Hot Arabian Nights. Marguerite Kaye
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