'What do you mean, we'll let ourselves be ambushed?'

It was the seventy-third time I had asked that question since we had set out from the ship – or maybe the seventy-fourth? I hadn't kept an exact count. I was too busy being furious at not getting an answer.

He shrugged. 'I mean exactly what I said. We'll let ourselves be ambushed.'

'But... but you can't mean for us to simply run into the bandit's trap!'

'Can't I?'

'You have to have some kind of plan!'

'I do, do I?'

'Yes! You're going to let them come close enough so they can't escape and then launch your attack first, aren't you?'

'Actually, no. The bandits will completely surround and disarm us. Then they will proceed to emptying our saddlebags and cutting our camels' throats.'

'And ours next, if I'm not mistaken!'

He shrugged again. 'If they're not prevented from doing so by some miraculous intervention... Yes.'

I stared at him suspiciously. His face was just a tiny little bit too calm, too stony, too unemotional. There was something going on in that cold, calculating brain of his, gears ticking away at lightning speed.

'You have a plan!' I accused him again.

'Interesting. How do you know that? I cannot remember mentioning it to you.'

'Gah! The devil take you!' Hastening my stride, I marched forward to walk beside Youssef instead of the insufferable man behind me.

We crossed the city quickly. Soon we reached the edge of Alexandria, and in front of us stretched a seemingly endless landscape of green-brown grain and reed, interspersed here and there with the sparkle of lake water.

'A surprisingly green sort of desert,' I commented.

Youssef shook his head. 'We're nowhere near the desert yet. We have to traverse the whole of the Nile Delta first.'

'Why did we land in Alexandria then, and not somewhere farther east?'

'Because Alexandria is the largest port in Egypt, the only one large enough for the kind of ship Ambrose Effendi uses for trade. Any spies of the bandits could only have been found here. And now that this first plan has failed, we have to use the same route as his traders, if we want to be taken for a merchant caravan.'

I threw Mr Ambrose a dark look. 'And of course we want that, don't we? I mean, who doesn't want to have their throats cut?'

'Have faith, baaša.'

'Ha! In whom? God, or Mr Ambrose?'

He considered that for a moment. 'Both?' he finally suggested.

'Ha!'

'Time to mount up!' I heard Mr Ambrose's cold voice from behind me. 'We ride east!'

Youssef bowed. 'You'll have to excuse me, baaša. I have to fetch my saddle.'

I nodded. Luckily, some considerate soul had already wrestled the saddle onto the back of the sweet little camel I was supposed to ride from now on. But that still left the actual riding to be done. Cautiously, I eyed the hunch-backed ungulate beside me. It was busily chewing on its reins, covering them with slobber.

Very well... I could do this. It couldn't be that difficult, could it?

'Hello there,' I said.

The camel very courteously stopped chewing, and spat at me in reply.

'That's a charmer,' I heard Youssef from behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him walk by with a camel saddle under his arm. 'What's his name?'

'He hasn't got one yet, I think.'

'So, what are you going to call him, baaša?'

I turned back to the camel, meeting its cool, derisive eyes. For a moment, I considered – but there really was only one possible choice. 'I think I'll call him Ambrose.'

From behind me, there came the thud of a heavy camel saddle hitting the ground, and a strangled sound from Youssef. I smiled.

'Well?' Leaning forward, I ticked the camel below the chin. 'Do you like your new name, Ambrose?'

The camel spat at me again.

'There, you see? He likes it! He's downright enthusiastic!'

Grabbing the saddle, I tried to swing myself up, like I had seen horse riders do. All I managed, however, was to dangle from the camel's side like an over-ripe plum. No matter how much I pulled, I couldn't get myself up there!

Blast! If you weren't so heavy you could do this! It's all because your derrière is so f–

No! My derrière wasn't fat! Just generous. That was the word. Generous.

Behind me, Youssef cleared his throat 'You have to make the camel kneel down before you can get on, baaša.'

'And how am I supposed to do that?' I growled, pounding on the beast's hairy side. 'Let me up, you smelly monster, you!'

Ignoring me, the camel went back to chewing on its reins.

Youssef regarded the camel cautiously. 'Um... well, actually they should be trained to kneel when someone approaches them.'

'In case you haven't noticed, that hasn't happened yet!'

Spitting out the reins, Ambrose turned his head and began chewing on the sleeve of my thobe instead. Ah! A gourmet camel, eh?

'Um... yes, baaša. Well, in that case, you simply command him to kneel in an authoritative tone of voice. That should be enough.'

I filled my lungs with air. 'Kneel, you bloody flee-ridden beast! And stop chewing on my sleeve!'

Nothing happened. Youssef cleared his throat again. 'Well, you could try to...'

'Kneel!'

The cold, hard voice cut through Youssef's like a knife through butter. The camel's knees buckled and I yelped as my feet suddenly hit the ground. Quickly, I braced myself against it and scrambled up into the saddle. When I turned my head to look, I already knew whom I would see.

There he was: Mr Ambrose – the real one, not the camel – sitting in the saddle of his own mount as if it were the armchair in his very own office, his back ramrod straight, his gaze cool and assessing. Unlike all the others, who were all swathed in white Arabian dress, ready for the desert, he was still wearing his back tailcoat. Even his black top hat was still on his head.

'Thank you.' I gave him a nod.

He returned it, curtly. 'Let's stop wasting time.'

'Agreed.' I urged my camel forward. 'Let's go, Ambrose!'

'Excuse me?' My employer's eyes sparkled dangerously. 'Since when do you give orders to me?'

I gave him a charming smile. 'Oh... I wasn't talking to you.'

*~*~**~*~*

It didn't take Mr Ambrose long to discover the name I had given to my dear, trusted friend, the camel.

His reaction?

Well, let's just say he wasn't best pleased about it. Of course, he didn't throw a fit or scream at me or anything like that. Oh no. He was Mr Rikkard Ambrose after all. Words of anger were a waste of his precious time. Instead, he attacked and punished me with the stoniest, coldest, most absolute silence that ever refused to be heard by a human ear. All I got whenever I tried to make conversation was a baleful glare, so I mostly conversed with Ambrose (the one I was sitting on, I mean) instead. I didn't get any more conversation out of him, but at least he spat at me now and again, in quite a nice way, really.

The days dragged by. We followed a well-travelled road, crossing the arms of the Nile at several points, always travelling towards the sunrise. The air was incredibly heavy and humid, the ground moist beneath our feet. I tried to enjoy it as long as it lasted, knowing that all too soon the ever-present moistness would be replaced by dry, hot desert air. But the mosquitos that flew around and around me, attacking every inch of my skin, made enjoying the trip rather difficult.

Mr Ambrose's silence meant that any distraction was out of the question. I couldn't even get an answer out of him about what he planned to do when we ran into the bandits. The few times I tried asking, I was met with a wall of silent ice, and his men weren't much more forthcoming.

The one ray of sunshine in the whole situation was that after a few days journey, we were joined by our long lost companion, who had been riding ahead, scouting, and avoiding everyone in the hope for the miracle of accelerated beard growth.

'Karim!' My face lit up. The rider who approached us had his face covered against the mosquitos, but there was no mistaking that giant form, those massive shoulders, and the even more massive turban. 'It's a joy to see you after all this time! Come on, get rid of that rag hiding your face. Show your old friends a smile!'

Very, very slowly, the Mohammedan reached up and drew back the cloth that hid the lower part of his face.

Oh. Apparently, the hoped-for miracle had not occurred.

A word of caution about beards here. Everyone knows that a beard covers your face. But what most people who decide to grow beards don't consider, and what I learned only now, was that if you grow a beard, the upper half of your face will get a lot of sunlight, while the lower half will get none at all, causing strongly varying degrees of tanning. If then, at some later point, for whatever reason, you have to shave the beard off again, the result will look... interesting.

I stared.

'Ah. Oh.' I cleared my throat. 'Um... so good to see you got out of the fire without any um... major injuries.'

His bushy eyebrows drew together. A storm cloud seemed to appear over his turban, and his eyes flashed.

One word, those eyes seemed to say, one word more and I'll...

'Well... so good to see you again,' I repeated, smiling as broadly as I could, fighting to keep my face straight. 'So very good. I suppose you want to see the others now to, um... chat. Or whatever it is you men do in your spare time. Well... cheerio, then.'

His eyes flashed warningly one more time. Then he spurred on his camel – a monster of an animal that seemed just able to bear its enormous burden – and rode past me, towards Mr Ambrose. I waited until he was well out of hearing range. When he was, I waited five minutes longer, just to be sure.

Then I collapsed onto Ambrose's neck, biting on my thobe to conceal my laughter. 'Oh my God! His face! His bloody face! He looks like... he is so... Oh my God!'

*~*~**~*~*

That was just about the only noteworthy historical event during our expedition though the Nile Delta. The rest consisted of silence, stale bread and an occasional bowl of gruel around a campfire. We passed a few more crossings and a lot of peasants working in the fields. Finally, the vegetation grew sparser, and one day we were standing under a few lonely trees, looking out into the distance, and there were no more trees there, and neither were there bushes, grass, or any other vegetation. All there was were rocky crags, sand, dust and more sand, stretching to the horizon.

'The desert,' I heard a cool voice beside me. Looking over, I saw Mr Ambrose regarding the craggy landscape before us with narrowed eyes.

'Thank you,' I told him. 'I think I realized that much myself.'

No reply.

'Don't take that as a criticism, though,' I continued. 'Those are the first words you've said to me in more than a week. You're making progress. Now you've just got to remember that your vocal cords are actually good for something, and maybe we'll have a nice chat one of these days.'

No reply.

'Or not.'

Again, no reply. With a snap of his cane, Mr Ambrose spurred his camel forward, forging ahead, into the desert. His top hat didn't wobble in the slightest from the camel's march on the rough ground, but remained still and steady as a black marble tombstone.

'Beware of the sun!' he called over his shoulder.

'Beware of the sun,' I muttered. 'What helpful advice! Why, thank you for mentioning that before you force me to ride hundreds of miles through the desert!'

Sighing, I eyed the glowing, simmering landscape in front of me. Well... what was one desert? Just a stretch of land without trees, after all. It couldn't be that bad.

I spurred my camel forward.

*~*~**~*~*

'Please, please let me die!'

Mr Ambrose glanced over at me. 'Be my guest.'

'I wasn't talking to you!' I groaned, wiping the sweat from my forehead. Or at least one litre of it. Another six litres remained, stuck to the skin under the scorching sun. They felt more like glue than perspiration. 'I was talking to God!'

'I see.'

Blast him! How could his voice be this calm, controlled and, most baffling of all, cool in this abominable heat? Balefully, I glared at his face. His voice wasn't the only part of him that was cool.

'How is it,' I demanded, 'that while I'm quite literally sweating my guts out, there's not a drop of sweat on your face? Not a single blasted drop!'

He shrugged.

'You just bloody shrugged! That's no bloody answer!'

He shrugged again.

'Gah!' Grasping the hem of my headscarf I tried to pull it further down to get at least a little more shade, but to no avail. The sun had already heated up the cloth mercilessly. It was like a woven oven. 'Still, not a single drop of sweat! And you're not even wearing anything for protection!'

'Certainly I do,' he contradicted me, one long pail finger tapping the side of his black top hat.

'That's no protection against sunlight! At least it's not supposed to be! Why do you think the Arabs make all their clothes from white cloth? Because black attracts heat!'

'Does it indeed?'

'Yes!'

'I see...' He gave me a long, cool look. He didn't even have to speak the words out loud, I could hear them as clearly as if Moses himself had shouted them from the nearest mountain: Then why are you sweating, and I'm not?

I was damned if I was going to give him an answer! Especially since I had none.

'You should put on a thobe and headscarf yourself, or you'll get heatstroke!' I prophesied darkly, hoping to hell I was right.

'I don't think so.'

'You'll start sweating any minute now, I warn you! Not even you can stay cold as an iceberg in this heat!'

'Indeed?'

'Yes, indeed!'

A hot breeze picked up, blowing sand our way. I coughed, and buried my face in my camel's foul-smelling neck to avoid the worst of the dust. Mr Ambrose just sat straight in the saddle, ignoring the stinging grains of sand as if they didn't exist. When the breeze died down, he carefully removed his top hat, and began dusting sand off it. The sun now hit his perfect, sculptured face full-on, and he still didn't even blink.

'The heatstroke is coming!' I warned. 'Just you wait! In a few minutes you'll be dead on the ground. Don't say I didn't warn you!'

'If I am dead, I will not be likely to say much.'

'More than when you're alive, that's for sure!'

Silence. What a big surprise!

'Won't you at least try on a headscarf to protect you from the worst of the sun?' I grumbled.

'I don't think so. On the contrary, I think you should rid yourself of that bathrobe and the remainder of your current attire.' He sent a cold look at my form, bundled up in white linen. 'It is thoroughly un-English.'

'So is being a miserable skinflint,' I shot back. 'Are you sure you don't have Scottish blood in you?'

If it was possible at all for something already rock-hard to stiffen, then his posture did. 'Quite sure.'

His tone roused my interest from its siesta, providing the first distraction from the heat for hours. 'So... where do you come from, exactly?'

Somehow, I didn't know how, he managed to lower the temperature of his gaze below the freezing point – even here. 'That is none of your business.'

'It is Scotland, isn't it? I knew it!'

'No!'

The corner of my mouth twitched. 'Why would you want to hide it, unless it's really Scotland? Come on, admit it!'

'It is not Scotland,' he told me, his voice even stiffer and colder than before.

'Oh, really? Are you sure?'

'Quite sure. My home lies nowhere near Scotland!'

'Hm... how far away is it, exactly?'

The thin line of his mouth thinned into an even thinner line. 'Quite far!'

'Come on! How far, exactly?'

His left little finger twitched. 'If you have to know, three miles and one thousand and thirty-five yards from the southern Scottish border.'

'Oh, I see.' I tried to keep my face expressionless while I nodded solemnly. It wasn't easy. 'That's incredibly far away, of course. Nobody could ever take you for anything resembling a Scotsman under those circumstances.'

'Mr Linton?'

'I'm still wearing your wedding ring. I don't think you want to call me "Mister" in public – not unless you want to have some interesting explaining to do when we return to England.'

His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. 'Fine. Mrs Thomson?'

'Yes, Sir! Right here, Sir!'

'I have a very important order for you.'

'Yes, Sir! I will obey your every wish, as is my duty as your... what am I currently? Wife? Secretary? Dogsbody?'

'The order is,' Mr Ambrose said, ignoring me completely, 'Be silent!'

'Yes, Sir! Immediately, Sir!'

*~*~**~*~*

Did you ever hear the saying 'Be careful what you ask for, you might just get it?'

Well, I didn't. I had never heard of the damn saying in my whole life, but that didn't stop me from inventing it for myself the moment the sun began to sink behind the horizon.

The whole blasted day I had done nothing but pray for cold, cold, cold, cold... and now the desert was giving me exactly what I asked for, in concentrated form. The moment the sun's last, warming rays vanished below the earth, the warmth seemed to be sucked out of the barren landscape like the juice from an orange. My skin, heated just a moment ago, became cold and clammy. I started to shiver.

'W-what's this?' I demanded, wrapping my thobe more closely around me. 'What's the matter?'

'The matter?' Mr Ambrose cocked his head. 'Whatever can you mean?'

'The cold, of course! Why is it suddenly so bloody cold?'

'Why shouldn't it be? There's no vegetation to hold the heat. It just evaporates when the sun sinks.'

'And that doesn't bother you at all, does it?' I demanded, glaring at him. His Serene Mightiness, Mr Ambrose, still sat in the saddle like a stone idol of the God of Commerce, not even showing the slightest sign of discomfort.

'Certainly not. Why should it?'

But about ten minutes later, when he thought I wasn't looking, I saw him rub his hands together. Ha! He was mortal, after all!

'We'll make camp here!' came his order about half an hour later. I nearly dropped from my saddle in relief. For a moment I considered cuddling up to the warm form of the camel, but the stink of the creature would keep me at bay till I was at death's door from freezing. Anyway, there was work to be done.

'Pitch the tents! Cook food! Set guards!' Mr Ambrose's pelted us with orders, and we hurried to obey. Luckily, Youssef, and not I, got the task of collecting the camel shit to light a fire with.

'You there! Scout ahead as long as the moon is still up! I want to know what's out there! Be back in half an hour! And you, get my maps and instruments! I have to determine where exactly we are!'

Soon we were all huddled around a campfire that, while smelling rather peculiar, at least prevented our blood from freezing in our veins. There was warm food, companionship and even the occasional laughter. I didn't understand any of the jokes, since they were all in Arabic, but I laughed along anyway. Mr Ambrose, to nobody's surprise, did not laugh.

Finally, though, our evening's kettle full of warm stew ran out. Not long after, the day's camel shit ran out as well, and the fire began to die down. The men started to disperse, some gathering in groups around the warm, if stinking, forms of the snoring camels. Others with more sensitive noses just moved closer to the glowing remains of the fire and huddled together there.

This left only few solitary people: the guards surrounding the camp in a circle, and Mr Ambrose, and me, lying on the ground alone, separated by several feet of cold desert air. Shivering, I drew my thobe closer around me. Blast! I should have bought a woollen cloak, too!

I glanced over at Mr Ambrose. He was lying, stiff as a board, his arms folded in front of his chest as if daring the night to freeze him to death. I couldn't see his eyes – but I'd bet a month's wages on the fact that they were colder than the dark night around us.

Yes, his eyes might be cold. But the rest of him... Bloody hell, he has to be warm! Warmer than you, anyway!

I cleared my throat.

'Dick?'

No answer.

I sighed. 'Rick?'

Still no answer.

'Mr Ambrose, Sir?'

There was a moment of silence, then: 'Yes?'

'It's rather cold, Sir.'

He didn't move an inch, didn't even turn to look at me. 'I had observed that much for myself.'

'The others are all huddling together.'

'Indeed?'

'Against the cold, you know. Huddling together helps keep the cold away.'

'Is that so?'

'Yes.' I cleared my throat again, and waited for a moment, giving him the opportunity to continue. He didn't, preferring rather to lie stiff as a stiff and glare up at the stars. I cleared my throat for third time. It felt incredibly dry. 'So... I was wondering... why don't you?'

Now he did turn his head, very slowly, very deliberately. When his eyes met mine, I had to shiver again.

'Excuse me?'

I licked my lips. 'I said why don't you huddle together with, um... someone? Or cuddle, whichever you prefer.'

His eyes narrowed. 'I don't cuddle.'

'You don't?'

'Most certainly not!' he proclaimed to the night sky, his voice cold and powerful, as if he were sitting in his office at home, and not lying in the desert freezing his toes off. 'And I do not huddle either! I absolutely refuse to participate in such an undignified activity. The cold is not life-threatening. I shall not succumb to improper behaviour merely to decrease a temporary discomfort.'

Before I knew it, my hand had moved. We lay not far from each other, and it reached out, crossing the distance and coming to rest on top of his arm.

'Even with your wife?'

His arm shifted almost imperceptibly. 'You are not really my wife.'

'Do you mind keeping up the pretence until it's not so freezing anymore?' I lifted an eyebrow. 'Or would you rather that I go huddling and cuddling with one of the other men out there?'

His arm flipped in a startlingly fast movement, and his fingers closed around my wrist in an iron vice.

'Stay – right – where – you – are!'

No matter how icy his voice was right then, somehow it managed to make me feel warm inside, warmer than a thousand campfires. His eyes gleamed in the dark, sending a shiver down my back.

'Oh, really? What will you do if I don't?'

He moved. I barely had time to see his shadowy form rear up above me, casting a shadow worthy of a Titan, before he came down on me. His weight drove the breath out of me for a second, and that was all the time he needed. His arms encircled me, and we rolled to the side, wrapping us up in our blankets and clothes until they were an inseparable tangle. When we came to a halt at the foot of a small dune, I was still out of breath, and not just because of the impromptu wrestling match. My blood was pumping fast, and I felt tingly all over.

'Let go!'

'Why?' His cool voice slid into my ear, smooth and seductive. 'You wished to engage in huddling and cuddling, did you not? Well, we are.'

I tried to push him away – but his arms were so tightly wrapped around me, pressing my arms to my sides, that I couldn't even try. So I thumped my head into his chest instead.

'This isn't cuddling!'

'Why, my love?'

'Because I want to strangle you!'

'Let's say it is a new version of cuddling – modified and improved.'

'Blast you! Let go of me!'

'No.'

I began to fire a barrage of bad language at him, most of which I had picked up from Arabian sailors and traders in the bazaar, and none of which I actually understood. Mr Ambrose listened, not loosening his grip the tiniest bit. When I had finally run out of breath, he commented: 'You seem to have made a promising start learning Arabic. However, your vocabulary could be called somewhat one-sided.'

'You can take your vocabulary and stick it up a camel's...'

I might have gotten further had he not right in that moment covered my mouth with a kiss. Heat surged through me, my body instinctively moulding itself to his, growing softer, stopping to fight. No, that wasn't true. I never stopped fighting. But a moment ago I had been fighting to get away. Now I was fighting to get closer!

From somewhere, I heard a low growl. My eyes, closed in ecstasy, flew open to look for the hyena, or lion, or whatever was lying in wait in the dark night. Only then I realized where the growl had come from: my very own throat!

Slowly, my hands managed to crawl up his chest, until they had reached his face and could pull him closer. He made a low, masculine sound in the back of his throat, and an involuntary smile tugged at my lips.

'So...' he murmured against my mouth. 'About the effectiveness of my modified version of cuddling...'

'Yes?'

'Are you still cold?'

Cold? Is he kidding?

Cold was forgotten. The concept of cold belonged to another universe now.

'No! I'm not!'

'I didn't think so.'

'You... you...arrogant son of a bachelor! You Ibn himar!'

'Not according to my birth certificate.'

'Kol Ayre!'

'That would present slight anatomical difficulties.'

'Kool Khara!'

'I do not like the taste of it much. Mind your language!'

My disgraceful language apparently didn't bother him too much, though – for the next thing he did was pull me closer and press another kiss on my lips. Rolling over, he placed himself so that one side of me was shielded from the bitter cold by the thickest wad of blankets, the other by his body, and, gently breaking our kiss, he pulled me against his chest. Sometime later, I drifted off into sleep, suppressing a grin as I snuggled into him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

For those of you who haven't heard of my new big project yet: here's its cover & title: I hereby proudly present for the very first time my latest book project, BLACK DIAIRES! :-)

What do you think of that cover? ;)

I'll begin to post installments of the story at the same time as the big RADISH FICTION LAUNCH for ANDROID DEVICES, on the Radish Fiction App on June the fifteenth, 2016. But don't you worry, I shall not forget about you, my dear Wattpad fans: the story shall begin on Wattpad the very same day it does on Radish Fiction, only on Radish the story shall be a number of chapters ahead for paying fans. If you can afford it, please offer your support to my latest story! I've got a feeling that this one is going to be really big :-)

For more info and any news about the book, please go to my social media pages  (@TheSirRob on Twitter or Facebook) or consult the interview about Black Diaries on the Radish Fiction blog! You shall find a link to the interview on my twitter, facebook and google+ pages. :)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob