‘You will be Sheikh al-Farid, King Azhar of Qaryma,’ Julia intoned, quoting the words he had once recited from the coronation. ‘You will be the font of all wisdom, the provider of all happiness. The infallible one, whom none may question. Do I have that right?’
‘Almost word perfect,’ Azhar said. ‘Unfortunately,’ he added with a twisted smile. ‘Which means that our spending time together must come to a halt. I must start as I mean to go on Julia—alone. My decisions must be my own, and my desire for you—you know how strongly I desire you—but it can have no place in my life now either. I must dedicate myself to my kingdom. When they place the crown on my head, I will belong to Qaryma. And I plan to be crowned as soon as it can be arranged.’
‘Are you afraid that if you delay, you might not go through with it?’
He flinched, for her tone was sharp, but he met her gaze openly. ‘Yes.’
The simple admission broke down all her defences. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t bear to make things more difficult for you. I will do whatever you ask.’
The relief which flooded his face was her reward. He pulled her into his arms, kissing her gently. ‘I ask only that you understand.’
‘I do.’
‘Thank you.’ He kissed her again. ‘You will use the extra time usefully, I hope?’
‘I—yes. Johara told me of an oasis where there is a unique kind of moss, I had hoped—but it is not necessary. I have more than enough to occupy my last—the time I have remaining here, thank you.’ Was this the end? Was he expecting her to say goodbye? No, she could not believe it, there were arrangements to be made, a guide to hire—no, she would not allow herself to think that this was the last time she would see him. Utterly dejected, Julia cast around for her drawing equipment. ‘I wanted to paint this secret garden, but if you are going to be in residence at the Royal Kiosk...’
‘I will have someone inform you when the garden is unoccupied so you may work undisturbed.’
She could feel the tears welling. She would not allow them to fall. Muttering another thank you, Julia picked up her painting box and fled.
* * *
Julia set down her paintbrush and studied the two landscapes critically. In the three days since she had last seen Azhar, she had been working on them almost exclusively. The light was not yet perfectly captured in the seascape, but she was pleased with the mood.
Aisha, setting the dinner tray down on the table, studied the almost-finished works. ‘These are beautiful. This is your home?’ she asked. ‘I have never seen the sea. It is vast and so beautiful.’
Julia nodded. ‘Much as your desert is for me.’ She had always considered Marazion Bay her home, though she had not lived there since she married Daniel. The house she had shared with her husband near Truro, leased from an acquaintance of her father’s, would be occupied by someone else by now. After the funeral, Julia had boxed up their few possessions and had them placed in storage at her father’s house. He had assumed that she would come to live with him when she returned from her supposed visit to the Highlands.
Julia had no idea what she was going to do with her freedom once she attained it. She had not thought beyond fulfilling her promises to Daniel, but those would take her perhaps three, at the most six months more to execute. Her work here in Arabia was already completed. Now that she had finished the landscapes for Azhar, she intended to spend what time remained painting the pictures which would become her own personal mementos of her momentous time here.
Aisha had finished setting out the dainty array of dishes on the table. ‘Prince Azhar is very busy preparing for his coronation,’ she said.
There was sympathy in her eyes. ‘Yes, I know,’ Julia said. Now that it was almost over, she could not see the point in pretending that Aisha didn’t know how often Azhar visited her here. Aisha had proven herself the soul of discretion and Julia was happy to have her company. ‘He told me he would be unable to visit again.’
Aisha ushered her to the table. ‘As it should be,’ she said with a smile. ‘Prince Azhar is an honourable man. It is known that he spends much time with you. You are a foreigner, you have no husband and you are so skinny,’ she said with a small smile. ‘People cannot understand why he does not take a more suitable mistress.’
Colour flooded Julia’s cheeks. Living so isolated from the rest of the palace, it had been easy for her to pretend that the nature of her relationship with Azhar was privy to no one save Aisha. Knowing that she had been the subject of gossip, none of it flattering, was mortifying. ‘I have caused a scandal,’ she said, putting her hands to her flaming cheeks.
Aisha shook her head. ‘No, people understand that Prince Azhar is a virile man with needs...’ Her mime made it quite clear what she thought Azhar needed. ‘It is shocking that you are a foreigner, but we are not shocked by his having a mistress.’
‘But after his coronation?’ Julia asked with a sinking feeling.
‘After, it would be unthinkable,’ Aisha said, shaking her head vehemently. ‘A king must be above reproach. But I tell everyone that you are returning to England, and that when you are back there,’ she concluded with a reassuring smile, pointing to Julia’s painting, ‘you will find a fine English husband. So when he has been crowned, King Azhar can find a fine Arabian princess. As it should be, yes? Both happy.’
Both happy. As the door closed behind Aisha, Julia pushed the plate of delicious food she had been served aside. Aisha had not meant to hurt her. She had only said what Azhar had told her more obliquely himself. He must be aware of the scandal she would cause if she remained here after he had been crowned, yet he had said nothing of the damage her simple presence would do to his reputation—though when she thought back to that conversation, she could see that he had implied it. If he had made the situation so starkly clear, she would have insisted on leaving as soon as possible, but even in extremis, when his world was crashing down around him, Azhar had been thoughtful enough to ensure she had enough time to finish that blasted book of Daniel’s. While she had been selfishly focused only on being deprived of Azhar’s company.
How long after he was crowned, would it be before he was expected to marry? For he would marry. Being Azhar, incapable of half-measures, he would do everything in his powers to be the best King possible. Which meant ensuring that there was a Crown Prince waiting to take his place when the time came. He’d told her that himself, in the Divan room—was it really less than two weeks ago?
Abandoning any notion of eating, Julia opened the window and stepped out into the cool evening air, making for her favourite spot under the lemon tree. Azhar would marry and produce an heir for the sake of his kingdom. She would never marry, for the sake of her hard-won freedom. That much had not changed, but something else had. And quite profoundly so. She leaned back against the bark of the tree, closing her eyes. She loved him. Dear heavens, how she loved him. A most fundamental shift, and a very, very unwise thing for her to have allowed to happen, for it changed nothing. None the less, she loved him.
The scent of the lemons reminded her of the soap Azhar used. Julia wrapped her arms around herself. When they lay on her divan in the aftermath of making love, his skin was salty, slick with sweat. He liked to pull her tight against him then, her bottom snuggled into his groin, one hand heavy on her waist, the other cupping her breast. When she touched him, when he was aroused and she stroked him slowly, her hand curled around his girth, tight and then looser, tight and then looser, his expression was almost one of pain. His fingers curled into the sheets in his efforts to control himself, but Julia had learned how to send him out of control. She knew how to touch the most sensitive spot to make him climax almost immediately. She had a similar spot and he knew exactly how to touch that too. She knew how to hold him tight inside her, to make him pulse, pulse, pulse, but to prevent his release. He could do things with his