Читать книгу Hot Arabian Nights - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 18

Chapter Eleven

‘But this is the rare moss Johara told me about,’ Julia exclaimed animatedly, ‘I am sure of it, the one which she says has special healing qualities. How on earth did you know about it, far less where to find it?’

They had ridden out early from their encampment at the Little Zazim to this place which even Azhar had had some difficultly in locating. He smiled as Julia gazed at the thick reddish-brown slime which grew on the stones in the shallow pool with the delight that other women would reserve for jewellery. ‘You seemed excited about it after your last conversation with Johara, so I dispatched someone to find out more from her.’

‘I did not expect—you should not have gone to such trouble on my behalf, especially when you have so many more weighty matters to deal with.’

‘Julia, everyone else causes me nothing but trouble, you are the one person in my life who gives me nothing but pleasure,’ Azhar replied. ‘When you said this rather revolting slime was unique, I knew that it must be very special, and I wanted you to be able to include it in your book.’

‘Daniel’s book.’

He considered this for a moment. There had been a time, not so very long ago, when he had resented Daniel Trevelyan’s ghostly presence, when he could not have cared less about the content of the man’s botanical treatise. Not now. ‘For me, it will always be your book,’ Azhar said, ‘and as such, I want you to make it the best you can possibly make it.’

‘I couldn’t have finished it at all if I had not met you,’ Julia said.

‘Nonsense, you are the most determined woman I have ever met. You would have found a way. If I had not stumbled upon you that day, someone else would have come to your aid. The Zazim is a busy oasis.’

‘I am very, very glad that it was you who stumbled upon me, Azhar. More glad than you will ever know.’

There was a catch in her voice. There was something in her eyes that squeezed his heart. He knew she cared. He did not want to know how much. ‘Will you be comfortable here on your own for today?’ he asked.

He saw her expression reflect the slight brusqueness in his voice. He could see her pondering whether to accept the deliberate change of subject, or whether to pursue her train of thought. When she decided the former, he felt guilt as well as relief. ‘Of course I will,’ she said. ‘You know that I can easily lose myself in my sketching, and drawing this moss will tax my ability to its limits. Have you business elsewhere?’

The notion had come to him in the night. He wasn’t at all certain if it was a good idea, and until he knew that, he wasn’t prepared to share it, not even with Julia. ‘I will return in good time for us to ride back to Al-Qaryma before nightfall,’ Azhar said briskly.

Julia didn’t look intimidated, she looked hurt, but once again, unusually, she bit her tongue. He almost wished she would not. ‘That gives me plenty of time to get to work,’ she said brightly.

‘Julia.’

‘Yes?’

He paused. ‘Let me get your drawing materials from the saddlebags.’

* * *

She was settled with her sketchbook and pencil by the side of the small pool when Azhar left, though he was fairly sure she was not as engrossed as she contrived to look, and even more certain he could feel her gaze burning into his back as he headed into the desert. He knew she had come to care for him, and not only as a lover. Her anguish at his plight was obvious, far beyond that of a mere friend. She meant it when she said she wanted to spare him pain. She meant it when she had said, before they set out yesterday, that she would rather sacrifice their last few days together if doing so was best for him and his blasted kingdom. Julia cared. He knew that, of course he knew that, but knowing was one thing, hearing how much she cared—was it cowardly of him to have cut her short?

What was he afraid of? The answer was obvious, but it was not fear which kept him silent, even to himself, on the subject of his own feelings. Duty again, cursed duty. He had no right to feelings. When he married, as he must, he would have to be able to try to love his chosen wife with a clean conscience. He could not care for Julia. He would not allow himself to care for Julia. And so he must not allow Julia to care for him.

So deep in his musings had Azhar been that he had not noticed how far he had travelled. No one knew when the first King had been buried in the Royal City of the Dead, for the epitaphs on the earliest tombs had been worn away by the desert winds. Unlike the mighty pyramids and the vast underground tombs filled with necessities for the afterlife now being excavated in Egypt, Qaryma’s royal dead were buried in simple sarcophagi hewn from the indigenous red rock, one large monument at the centre for the King, his family ranged around him, their final resting places meriting only small markers.

Azhar was familiar with the site, for he had visited his mother’s grave every year. The marker had sat in isolation on the outer edges of the sprawling city of tombs. Now, it was in the shadow of the newest, largest sarcophagus. In death as in life, he thought wryly. Faced with this incontrovertible evidence of his father’s death, sorrow took a wrenching hold of him, squeezing the breath from him. Dropping to his knees and bowing his head, Azhar tried to fight the tears. Kings did not cry.

He read the simple inscription. Kings did not cry, but he was not yet a king. Leaning his head against the warm red rock of his father’s tomb, Azhar wept.

His tears did not persist for long but they cleansed him, and they brought his father closer to him here, in the City of the Dead, than he had ever been in life. ‘I wish that we could have made our peace while you still breathed, but I hope you are listening now,’ Azhar said in a low voice, still husky from emotion, his head bowed as he stood by the tomb. ‘I am sorry for the long silence that existed between us, but it would be to fly in the face of nature to expect anything else from either of us. You called my bluff. I called yours. In that way I am made in your image, Father, but in so many others, I have made myself. I will not be the man you were. I will be a better king. I will try to be a loving husband and father. I will grant my son the freedom you did not grant me. I will allow my son the true freedom to choose.’

The words were a vow. His own solemn oath, to which he would be true even before the oaths he would take at his coronation. Azhar touched the sarcophagus in farewell. He knelt before his mother’s marker and promised once more to make a better husband than his father had. And then he turned away, out of the Royal City of the Dead, to ride his camel back to Julia, knowing now that he would tell her where he had been and why, knowing now that it had been absolutely the right thing to do.

* * *

They returned to the palace in the late afternoon, to be met in the First Court by the Head of the Royal Guards.

‘I am informed that an Englishman crossed the border without official papers,’ Azhar told Julia. ‘The border guards intercepted him and brought him here. I can only assume that the British Consul in Damascus has become concerned by your lengthy absence and has despatched an official to search for you. Does the name Christopher Fordyce mean anything to you?’

‘I’ve never heard of him,’ Julia replied.

‘He is currently being detained in the Second Court, in the waiting room of the Divan, will you accompany me while I interview him?’

‘Of course. I cannot imagine that he can have any connection with me,’ Julia said, following him through the gate to the Second Court. ‘Though I admit it does seem an odd coincidence that Qaryma should have two English visitors in such a short space of time.’

‘We do not have that honour,’ Azhar said with a smile. ‘One of you is Cornish, remember.’

However, Christopher Fordyce appeared more Arabian than English or even Cornish. He looked to be in his late twenties, and was dressed for the desert in a simple cotton tunic and trousers which were either very dirty or had been dyed the colour of sand. Slung around his hips was a plain brown belt holding a sheathed scimitar and a long, thin dagger, also sheathed. His headdress was also pale cotton of some indeterminate colour tied 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 practicalities?’

She gazed up at him, quite entranced. ‘No.’

‘This will be our last night together. Tomorrow, on the eve of the coronation, there are many rituals I must endure, and after that...’

‘I will watch the ceremony and then I will leave with my escort,’ Julia said. ‘The arrangements you have made are faultless, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk them over again. As you say, this will be our last night...’

Her throat clogged with tears. She stared out over the desert defying them to fall. She would not cry. She had promised herself she would not cry. She did not want to mar the perfection of this last night.

‘Julia, have I upset you? Is it too much?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘on the contrary, it is not enough, but it is all we will ever have.’

Azhar flinched at the raw emotion in her voice. He had deduced that she cared too much, and was reluctant to acknowledge it, she knew that. This morning she had allowed him to prevent her speaking out, but she had been wrong to do so. So close to the beginning of her new life, she would not allow Azhar to smother her feelings.

She smiled up at him. She fluttered her fingers over his hair, his cheek, let her hand rest on his shoulder. She had thought it would take courage, but it was actually straightforward. ‘I love you,’ Julia said. ‘I love you with all my heart.’

He did not flinch this time, he froze.

‘I know you can’t love me or won’t love me or don’t love me, but I love you. I love you, Azhar, and if I allowed you to prevent me telling you that, I would have left Qaryma feeling I had been untrue to myself.’

‘Julia.’

He tried to pull her into his arms, but she resisted. ‘I know it doesn’t change a thing,’ she said gently. ‘Even if you did love me, I know that it would be impossible for us to make a life together. Your duty is to Qaryma. Your kingdom requires all of you. Aside from the fact that I would never be considered an acceptable wife, I don’t want to be a wife who will be second best. I don’t know what my life will be but it is mine, Azhar, as you said last night. I am not offering you my heart, but I want you to know that I carry you in it, and always will. So you see,’ she whispered, brushing his lips with hers, ‘you have nothing to fear from my love, and nothing to feel guilty about.’

He was silent for a long moment, staring out at the desert, the pulse beating in his throat the only indication of the strength of whatever emotion held him in its grip. ‘You are right,’ he said finally, slowly. ‘I cannot love you, Julia, I have not that right, but nor do I have the right to deny you your feelings. I am...’ He stopped to clear his throat, his hands clenching and unclenching. ‘I was about to say that I am honoured, but in fact I am humbled by your courage and your honesty. I can say without any doubt at all that I will never meet another woman like you.’

His crooked smile, his trembling voice, melted her heart. ‘And I can say without any doubt at all that I will never meet another man like you,’ Julia said. ‘I know you can’t love me, but you can make love to me, one last time.’

This time when he swept her into his arms she did not resist. ‘And that I will do, my brave desert rose,’ Azhar said, kissing her fervently.

* * *

Julia loved him. Julia, brave Julia, had told him that she loved him because she wanted him to know, and for no other reason. She loved him, and she was right, it changed nothing, though what she said could feel momentous if he allowed it to. His feelings for her ran far, far deeper than they should. He could not articulate them, but he could show her. He could do as she asked, and make love to her. He could be hers tonight, for all of tonight, and in the morning—he would deal with that when the sun rose.

‘Julia,’ he said, simply for the pleasure of saying her name. ‘Julia.’ She tasted so sweet, he could never tire of kissing her. Their mouths were formed perfectly for each other. The soft little sigh she made when he stroked the curve of her breast through her tunic stirred his blood.

The marble rooftop bath, no longer in regular use, had once been part of the hamam bath complex below. Julia’s face lit up with surprised pleasure when he led her round the side of the tent to show her it. He undressed her slowly, covering every new inch of skin with kisses as it was revealed. The hollow of her shoulder fascinated him. The valley between her breasts. The curve of her spine. The soft flesh of her belly and her thighs. In the moonlight, her skin gleamed like porcelain. Her eyes gleamed with desire for him. Though she waited, taking her cue from him tonight, he knew there would be a moment when her passion would be unleashed, and that moment would be his undoing.

Azhar quickly stripped himself of his clothes. She watched him, supremely confident now in her own nakedness, her eyes devouring him unashamedly. She fluttered her fingers over his skin, shoulder, chest, flank, before languidly stroking his manhood, making him shudder involuntarily. She smiled that slow, sensuous smile that never failed to make his pulse quicken.

He led her down the shallow steps which led into the huge bath. The water was warm, the bath deep enough for it to lap just above his knees. She twined her arms around him, pressing her breasts against his chest, and kissed him deeply. His erection pressed insistently between her legs.

He angled her against the side of the bath and dropped to his knees before her, easing her legs apart. The scent of her arousal made his senses spin. He tilted her towards him, his hands on her bottom, his favourite of her curves, and kissed her between the thighs. So wet and so sweet she tasted. Her hands clutched at his shoulders. Her breathing quickened, making her belly contract. He licked his way over her, around her, into her, relishing the way each touch of his tongue made her tighter, wetter, made him harder. He knew her intimately now, knew how to take her to the brink and keep her there, before sending her over the edge at a moment of his choosing. That moment had arrived.

She came fiercely. He pulled her into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist. Then Julia kissed him. Holding him tight inside her, Julia whispered in his ear, a guttural command that should have shocked him to the core, but instead elicited a much more primal reaction.

He set her down on the shallow steps and thrust deeply into her, just as she had demanded. She cried out and arched up against him, taking him higher. He thrust again, harder. She wrapped her legs around his waist. The steps were slippery. Her hair was trailing in the water, her breasts thrust upwards by her arched back. He had never seen such an arousing image. He thrust again. Julia moaned and tightened around him. ‘Harder,’ she urged, but by then Azhar needed no urging, losing himself inside her, feasting his eyes on her, the combination of heat and wet skin and lapping water and the scent of her, and that cry she gave as she came again, tightening around him, sending him over the edge so quickly that he barely had time to pull himself from her, could do nothing but cling to her helplessly as he came, feeling as if he was being torn asunder.

* * *

Afterwards, they sat on cushions in the doorway of the tent watching the stars, a blanket draped loosely over them. There was food, but neither of them had eaten much. Nor did they have much to say, speaking with their eyes and their hands. The desert stretched out below them, darker and more mysterious now that night had fully descended, the moon partially obscured by a cloud. The air had that distinctive salty taste to it that on some days cast a dew, prompting the most rare of desert flowers to push their petals through the sands’ surface and bask in the sun for a few precious hours.

As she and Azhar had done, basking in the sun for an all-too-fleeting period. ‘Salt and sand,’ Julia mused. ‘In Cornwall, the sand is every bit as golden as it is here, and the air is every bit as salty, and yet the effect is quite different.’

‘You prefer the Cornish version, naturally,’ Azhar teased. ‘Cornwall is the most beautiful county in England, after all.’

‘Did I say that? It’s true enough, but Qaryma is the most beautiful kingdom in Arabia.’

‘You have not seen them all.’

‘I don’t need to,’ Julia replied. ‘This is the most beautiful kingdom, and you are the most beautiful man.’

‘You cannot call a man beautiful.’

‘I am an artist, you told me so yourself, which means I have an eye for beauty, and I have always thought you beautiful Azhar, from the very first moment I saw you. Of course, I also thought you arrogant and selfish and just a little bit intimidating...’

Azhar laughed. ‘I have never once managed to intimidate you.’

‘Not for the lack of trying, on occasion.’

‘I should have known better.’

‘You do now,’ Julia said. She was suddenly close to tears. She would miss this closeness they shared more than anything. Determined not to spoil things, knowing that any further declarations of love would sound horribly needy, she decided instead to show him. Pushing back the blanket, she kissed him, easing him on to his back. Her lips clung to his, silently telling him over and over how much she loved him, how very much she loved him. She kissed his mouth and his eyes and his cheeks and his throat. She kissed his chest, sucking gently on his nipples. She kissed around the curve of his ribs, and she kissed the dip in his belly.

Her kisses had made him hard again. She touched the silken skin of his erection, circling her thumb over the tip. Azhar exhaled sharply. She put her lips where her thumb had been and kissed him. He let out a groan.

She did it again, and was rewarded with another groan. Dare she? It was one of the most delightful things he did to her. Would he feel the same? She wrapped her hand around him. One slow stroke, and then a kiss. He throbbed in her hand. She did that again. No doubting that he liked it. And so did she. She wanted to do this, she wanted to give him what he had given her, and her desire emboldened her.

‘For you, Azhar,’ she said, positioning herself between his legs.

‘Julia, you do not have to...’

‘But I want to,’ she said, bending her head and taking him into her mouth.

* * *

They did not sleep. They sat entwined in the tent watching dawn break with its usual spectacle. The stars faded, the night sky lightened to soft grey, and the sun appeared, rising swiftly on the horizon, streaking the sky with orange and pink, before it settled, a pale yellow glow in a pale blue sky, and it was over.

And so too was their desert idyll.

‘I have to go,’ Azhar said.

‘Yes.’ She had not permitted herself to imagine this moment, and now it had arrived.

‘Aisha has the details of your travel arrangements.’

‘Yes.’

‘Would it be easier for you to leave before the coronation?’

‘No, I want to be there.’ To witness him bind himself to his kingdom. To ensure that she could never, at any point in the future, fool herself into thinking that there could be a future for them.

She knew that a clean break would be best, but Julia could not resist throwing herself into his arms one last time and clinging to him, though she did manage to resist the urge to beg him to stay. Later, she would be grateful for this small mercy. ‘Kiss me,’ she said.

He did, but carefully, as if he was afraid he would break her. Little did he know her heart was already broken. ‘I love you,’ Julia said, ‘and I will never forget you.’

‘Julia...’

His voice cracked. She had barely any control left over hers, but she managed a smile. ‘Goodbye, Azhar.’

He hesitated. Stepped towards her. Changed his mind. ‘Goodbye, Julia,’ he said. And then he left her, taking the exit that led down to the hamam baths.

Julia stood frozen to the spot in her rumpled clothes staring out over the desert. It was over. Tomorrow, Azhar would wed his kingdom and she would set out for home.

No, it was not over, she told herself sternly, for her life was just beginning. Even if it felt quite the opposite.

* * *

Azhar stood on the dais which had been set up in the middle of the Divan. Heavily veiled, Julia watched from a position in a far corner where her presence would not cause offence. His tunic was made of simple white silk, but his cloak and headdress were cloth of gold. Diamonds weighted the cloak down. Diamonds glittered in the band which held his headdress in place, and there were diamonds and pearls in the slippers he wore too. He had always carried an air of authority, no matter what he wore, but today, Azhar was without doubt a king.

‘By anointing thy hands with this sacred oil, we give to thee, our King, the strength and the power to rule your kingdom, to wage just wars, and to defend our people from the unjust.’

Julia, reading from the translation which Azhar had thoughtfully sent to her, watched as he held out his hands to the Chief Celebrant. Beside her, Aisha craned forward excitedly. The maidservant had explained every step of the ceremony yesterday as she helped her to pack up her things. Julia knew that the oil was made of frankincense, the resin taken from the trees which grew in the far south of Arabia, many thousands of miles from Qaryma. The distinctive scent mingled with the heady perfume of the rose petals strewn at Azhar’s feet.

Like every other subject in the kingdom—with the notable exception, presumably, of Kamal—Aisha saw this day as a cause for jubilation. What Azhar thought, Julia was finding it difficult to discern. She knew he would embrace his role as King, she knew he would give everything of himself, but what did he feel? What was he feeling right now? Where had his resentment gone, and his anger at being forced into this role he so desperately didn’t want? What had he done with his pride in his own trading business, and his love of travel? Was it possible to bottle all of that up and throw it away?

‘By anointing thy head,’ the Chief Celebrant intoned, ‘we give to thee, our King, the wisdom to govern justly, to rule absolutely and infallibly.’

As Azhar bent his head obediently, Julia had the horrible sensation that the words of the ceremony to mark the beginning of his reign also served to mark the end of something precious. The oil dribbling from the ornately chased, heavily jewelled spoon would be viscous on his skin. Was he aware of her presence in this crowded room? Was he thinking of her? Had he slept since he left her on the rooftop yesterday morning?

She had not. He did not look as if he had. The glow of their lovemaking had been replaced by a sallow tinge to his skin, dark shadows under his eyes. She wanted to go to him, to take him in her arms, to soothe away his cares. It was an agony to be able to do none of these preposterous things, and the very fact that she was thinking them made enduring this occasion to the very end a very necessary agony. Common sense and logic were weak defences against irrational love, Julia was discovering

‘By anointing thy heart, we give to thee, our King, the enduring and unquestioning love of our people. In the name of your revered father, King Farid, so suddenly stolen from his magnificent life, we do name you, Sheikh al-Farid, his most revered and most high successor, King Azhar of Qaryma.’

King Azhar of Qaryma. He would never be her Azhar. He had never been her Azhar, Julia reminded herself sternly. But she wished he could have been. Stupid, stupid Julia, but still she wished he could have been.

The Chief Celebrant handed Azhar the glittering ceremonial sword of Qaryma clad in its diamond-encrusted sheath. The huge emerald glittering in the hilt was reputed to have been discovered in a tomb thousands of years old, Aisha had told her. The first row of men in the audience, the most powerful in this kingdom and the members of Azhar’s Council, stood to play their allotted roles in the ceremony. Kamal, Julia noted, looked sullen and sulky, but nevertheless played his part dutifully. ‘Receive this kingly sword, our King, from our unworthy hands, and with this sword do justice, stamp out iniquity, and protect and defend your people.’

The final words were spoken by all, echoing around the high walls of the throne room. ‘With this sword, our King, we most humbly beg that you restore the things that are gone to decay, punish and reform what is amiss, and confirm what is in good order.’

The heavy ring of office was placed before Azhar on a velvet cushion as the sun crossed the dome above the throne. Golden rays bounced onto the crescent suspended over Azhar’s head, and onto the walls and pillars of the Divan. Azhar was enveloped in a golden glow, the sunlight setting his cloak ablaze, making him look like a golden deity.

He pulled the sword from its sheath and raised it above his head. ‘I am Azhar, King of Qaryma,’ he declared. ‘I am the source of all power, all wisdom, all happiness. I am the infallible one. I make the laws and I enact the laws. None can question me. None can harm me. I am Azhar, King of Qaryma. Beloved and revered.’

The familiar words brought a lump to Julia’s throat. She had no option but to accept that it truly was over. He was Azhar, King of Qaryma, and she was Julia Trevelyan, botanist cum artist from Cornwall with some outstanding deathbed promises to fulfil. Soon they would be separated by thousands of miles. The distance made no difference. The vows Azhar made had already torn them asunder. Azhar, King of Qaryma, stood alone at the pinnacle of power, quite out of her reach.

For ever.

* * *

Julia said no farewells. Her journey from the palace through the deserted streets of Al-Qaryma was very different from the one she had made just a few weeks before. The streets were carpeted with the rose petals which had been thrown at the feet of the new King’s cavalcade as he paraded through the city, while she made her final preparations to leave. It looked as if everyone in Al-Qaryma was at the palace joining in the celebrations. All was silent apart from the jangle of the bells on the reins of her own much more modest cavalcade.

She was escorted by a guard to her first overnight stop, the name of the oasis unfamiliar to her. There, she would meet her new dragoman and the men who would escort her all the way to Cairo. Azhar had obtained all the relevant papers for her. He had arranged for the caravan of camels and mules, a fresh supply of gold, and he had armed her guard. He had refused to accept her bank notes, asking instead that she carry his letters to his agent in Cairo. The letters would put an end to his trading business. Ten years of work, ten years of Azhar’s determination and dedication, of his ambition and his flair, to be ended by a packet of letters. Julia patted the package, tied in a leather purse around her waist, along with Daniel’s watch. Now that it was no longer ticking away her time in Qaryma, she found the watch reassuring. It reminded her of Daniel, but it also reminded her of Azhar, who had gone to such trouble to get it back for her.

The two landscapes she had painted of Cornwall, she had left for Azhar in her rooms, along with one of the paintings she had made of the secret garden in the Fourth Court. She hoped he would not find them a painful reminder. She hoped he would look at them and think of her. She hoped, she was ashamed to admit, that he would miss her.

The camels left the city streets and turned towards the desert. Tonight she would sleep under the stars once more. She would take solace in their beauty. She would not look back in sorrow to the desert Prince she had left behind, she would look forward in anticipation to the life she would make for herself. She would not regret her time here in Qaryma because she was done with looking back. There could have been no more perfect idyll.

But it was over. She allowed herself one final glance over her shoulder. The heat haze made the city shimmer like a mirage. And like all mirages, it was not real. It really was over.