Lord of the Desert

by Diana Palmer

  “If you say I look like him, I’ll have you guarding sand dunes for the next five years,” Gretchen told him.

  “I never said a word, ma’am, honest!”

  She grinned at Leila, who looked as out of place as she felt. She hid the pistol in the flowing robes and indicated that Leila should do the same. She signaled to the men, who began to walk deliberately toward Gretchen’s quarters and slowly entered the room.

  From the corridor, Gretchen and Leila moved close enough to peer inside. Sure enough, Kurt Brauer, as she’d guessed, was waiting behind the curtains with two armed men. They came forward. Brauer was wild-eyed and angry, and he looked momentarily perplexed.

  “Where is Lady Sabon?” he demanded in English. Arabic, obviously, wasn’t one of his languages.

  “The Lady? She is being taken to the hospital,” the cross-dressed guard said. “She was badly injured, in an explosion in the cathedral! We have come for her gowns.”

  Brauer seemed to relax. “And her husband?” he persisted.

  “With her. Who are you? What do you want in my lady’s chambers?” the guard persisted.

  Brauer moved restlessly. “Never mind. Where is this hospital?”

  The guard told him.

  Brauer was frowning at the “women.” “You look very odd, for a woman,” Brauer said. “Get outside and watch the corridor!” he told the two men with him.

  They came barreling through the door and right into the leveled pistols of Gretchen and Leila.

  “Say one word, and I’ll be looking down the corridor through you!” Gretchen said in a hushed whisper, forcing her captive out of sight of the door.

  Leila repeated the command in sharp Arabic, her own pistol in her camouflaged prey’s stomach. She added an order for them to drop their weapons.

  “What was that noise?” Brauer demanded. “You men…!”

  There was a scuffle, quickly over, and Brauer came flying out into the corridor, headfirst. He hit the floor and before he could roll over, the guard who’d insulted Gretchen was all over him. She had to admire that technique. He might have a bad attitude, but he left nothing to be desired as a bodyguard. In no time, Kurt was vanquished, bruised, and neatly tied up with a piece of the “women’s” robes.

  “Very nice, young man!” Gretchen told the guard, her green eyes twinkling. “I’m proud of you!”

  He actually grinned at her. He and Hassan threw off the robes they were wearing over their own clothing and left them on the floor while they marched the three captives down the hall. Gretchen and Leila took only a few seconds to discard their own disguises and follow along.

  The old sheikh peered out the door of the room he was occupying, saw the captives, grinned from ear to ear and joined his daughter-in-law and her servant with such pride that Gretchen had to smother a grin.

  “Here,” she said, handing him her pistol and urging him forward without actually touching him. Touching him would have broken a local taboo, which she knew. “You get right up there with Hassan and that other guy. It will do wonders for you with the international press!”

  He stopped, looking perplexed. “You would do this, for me? After all the insulting things I have said to you about American women and outsiders?”

  She shrugged. “You’re going to be the baby’s grandfather,” she reminded him.

  “So I am.” He smiled with real affection and handed her back the pistol. He wrapped both his big hands around hers. “And you will be his mother. This story will be told around tribal campfires for the foreseeable future. It will do your child no little service to have it known that his mother has the heart of a falcon. Go.” He urged her up into the group that was coming to meet the tied, dejected prisoners.

  “Kurt Brauer,” Brianne’s husband Pierce said with a cold smile. He motioned to the international press to join them. “You people from the American press may remember this scalawag. He invaded Qawi two years ago, slaughtered women and children with his hired mercenaries, and got a short Russian prison sentence. He’ll be tried in Qawi this time. And I promise you, he won’t get out anytime soon.”

  “About that, you are precisely correct!” came a furious voice from behind Pierce Hutton.

  Philippe came into view, still wearing his ceremonial robes, with the mercenaries and his personal guard flanking him. He stopped short at the sight of Kurt and his comrades in bondage. Then his eyes went to Hassan, the disgraced guard, and Gretchen with her brother’s pistol and Leila with a borrowed one standing behind them.

  He grinned outrageously. “As you can see,” he raised his voice, “in Qawi, even the women are dangerous!”

  Brauer and his two friends were moved aside so that the press could photograph Gretchen and Leila with their pistols in hand. It was a media event. Philippe folded his arms and smiled with enormous pride as his bride was photographed, interviewed, praised and admired by half the world—including the foreign dignitaries. The U.S. vice president kissed her, and the Russian and Israeli delegates shook her hand warmly. Others surged forward to add their own praise. Gretchen thought she could never withstand such happiness. Sadly, with her condition and all the excitement, it was too much for her. She fainted.

  Philippe was at her side instantly, patting her hands, smoothing her hair under the concealing headdress. “Gretchen. Darling! Are you all right?” he asked.

  He sounded actually frantic. Gretchen’s eyes opened. She was numb and cold and she felt nausea in her throat. She looked up at her husband and smiled gently. “I don’t think capturing invaders is good for pregnant women.”

  He chuckled, relieved. “Perhaps not, but at least you picked the best time to pass out, my own.” He bent and lifted her into his arms, brushing his lips tenderly across her eyes as she clung to him.

  “Did you say that you were pregnant, Mrs. Sabon? I mean, Lady Sabon?” one of the journalists asked, aghast.

  “Very pregnant, indeed,” she assured them. “You can all come to the christening. But right now, all I want is my bed and some dill pickles with strawberry sauce.”

  She grinned at them as they got the joke and started to laugh. Behind them, Kurt Brauer was cursing himself, and his friends. They were taken quickly away to jail. Gretchen was just glad that it was finally over. She reached up and kissed her husband’s lean cheek before she slid her lips against his throat and tightened her arms.

  “Did I do good?”

  “You did good.” He kissed her softly. “How did you manage it?”

  She hesitated. It was good to have things to hold over men. You never knew when a nice threat would get you something you needed badly. She pursed her lips. “Do you know, I don’t remember a lot of it. But Hassan and your disgraced guard saved the day. They surprised Brauer in my rooms and Leila and I pointed our guns at his henchmen. That was all it took.”

  “Dutch and the others cornered the rest of his men outside. Two were wounded, but the rest are all right. And fortunately for us, nobody was seriously hurt in the bombing. I’m sure Brauer meant it to kill us. It didn’t succeed, so he had to do his own dirty work.”

  “He’s not very good at it,” she murmured. “Maybe he can learn a useful trade while he’s in prison.”

  “Our prisons have no such facilities,” he said without thinking.

  She looked up at him with a wicked little smile. “Now, speaking of prison reform…”

  His groan could be heard by Leila and his father, who were watching the byplay with broad smiles. But they didn’t say a thing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It seemed like forever until Philippe came back to their suite. She’d long since removed her beautiful wedding robes and replaced them with the caftan she liked to wear in her suite.

  Philippe smiled as he closed the door and opened his arms. She ran into them, holding on as if she was afraid someone might try to tear him away from her.

  “Everything’s all right,” he said softly, hugging her close. “Brauer and most of his men are in custody and they w
ill be tried. It’s all over.”

  She held on tighter. “We can’t ever let him get out!”

  He kissed her forehead. “Come. I want you to meet some people.”

  “Wait,” she said, and found her aba. She drew it over her before she joined him, grinning at his faint surprise.

  He caught her by the arm and tugged her along with him to the door. When he opened it, she recognized Brianne Hutton at once, but the big dark man beside her was unfamiliar, like the young blond and the very dark gentleman beside her.

  “You’ve met Brianne,” Philippe said, with his arm tight around her waist. “This is her husband, Pierce, and this is Cecily and Tate Winthrop.”

  “I’m very glad to meet you,” Gretchen said in her soft drawl and smiled.

  “Well,” Pierce Hutton mused. “There is a resemblance.”

  “Yes, there is a slight one,” Philippe said with an indulgent smile at his wife.

  “Slight, indeed,” Pierce continued, holding Brianne close at his side. “You look well, despite all the excitement this morning,” he told Gretchen. “You’re none the worse for wear, I hope?”

  She leaned close against Philippe’s chest and smiled sleepily. “No. I’m just tired, but that’s natural.”

  “Very natural, for a mother-to-be,” Philippe said with breathless tenderness.

  Brianne’s gasp was full of shocked delight. Her green eyes shimmered with glee. “Oh, my, my, my!”

  Philippe chuckled and a ruddy color came along his high cheekbones. “As you once said, miracles still happen in the world. Gretchen has made me believe in them again.”

  “Obviously,” Pierce Hutton said with a low whistle. He gave his wife a curious look and she made a face at him. It was as if she were daring him to have any more suspicions about her friend Philippe Sabon. And it was equally clear that he didn’t.

  “I believe in miracles myself,” Cecily Winthrop said softly, and with a smile at her handsome husband. “Tate and I are expecting our second child. Our firstborn is with his grandparents at the hotel. Thank God we didn’t bring him or Brianne’s little boy along for the ceremony!”

  “The Holdens, Matt and Leta, stayed at the hotel to baby-sit for us,” Pierce offered with a smile.

  “It was scary,” Gretchen admitted, looking up at Philippe with a grin. “But nothing we couldn’t handle!”

  The guests stayed for a late supper before they went back to their hotel. They were going to fly out the next morning. Marc wished his sister happiness, took back his pistol with a wry grin, and shook hands with his new brother-in-law heartily. Gretchen and Philippe went back to their own suite soon afterward, both tired and ready for bed.

  But on the way, they encountered Philippe’s father, who was looking darkly concerned and broody.

  “What’s wrong?” Philippe asked him.

  He shrugged. “It is nothing. Well,” he amended with a glance toward them, “it is nothing much.”

  “Father,” Philippe prodded.

  The old man shifted and shrugged. “Father Felipe has just given me the most intimidating lecture of my life.”

  “For what?” Philippe asked.

  “You knew that your wife insulted your bodyguard. He is the youngest son of the leader of one of the Beduoin tribes, who is very pleased that you have reinstated him and at a higher rank,” he said slowly.

  “Yes, he was instrumental in saving Gretchen’s life,” he agreed. “It was the least I could do.”

  “Well, she said a great many things to him that your other guard overheard and repeated gleefully. Since her American heritage is well-known, along with her newness to Arabic speech, the source of her language was traced to me.” He cleared his throat, avoiding the howling amusement in Gretchen’s and Philippe’s faces. “I have been given penance for the next two weeks and advised to take more care in my choice of suitable epithets.” He cleared his throat again. “But besides that, I have recently been listening to my daughter-in-law in an attempt to learn some curses which are more acceptable.” He grinned suddenly and let loose a barrage of Spanish ranch slang that had Gretchen gasping for breath.

  “If you say that in front of Father Felipe, he’ll wash your mouth out with lye soap!” she exclaimed, red-faced.

  “I did!” he groaned. “That is why Father Felipe has given me two weeks’ penance!”

  She burst out laughing. Her father-in-law’s eyes bulged and he glowered at her. “You said this language was American slang!” he accused.

  “It is,” she confessed in a squeaky tone, “but I learned it from my brother. And there is nobody in south Texas who can hold a candle to him when he loses his temper!”

  “There is no cause for concern,” Philippe said, holding up a hand. “As a matter of fact, I have been studying old American movies for inspiration in this respect, and I have a curse which will even be appropriate to teach my heir when he is able to speak.”

  “Have you now?” Gretchen asked, still catching her breath. “Okay. What is it?”

  Philippe grinned from ear to ear. “Horsefeathers.”

  She and his father exchanged a long stare and suddenly burst out laughing.

  Later, as she lay in her husband’s strong arms, Gretchen thought over the past few months and felt a warm glow under her heart as she savored the delight of her new life.

  “We have so much,” she murmured sleepily. “I never dreamed of being this happy.”

  His arms contracted. “Nor I. You have made miracles all around me.”

  “We made them together.” She pulled one of his hands to her belly and held it there tenderly. “I hope we can have a palace full of children, but even one is more than I ever dared wish for.”

  “And I.” He sighed as his lips found hers in the darkness. “I must remember to teach you some very intimate French, when I have the time.”

  She grinned. “I’m sorry I got your father in trouble. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Yes, you did,” he accused softly.

  “Well, he did get me in a lot of trouble first with those Arabic curses.”

  “And you did know that Father Felipe spoke Spanish fluently.”

  “I only taught him just a few little bitty words,” she defended herself. “It did help clean up his language.”

  “And yours,” he added mockingly.

  “I’m reformed.”

  “Ha!”

  She curled her legs into his. “Really. I’m turning over a new leaf.”

  His own leg curled lazily against hers. He was no longer self-conscious with her, or inhibited about lying with her in the light. She’d made him realize that his scars were far worse in his own mind than in reality. She’d made him realize a lot of things.

  He smoothed her cheek against his hair-roughened chest with a sigh. “My pearl of great price,” he whispered.

  “Hmm?”

  He smiled. “Do you remember the story of the poor man who found a pearl of great price and sold everything he had to buy it? I would give my kingdom for you.”

  “Would you, really?”

  “Everything I own.”

  She’d thought he was teasing. But that didn’t sound like teasing. Her hand stilled against his chest. “I love you,” she said softly.

  His lips brushed against her eyelids, closing them. “I loved you the first time I saw you, standing so worriedly in front of the concierge and trying to look confident. It was like looking into my own soul. I could never have given you up, even then. How odd that it took so long for me to realize it.”

  She could barely get her breath. “You never said that you loved me.”

  He chuckled softly and held her closer. “And of course it never occurred to you that I, a man whose body was his worst nightmare, would willingly take off my clothes in front of a woman out of anger?”

  Her whole body stilled. That had never even dawned on her. She caught her breath audibly.

  “I knew,” he said huskily, “I knew that you would never ridicule it or ber
ate me when you saw the scars. I trusted you enough to share my disfigurement with you. It was an act of love, even if I didn’t quite realize it at the time.”

  “Neither did I.” She felt tears slipping down her cheek, onto his chest.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “Because I love you more than my life,” she whispered.

  “I love you more than mine!” he replied at once, with gruff fervor. “More than anything in the world!” He rolled over and his mouth found hers, cherished it, traced it in a silence warm with tenderness. “I will love you until I die. Forever. Forever, my darling!” he groaned against her lips.

  She held him close. “You mustn’t ever leave me,” she managed in a choked voice.

  “As if I could!” He wrapped her up tight and kissed her hungrily.

  She kissed him back. When the fierce ardor eased a little, she curled closer, feeling loved and cherished and happier than she ever dreamed of being. “Philippe?” she murmured.

  “Hmm?” he asked, his lips teasing just at her collarbone.

  “That had better not be a line you hand out to all the women in your life,” she teased, punching him in the ribs.

  He laughed deeply as he caught her hand. “Woman, you insult me!” he said in mock horror.

  “Horsefeathers!”

  He chuckled as he moved slowly over her welcoming body. “Now, now,” he murmured as his mouth settled against hers. “You’ll get in trouble if you don’t watch your language. I’ll tell Father Felipe.”

  “Is this the sort of trouble I’ll get in?” she asked against his hungry mouth.

  “Mmm-hmm,” he murmured, smiling.

  “In that case,” she whispered, “I’ll see if I can’t learn a whole lot of new words!”

  It was the last thing she said for a very long time.

  Seven months later, Ahmed Rashid Philippe Mustafa was born to the reigning sheikh of Qawi and his wife the Lady Gretchen. Two prominent medical specialists were overheard at the christening discussing an upcoming joint paper about anomalies of fertilization and misdiagnosis of sexual function based on long-standing injury.