Marguerite Kaye - Hot Arabian Nights

She had meant it as a warning to herself. Her voice wobbled. Azhar flinched. ‘Your task will definitely be completed by then?’ he asked.

How she longed to lie. ‘Yes,’ Julia said. ‘I will even have time to do some paintings of the secret garden in the Fourth Court.’

‘I wish...’ Azhar picked up Daniel’s watch and opened it, staring at the second hand mesmerised, just as she had done. Setting it down, he cleared his throat. ‘If you had time to spare, I would very much like a painting of your bay in Cornwall. It would be good to imagine you there. Looking at it would make you seem not so far away, somehow. Does that make sense?’

‘Perfect sense, I shall make time,’ Julia whispered. Azhar took her hands between his, rested his forehead against hers. A tear escaped from her eye, trickling down her cheek, and was swiftly followed by another, which splashed on to his hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘Don’t be. Don’t cry, Julia. Please don’t cry.’

‘I am not crying,’ she said, but another tear fell, and then another. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Julia.’ He caught her in his arms, pressing her tight against his chest, stroking her hair. ‘Julia, don’t be sad.’

She hugged him tightly, breathing in the warm male scent of him, relishing the familiar hard strength of him. ‘I’m going to miss you so much, Azhar.’

He did not reply, but her yearning was reflected in his eyes as he picked her up and carried her into her bedchamber. Their kisses was all-consuming, urgent, kisses fuelled by hunger, a primal craving to amass as many kisses as they could before the time arrived when there could be no more. They made love with the same passionate abandonment, pressing themselves together, clinging together, skin on skin, as if trying to meld themselves together, become one entity, crying out together, then lying together, sated, slick with sweat, their hearts hammering, mindless at last.

* * *

Azhar sat on the throne in the Audience Chamber of the Royal Kiosk awaiting the arrival of the Chief Overseer of the diamond mines. He had made the decision to summon the man last night, after leaving Julia’s chamber. The watch—that fateful watch—ticking away the hours and minutes relentlessly, had compelled him to take the action which he had known in his heart for some days was inevitable.

This summons would, he knew, set in motion an inexorable chain of events which would bind him to Qaryma for ever. He could not bear to think about it. If he thought about it he would hesitate, and he had hesitated too long already. Honour forced his hand. He would pay a heavy personal price for his sense of honour.

A sharp rap on the door of the kiosk heralded the beginnings of proceedings. It did not take long. In the face of the compelling evidence which Azhar cited, the Chief Overseer prostrated himself at his Prince’s feet, sobbing and begging incoherently for mercy.

Azhar ordered the guard to take him to the Cage, noting with satisfaction the surprise on the guard’s face and the horror on his prisoner’s. The name, he well knew, conjured up dark dungeons, perhaps even a torture chamber. In fact, the Cage was a suite of disused rooms which had once, many, many years ago, housed the illegitimate progeny from the harem, in the days when it held more than one wife and many concubines. In recent times the Cage had served as the schoolroom for the King’s legitimate sons, and was comfortably furnished. Azhar had chosen it merely as a secure place to hold the Chief Overseer until his fate was decided. He pitied the man, who was in one sense nothing more than a greedy puppet, but even a greedy puppet must be punished for the dishonour he had brought to the Council and to the kingdom he served.

* * *

The puppet master himself threw open the door of the kiosk a mere ten minutes later. Kamal flew into the chamber, his face red with rage. ‘Why did you summon my Chief Overseer? What game are you playing?’

‘Once again I must correct you, Brother. My Chief Overseer, and this is no game. I am the future King of Qaryma,’ Azhar said, surveying his brother haughtily from the throne. ‘Or had you forgotten? My actions are not to be questioned, even by you.’

Kamal made a show of dropping slowly to his knees. ‘I see you have overcome your dislike of standing on ceremony.’

‘I have been forced to reassess my opinion on many matters since my arrival.’

‘You have certainly made your opinion of my regency very clear,’ Kama said, glaring at him defiantly. ‘I doubt there is any aspect of my rule which has met with your approval.’

‘It is not for want of trying, believe me, Brother.’

Kamal swore. ‘Do not take me for a fool. Ever since you arrived here, you have been determined to undermine me, systematically removing my supporters from the Council, interfering in countless petty matters of state, questioning my Treasurer and examining my accounts. You travel to our villages with that English woman trailing behind you to whip up support—as if you needed to—and now I discover you have been interrogating a man who...’

‘Has been helping you misappropriate my diamonds.’ Azhar waited, but Kamal said nothing. ‘I know all about the whole sordid scheme,’ he said. ‘Not only has the Chief Overseer confessed fully to his role—’

‘But has implicated me in order to save his own skin,’ Kamal interrupted with a sneer. ‘By the heavens, Azhar, is it not obvious! If there has been any pilfering...’

‘The scale of the theft goes far beyond pilfering.’

Kamal waved his hand impatiently. ‘You cannot possibly think that I would be involved in this.’

‘And you cannot possibly grasp how very much I have wanted to prove you innocent.’

Something in his voice put fear in Kamal’s eyes. He scrambled to his feet. ‘Brother...’

Azhar shook his arm free. ‘I came here intending to abdicate,’ he said. ‘I came here with the sole purpose of handing Qaryma over to you. You think I cannot resist claiming the crown and power. How wrong you are, Kamal. How very, very wrong. I wanted you to have it because you deserved it more, wanted it more.’

‘Then give it to me, I still want it. Free yourself from the burden, leave Qaryma in my hands.’

‘No. You have forfeited any right to be trusted with the safekeeping of the kingdom.’ With cold precision, Azhar ticked off the facts he had uncovered. Sick at heart, he watched as Kamal’s bravado turned to blustering rage, removing any faint hope that he would do the honourable thing and confess his guilt.

‘I hope you are not expecting me to apologise,’ Kamal spat at the end of the damning summation. ‘For ten years, I have remained here doing our father’s bidding while you indulged your selfish desire to see the world, making your personal fortune, earning your pathetically important reputation. For ten years I have served our father, this kingdom and these people, and for what? A few diamonds are as nothing compared to what I am owed for my sacrifice.’

That the ‘few diamonds’ amounted to a significant part of Qaryma’s wealth was beside the point. It had never, for Azhar, been the value of the stolen goods which mattered, but the greed and the lies which motivated the crime. ‘You had ten years in which to prove yourself worthy,’ he said. ‘Ten years to prove to our father that you were fit to be his heir.’

‘Do you think I did not try?’ Kamal replied with a snarl. ‘I reminded you when you returned that you were always his favourite. Do you think I said that to flatter you? Oh, yes, in the early days he was angry enough with you to turn to me, but he made it clear even then that I was second best. He never trusted me. Always, he watched me and questioned me. Always, he made it clear that I was but a poor substitute. And later—’ Kamal broke off abruptly.