Her Desert Dream

‘Go on with your story, Kal,’ she urged.

He didn’t want to talk about his family. He wanted to know more about her. His six-year-old memories of his mother were of stories, treats, hugs. Were Rose’s most abiding memories really of her mother’s bravery? Or was that the result of years of media brainwashing?

‘What happened after your great-grandfather died?’ she pressed.

There was definitely something wrong here, he could sense it, but Rose Napier was no more than a means to an end, he reminded himself. She was not his concern.

‘When Jaddi learned that his father had named his younger brother as Emir his heart broke, not just with grief,’ he told her, refocusing himself on what was important, ‘but with guilt, too. For a while he was crazy.’

He stared at the plate in front of him. Somehow, he’d managed to clear it, although he hadn’t tasted a thing.

‘What happened?’ she pressed. ‘What did he do?’

‘He refused to swear allegiance to his younger brother, raised disaffected tribes in the north, attacked the citadel. He thought that the people would rise to him, but he’d been away for a long time. While they’d once adored the dashing young sheikh, in his absence they had grown to admire and respect his brother.’

‘Was anyone hurt?’

He shook his head. ‘When it was obvious that he lacked popular support, his allies were quick to make their peace with the man holding the purse strings.’

‘It’s like something out of a Shakespearean tragedy,’ she said.

‘I suppose it is. But it was of his own making. Even then, if he’d been prepared to acknowledge his brother as ruler, publicly bow the knee, he would have been allowed to stay. Play his part. When he refused to humiliate himself in that way, his brother exiled him from the tribe, stripped him of his name, title, banished him. All he was left with was the financial settlement that his father had hoped would compensate him for being supplanted by his younger brother.’

‘And your father? Was he included in this punishment?’

‘Banishment was for Jaddi alone, but the rest followed. If a father does not bear the name of his tribe, the title owed to him by birth…’

‘So you are al-Zaki.’

‘A name without history,’ he said. Without honour. ‘My father and I are free to come and go, as is my sister. I have an office, an apartment in Rumaillah but, without a family, I remain invisible.’ His letters returned unanswered. Barred from his place in the majlis. Forbidden any way of appealing for mercy for a dying man. Reduced to using this woman.

‘What do you think will happen when Princess Sabirah comes here? Will she “see” you?’ she asked.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, angry with himself, angry with the Emir, angry with her for making him feel guilty. ‘Her Highness won’t do anything to embarrass her distinguished guest.’

That was what Lucy was relying on, anyway. If she acknowledged him, he would beg her to intercede with the Emir for his grandfather. That was all that was left, he thought bitterly. A chance to plead with the woman who shared the Emir’s pillow to show pity on a dying man.

Lydia felt the emptiness in Kal’s words, the loss, an underlying anger too, but to say that she was sorry would be meaningless and so she said nothing-she’d already said far too much, come close to blowing the whole deal.

The silence drifted back, broken only by the clink of dishes when Yatimah appeared to clear the table, loading everything on to the tray.

Having come-in a moment of high emotion-perilously close to letting slip the truth about her own father’s death, she took the chance to gather herself before turning to Yatimah to thank her for the meal.

‘La shokr ala wageb, sitti. No thanks are due for duty.’

‘Will you say that again?’ Lydia begged, grabbing the chance to move away from dangerous territory. Listening carefully and repeating it after her self-appointed teacher.

‘I will bring coffee?’

‘Nam. Shukran.’

When she’d gone, Kal said, ‘You listen well, Rose.’

‘I try to pick up a few words of the local language when I’m on holiday. Even if it’s only hello and thank you.’ The truth, and how good that felt, but before he could ask where she usually went on holiday, ‘So, what time are we going fishing?’

‘Maybe we should give that a miss today,’ he said. ‘Wait until you’re really bored.’

She tried not to look too happy about that.

‘You might have a long wait. I’ve got the most beautiful garden to explore, a swimming pool to lie beside and a stack of good books to read. In fact, as soon as we’ve had coffee I’ll decide which to do first.’

‘Qahwa. The Arabic for coffee is qahwa. You make the q sound in the back of your throat.’

‘Ga howa?’

‘Perfect.’ Then, with one of those slow smiles that sent a dangerous finger of heat funnelling through her, ‘Maybe we should add Arabic lessons to the schedule.’

Doing her best to ignore it, she said, ‘You do know that I had planned to simply lie in the sun for a week?’

‘You can listen, speak lying down, can’t you?’

Lydia tried to block out the image of Kal, stretched out on a lounger beside her at the pool she’d glimpsed from the dining room, his skin glistening in the sun while he attempted to teach her the rudiments of a language he clearly loved.

Did he really believe that she would be able to concentrate?

‘Lying in the sun resting,’ she elaborated swiftly, all the emphasis on resting. ‘You seem determined to keep me permanently occupied. Rushing around, doing stuff.’

‘It won’t be hard work, I promise you.’

His low honeyed voice promised her all kinds of things, none of them arduous, and as he picked up her hand the heat intensified.

‘We can begin with something simple.’ And, never taking his eyes from her face, he touched his lips to the tip of her little finger. ‘Wahid.’

‘Wahid?’

‘One.’

‘Ithnan.’ His lips moved on to her ring finger, lingered while she attempted to hold her wits together and repeat the word.

‘Ithnan. Two.’

‘Thalatha.’

Something inside her was melting and it took her so long to respond that he began to nibble on the tip of her middle finger.

‘Thalatha!’

‘Arba’a.’ And he drove home the message with four tiny kisses on the tip, the first joint, the second joint, the knuckle of her forefinger.

‘Arba’a.’ It was her bones that were the problem, she decided. Her bones were melting. That was why she couldn’t move. Pull free. ‘Four.’

‘Khamsa.’ He looked for a moment at her thumb, then took the length of it in his mouth before slowly pulling back to the tip. ‘Five.’

He was right. This was a language lesson she was never going to forget. She mindlessly held out her other hand so that he could teach her the numbers six to ten, already anticipating the continuation of a lesson involving every part of her body.

He did not take it and, catching her breath as she came back to earth, she used it to sweep her hair behind her ear, managing a very creditable, ‘Shukran, Kal.’

Yatimah placed a tray containing a small brass coffee pot and tiny cups on the table beside her.

Feeling ridiculously light-headed as she realised that he must have seen her coming, that he had not rejected