Hot Arabian Nights. Marguerite Kaye

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       Chapter One

      Kingdom of Qaryma, Arabia—spring, 1815

      It was late afternoon. He had travelled all day through the unrelenting heat of the blazing desert sun, barely stopping to rest, driven on by the knowledge that his destination was within touching distance, anxious to complete both the journey and the unwished-for task which awaited him. A difficult, potentially painful task but one which would provide its own reward. Ten years ago he had left and vowed never to return. This time when he departed, it truly would be for ever.

      Azhar brought his camel to a halt and shaded his eyes. The view of the desert was never static. The rippling sands shifted continually, as if the landscape itself were alive like some vast writhing serpent, as the bone-dry winds constantly reshaped and remoulded the dunes. Today, the colours varied from gold, to burnt orange, to a deep chocolate-brown where the sun cast shadows in the valleys between the vertiginous cliffs of sand. The sheer vastness of the landscape, the vibrant celestial blue of the sky, and the searing, white-gold heat of the sun, filled him with awe and a painful nostalgic ache. His trading missions had carried him across many a desert landscape throughout Arabia, but there was none that tugged on his heartstrings as much as this one.

      Had once tugged on his heartstrings. Ten long years ago, he had exorcised this place and its people from his heart. In the intervening period, he had refused to allow himself to think of it, to remember it, to allow it to impinge on the new life he had carved for himself, the life that now defined him. His business gave him independence. He was beholden to no man. He was accountable for no one and to no one. Concluding matters here in Qaryma would finally make him free.

      Far below, nestled in the valley, lay the Zazim Oasis, the contours of the lagoon delineated by the belt of lush vegetation which surrounded it. The perfectly still pool was silvery-green, reflecting the ridges of the highest dunes with the clarity of a painting. Though it was a forlorn hope, for the oasis was a well-known respite for weary travellers, Azhar had wished for one last night of solitude before discharging the obligation which had led him here. Consequently, as he descended into the valley, the unmistakable evidence that he would not have the oasis to himself irked him profoundly.

      The sole tent was pitched at the far end of the lagoon, in the shade provided by a grove of palm trees. It was constructed in a similar manner to the one his own mules carried, a mix of heavy wool blankets and animal skins stretched over a simple wooden frame, but this tent was larger, more akin to the type used by Bedouins, not a man travelling alone. It was then that he noticed the absence of any signs of life. No one would abandon such a precious possession willingly. The thick quality of the silence left him in no doubt that there was neither man nor beast here, but if experience had taught him one thing, it was always to be prepared, to expect the unexpected. As his camel, the string of mules in train behind it, began the slow descent, Azhar’s hand went instinctively to the hilt of his scimitar.

      * * *

      Julia Trevelyan awoke with a start, sitting straight up on her bedroll. Her heart was beating so rapidly it felt as if it were in her throat. Her linen shift clung to her skin, damp with sweat and gritty with sand. It was stiflingly hot. The air was so dry it hurt to breathe. The bright glare of the desert sun glinting through the seams and gaps of the musty tent told her it must be well into the afternoon, but that was quite impossible.

      Her head was pounding. The inside of her mouth felt as if it had been coated in camel hair. Reaching for the goatskin flask of water she kept by her bedclothes, she struggled to undo the cap, her fingers were shaking so much. She drank greedily, so desperate to slake her thirst that the precious water trickled down her chin on to her chest. The ache in her head flared into a searing stab of pain. Her brain felt like it was on fire. She tipped the remaining contents of her flask over her head in an effort to cool herself. Hanif, her dragoman guide, would be horrified at such flagrant waste of a precious resource, but Julia was beyond caring, and besides, the oasis where they were camped had a plentiful supply.

      Where was Hanif? Why had he not woken her? What time was it? Julia fumbled for Daniel’s pocket watch, which she kept by her bedroll, but it was not there. She must have set it down somewhere else. It was not like her to misplace such a precious object. She frowned, causing the band of pain around her head to tighten. She couldn’t even remember going to bed.

      The silence struck her then. She listened intently. Nothing. Not a rustle. Not a voice. Neither the shrill bray of a mule nor the plaintive bleat of a camel. Despite the stifling heat, she shivered. She was being foolish. Hanif and his men were being very well paid for their assistance. They would not have abandoned her here.

      Alone.

      In the middle of a desert.

      A wave of panic sent her heart pumping wildly. She was being ridiculous. Julia pushed back the blanket and got to her feet. Too quickly. The tent swam. She staggered. Shooting stars of light sparked before her eyes. Was she ill? Too much sun, perhaps? Not enough water?

      She lurched to the front of the tent, sticking her head through the gap between the goatskin flaps. The sun cast a blinding white glare over everything. The day was well advanced. In utter disbelief, she gazed at the space where the encampment had been. There was nothing left, save the cold embers of last night’s cooking fire. All of the camels were gone. All of the pack mules were gone. The water of the oasis lay completely still. Not a frond on the shady palm trees stirred. She was alone, quite alone.

      Anger and confusion dissipated the worst of her fear. Why had she not woken sooner? Hanif and his men could not have packed up the entire camp in silence, and she was a notoriously light sleeper. Why hadn’t she heard anything? Only now, turning back into the tent, did she notice that her clothes were strewn all over the floor. The large leather-bound trunk in which she kept them lay open, empty. Julia’s stomach lurched. Where was the other trunk? The trunk that constituted the sole reason she was here, so far from home, so far from England. She almost couldn’t bear to look. ‘Please, please, please,’ she whispered, as she made her way to the rear of the tent.