Hot Arabian Nights. Marguerite KayeЧитать онлайн книгу.
eyes, to feel the fire in your blood as you touch me, it sets me on fire too. Do you imagine I would prefer to kiss a woman who responds only with—with compliance? No, I would not. No red-blooded man would. Never apologise for passion. Restraint, Julia, has no place in lovemaking.’ Azhar kissed her briefly once more on the mouth. ‘I am now officially late. Enjoy your bath. My only regret is that I cannot share it with you.’
‘Azhar!’
He laughed. ‘My English rose. So easily shocked. There is much you might learn of the East before you leave. You have only to ask. I am not without expertise in this field.’
‘Cornish,’ she called after him, ‘I’m a Cornish rose if I’m any kind of rose.’ But he merely laughed again, grabbing his headdress from the couch before closing the door to her apartment softly behind him.
Not without expertise. The meaning was far beyond Julia’s ken, but that did not prevent a shiver of longing to course through her. The notion of herself as pupil to Azhar in the arts of love was a sinfully delicious one. It seemed this new Julia was brazen as well as different.
* * *
Two days later, Julia set down her brush with a sigh of satisfaction and stretched out her arms. She had almost finished the specimens she had taken from the Oasis of the Red Rock and the Tumbling Waterfall. She wished she could remember how to pronounce the name in Arabic, but though she could hear the word in her head as Azhar had said it, she could not reproduce it.
Setting this last painting aside to dry, she made for the terrace where Aisha had left a jug of lemon sherbet, careful to push the curtains back in place to protect her precious drawings from the destructive rays of the sun. Tomorrow morning she would see Azhar again for the first time since they had kissed. As she remembered those kisses her stomach knotted. She very much wanted to acquire more of the knowledge he had hinted at, though she wasn’t sure she’d have the courage to ask. It seemed impossible to imagine such a conversation in the cold light of day. A practical demonstration under cover of darkness now—but, no, she couldn’t even bring herself to imagine that.
She took a sip of the refreshing citrus drink, wandering restlessly over to the seat under the lemon tree. Restraint, Azhar had said, had no place in lovemaking, yet restraint was all Julia knew. No man wants a woman to respond with compliance, he’d said. Yet again, compliance was all Julia had ever offered. It was all Daniel had expected—or wanted? Did that make her husband less of a man or Julia less of a woman?
Leaning her head back against the bark of the tree, she closed her eyes, trying to remember how it had been, making love with Daniel. Awkward, because she knew nothing of the matter, her mother having died when she was eight and the only other woman in their household being Papa’s housekeeper, a dour Cornishwoman who had never married. So, yes, it had been awkward at first, because Julia hadn’t known what to expect and Daniel—but had Daniel been any more experienced than she?
She sat up, startled by this thought, which had never before occurred to her. Why not? Julia furrowed her brow. Was it possible that she had simply assumed that, because he was a man, he must know better than her, or because he was Daniel, and even before they were married she had acquired the habit of accepting that Daniel always knew best? Julia cringed. That made her sound awfully weak-willed. Even rather pathetic. But was it true?
She considered this carefully, staring down at the sugary dregs of ice in her glass. Upon reflection, it was highly unlikely that Daniel had been intimate with any woman before their wedding night unless it was one of the rough women who walked the streets around the tin-mining ports of Portreath or Hayle—but, no, she could not countenance that he would be so inclined. ‘Good grief,’ Julia muttered, half-appalled and half uncomfortably amused, ‘I do believe poor Daniel was as innocent as I.’
They had progressed, after those first attempts, to the point where Daniel achieved satisfaction, but Julia had never felt more than the faintest of stirrings in response to her husband’s touch. She had learned through trial and error how to arouse herself, but she had never dared share that knowledge with Daniel, knowing that she would be mortified, and convinced that he would think it sordid. Had she, by keeping it to herself, deprived them both of pleasure? And had her restrained response restrained her husband?
With a sinking feeling, Julia was forced to admit that it was very possible. For the first time in weeks, she surrendered to that familiar feeling, a combination of helplessness at having wasted so many years of her life, and profound regret that she had not had the courage to try to alter it for the better while Daniel was alive. How she resented Daniel—and to a lesser degree, her father—for creating that Julia. And how she despised herself for remaining that version of Julia for so long.
It was her own fault.
‘No.’ She jumped to her feet, waving her arms about, as if by doing so she could disperse these destructive thoughts. She was done with this self-indulgent way of thinking. She had left that Julia behind when she had set out on her travels. She was a new Julia now, and when she had fulfilled all of her deathbed promises, the new Julia would be free.
‘And in the meantime, I should remember that I was not the only one who was restrained during our lovemaking,’ she told the lemon tree. ‘Daniel wasn’t interested in my pleasure. Quite the contrary. Daniel positively quenched my pleasure the one and only time I attempted to display it.’
Julia returned to the terrace, putting her glass down on the tray with a decided thump. ‘Well, Daniel,’ she said, gazing up at the celestial blue sky, ‘I am done with having my pleasure quenched. And now, I would very much like to discover what it’s like to have it sated.’
* * *
Julia spent a fitful night full of tedious and endless dreams in which she was required to chase after complete strangers with notes she had forgotten, messages she could not remember. Waking as the sun came up, she threw back the damp, tangled sheets and with it her mood, determined to waste no more time on what might or might not have existed in the past, and concentrate on the task which would allow her to put it behind her for ever.
Opening the lacquered cabinet which contained her new clothes, she allowed herself a moment of sheer sensual pleasure, running her hands through the swathes of silky, filmy materials, admiring the bright profusion of colours. She would never have chosen such colours herself, her practical streak leaning her towards brown, black or grey. As an artist, it wasn’t that she lacked an eye for colour, but she’d never applied it to herself. It was Aisha who was responsible for this selection of garments, enough to allow her enough variety of choice for the month she was to remain here, but neither too opulent nor too numerous to make Julia feel embarrassed, for she knew, no matter what Azhar claimed, that he would not allow her to pay for them. His attention to detail extended beyond business. He was a very thoughtful man. Who would be out of her life in a month’s time, her conscience reminded her. But Julia dismissed her conscience. She had better things to do than count the days.
She selected a pair of dark-blue pantaloons trimmed at the pleated ankles with black beading, and tied at the waist with a black silk sash. The turquoise tunic was weighted with the same beading along the hem and the wide flowing sleeves. Her hair was glossy from the oils with which Aisha had treated it before washing, and scented from the rosewater in which it had been rinsed. Julia had always disliked her hair, thinking the flamboyant colour detracted from her serious nature, and the serious nature of her work too. Another thing that had changed here in the desert. She liked the idea of herself as fiery, even if it was merely a conceit. She left it loose over her shoulders, pulled on a pair of turquoise slippers, and a swathe of turquoise silk to cover her hair and face while she made her way through the palace and would be on public view. Picking up her drawing materials, Julia left her quarters and headed for the garden.
* * *
Azhar poured himself a cup of the coffee which he’d had sent out to the kiosk. Hearing footsteps, he got to his feet expecting Julia, but it was his brother who appeared, and judging by the expression on Kamal’s face, he had not come here to admire the garden. Azhar’s heart sank.
‘You’ve been spying on me,’ Kamal exclaimed, as soon as