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Hot Arabian Nights
Be seduced and swept away by these desert princes!
You won’t want to miss this new, thrillingly exotic quartet from Marguerite Kaye!
First, exiled Prince Azhar must decide whether to claim his kingdom and beautiful unconventional widow Julia Trevelyan!
Read
The Widow and the Sheikh Available now!
When Sheikh Kadar rescues shipwrecked mail-order bride Constance Montgomery, can a convenient marriage help him maintain peace in his kingdom?
Find out in
Sheikh’s Mail-Order Bride Available soon!
And watch out for two more tantalising novels, coming soon…
To secure his kingdom’s safety, Sheikh Asad must win Arabia’s most dangerous horse race. His secret weapon is an English horse whisperer…whom he does not expect to be an irresistibly attractive woman!
Daredevil Christopher Fordyce has always craved adventure. When his travels lead him to the kingdom of Nessarah he makes his most exciting discovery yet—a desert princess!
There could be absolutely no mistaking the desire in his eyes now. For some extraordinary reason this prince—this man—was attracted to her. Her!
She reached up her hand and touched his cheek, just as he had touched hers. His skin was rougher than she had expected, warmer. She ran her fingers through the short, soft silk of his hair.
‘Tell me what you are thinking, Julia.’
His voice had a ragged edge to it. He really did want her. She’d walked away from the chance to kiss him once—she wasn’t likely to get another. ‘I’m thinking that I’d very much like you to kiss me,’ she said.
He was surprised into a low rumble of laughter. ‘I believe they call that serendipity,’ he said, ‘because that is exactly what I propose to do.’
The Widow
and the Sheikh
Marguerite Kaye
MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published almost thirty books and novellas. When she’s not writing she enjoys walking, cycling (but only on the level), gardening (but only what she can eat) and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis (though not at the same time). Find out more on her website: margueritekaye.com.
Contents
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,