body to him. He flattened his palm over the sweep of her spine, the swathe of her hair silky against his calloused skin.
She sighed, the sweetest sound, and nestled closer to him. She was all sensuous curves, scented with jasmine. He licked his way along her bottom lip, then kissed her again as her mouth opened in response. Her fingers curled into his hair. Her breasts brushed against his chest. She angled her mouth, and she kissed him back, and he felt his groin tighten, felt the blood rush, and Tahira let out that soft sigh again, an invitation to pleasure he could not refuse. He kissed her again, his mouth shaping hers, but only for moments before she responded and he pulled her tight against him into a kiss he could easily have drowned in.
Which realisation made him tear himself away. She stared at him wide-eyed, lips parted in an innocently seductive smile that made him want to pull her back into his arms again for more. ‘Tahira...’
She shook her head vehemently. ‘I beg you do not apologise. I wanted you to do that.’
‘The desire,’ Christopher replied with a short laugh, ‘was entirely mutual.’
‘Really? Though that was my first kiss, I could tell it was not yours.’
Her words were an apt reminder—not that he needed one. ‘Which is precisely why I should not have kissed you.’ He could do nothing about his tainted heritage, but he had no intentions of allowing history to repeat itself. He was no seducer, nor ever would be! ‘Your innocence is entirely safe with me, I promise you. To take such a liberty, I of all people—’ He broke off, shaking his head to dispel the memory her words had unwittingly stirred.
‘But you did not. My instincts told me last night that you are an honourable man.’
‘It is not simply a matter of honour, Tahira.’
‘It was just a kiss,’ she said, clearly perplexed by his vehemence. ‘I don’t understand why—oh!’ She covered her mouth, looking horrified. ‘Do you mean that you have taken such a liberty in the past?’
‘No! Absolutely not. I do not refer to myself.’
‘Then who...?’
‘It doesn’t matter. You are right. It was just a kiss.’
Just a kiss. He took her hand. Her fingers were long and slim, her nails patterned with henna. His bloodline did not define him. He was nothing like that man, nor ever would be. ‘Just a kiss,’ he repeated, ‘but a very delightful one.’
She was blushing charmingly. ‘Do you mean that? You forget, I have no experience and am therefore in no position to judge.’
‘I don’t forget, Tahira.’ He cupped her chin in the palm of his hand. ‘Your innocence is something I would never forget, never take advantage of, I swear.’
‘If I was betrothed, you would not have kissed me, would you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘So I may assume you are also free?’
‘I am neither betrothed nor indeed married, if that is what you are asking. In fact, I doubt the woman exists, who would tolerate my investing every penny I earn in excavating holes in the ground. Nor would any, I am certain, endure the travails of traipsing around Egypt, living in caves and tents while I spend most of my waking hours digging up bones.’
‘It sounds to me like paradise,’ Tahira said whimsically. ‘I wish I could live such a life.’
‘Be careful what you wish for. The reality is hot, exhausting, uncomfortable, often tedious, extremely hard work for little reward.’
‘What you mean is that I’m completely unfit for such a life.’ Her smile wobbled. ‘I do understand the difference between dreams and reality, Christopher. And my reality—at least I can be reasonably sure that I’m fit for purpose as a wife. It’s what I was raised to be, after all.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to patronise you.’ Or hurt her, which he clearly had.
But Tahira shrugged. ‘You spoke the truth. We are, as you have pointed out, from very different worlds.’
‘Yet here we are, together.’
She smiled at that. ‘A hiatus from reality.’
‘Sadly,’ Christopher said, looking up at the sky, ‘one which must draw to a close for tonight. Isn’t it high time you left, if you are to be back before dawn?’
‘Yes.’
Turning away, Tahira stumbled. As he caught her, peering down at the sand to see what had tripped her up, Christopher saw not a rock, not the gnarled root of a shrub, but something gleaming dully. Pulling it free from the sand and dried mud which encased it, he stared at the object in astonishment. ‘It’s a pot.’
His heart began to pound as he rubbed the surface clean. ‘A silver vessel,’ he said, turning it over in his hands to examine the patina and shape. ‘Very old.’
He could see his excitement reflected in her face. ‘I’ve never seen anything—never found anything—Christopher, what do you think it means?’
He shook his head, though he couldn’t suppress his own smile. ‘This is not the kind of item a lowly miner would own.’ His laughter echoed into the desert night. ‘It means we most definitely have more work to do here.’
* * *
Christopher had visited many souks and market places throughout Arabia, but the bazaar in the centre of Nessarah’s main city, which he decided to visit the next morning, not to buy a flying carpet but for a far more serious purpose, took his breath away. The building itself was unremarkable, white painted with narrow slits for windows which were cut seemingly at random into the fortress-like walls. The geometric octagonal shape of the structure was the only clue that what was contained behind the massive wooden doors which stood open wide to the early morning sunshine was the antithesis of plain.
The entrance led through a narrow passage to a huge central atrium which soared the full height of the building. Light poured down from the apex of the vaulted ceiling, a dome which had been sliced open to the sky. The dome itself was moulded in an elaborate pattern to give the impression of overlapping tiles in gold and turquoise, while the supporting pillars and columns were also brightly patterned in vivid colours of emerald, mustard yellow, cobalt and white. Terracotta tiles paved the ground, a fountain populated by a shoal of tiny fish stood under the open dome, and low divans were scattered invitingly for weary shoppers to rest their feet and pass the time of day.
The bazaar was bustling with women gossiping, men haggling, children playing. Inured to the curiosity his shock of blonde hair and distinctive blue eyes aroused, Christopher made no attempt to disguise his foreignness and instead adopted the air of bland indifference which, while it did nothing to suppress the stares and whispered asides, at least discouraged the curious from approaching him directly.
The arcade of shops ran around the outer walls on two levels, the arched entranceways to each decorated in highly individual styles, the startling variety of goods on sale evidence of Nessarah’s wealth. This kingdom was reputedly the richest in the whole of southern Arabia. It appeared that claim might be justified. Wandering past a spice-seller, Christopher was struck as he always was, not just by the heady aroma, but by
