which explained its presence. He had barely been able to comprehend the contents at the time. Even now, six long months into his search, nine months after that life-changing meeting which had taken place in London, he felt sick to the pit of his stomach when contemplating the ramifications.

      And so he did not allow himself to think of them. His fingers tightened around the amulet, a priceless, ancient artefact, a potent symbol of the lie he had unwittingly been living, the bribe which had been paid to ensure the hateful, sordid truth of his past remained buried. He wished he had never discovered it, but having done so, he could do nothing until he had rid himself of it, returning it to its historical home. Only then could he put an end to this shattering chapter in his life, wipe the slate of his own history clean, make a fresh start and new man of himself.

      But he was not there yet. First he had to prove that this new mine could provide him with the vital connection which had so far eluded him. Force of habit made him check that the pouch containing the amulet was securely fastened, that his belt was also securely buckled, that the scimitar and the slim dagger which hung from it could be easily drawn, and that the smaller dagger was still strapped to his leg. A man never knew when drastic action might be required. A final scan of the area with his spyglass assuring him that he was quite alone, Christopher got to his feet and went in search of the mine entrance.

      * * *

      An hour later, Tahira tethered her camel to a gnarled acacia tree. The moon was faint, hardly ideal for exploring the site, but that did not matter greatly. This was her first visit, a reconnoitre to familiarise herself with the terrain, to have a cursory look for the tell-tale signs of ancient occupation—or the lack of it. She pulled off her headdress and cloak, folding them neatly under the acacia. Her tunic and trousers were tobacco-brown, the same colour as her riding boots, designed to allow her to easily blend into the shadows, though such caution would not be necessary tonight, for the excavations had only just begun, too early as yet to merit the posting of a guard.

      She had never before explored the site of a working mine, considering the risk of discovery too great, but she had never before needed to distract herself from such a dire situation at home. Her brother was determined to force her into obeying his will. She could not resist thumbing her nose at him by exploring this, his latest pet project, even though he would never know.

      Excitement made her heart flutter. There was nothing quite like it, being out here all alone in the desert. Nothing compared to that tingling sense of anticipation, wondering what hidden treasures she might uncover. She had always possessed a strong, vital sense of connection with the past that she never could explain to her sisters. They simply couldn’t understand the affinity, the way her blood stirred when she held an ancient artefact, or stood on a spot