The Sheik Retold

by Victoria Vane

  The Sheik Retold

  Victoria Vane

  & E.M. Hull

  The Sheik Retold by Victoria Vane & E.M. Hull

  Editor: Tara Chevrestt

  Cover Art: Victoria Vane

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.

  Copyright © 2013 Victoria Vane

  ISBN: 13:978-1492169956

  ISBN-10:1492169951

  HISTORICAL ROMANCE BY VICTORIA VANE

  The Devil DeVere Series

  A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1)

  The Virgin Huntress (The Devil DeVere #2)

  The Devil You Know (The Devil DeVere #3)

  The Devil's Match (The Devil DeVere #4)

  A Devil's Touch (The Devil DeVere 4.5)

  Jewel of the East (The Devil DeVere #5)

  Devil in the Making (Devilish Vignette#1)

  The Trouble with Sin (Devilish Vignette#2)

  Also

  Treacherous Temptations

  A Breach of Promise

  Chasing Venus (coming in 2014)

  WRITING AS EMERY LEE

  The Highest Stakes

  Fortune's Son

  DEDICATION

  To Edith Maude Hull who created the fascinating and exotic world of THE SHEIK

  and who first breathed life into Diana Mayo and Ahmed Ben Hassan.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I wish to thank my ever-supportive family, my wonderful editor, Tara, and my three fabulous "beta" readers, Kathleen, Jill, and Babs, whose encouragement and feedback proved invaluable.

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  When first published in 1919, E.M. Hull’s The Sheik was an overnight bestseller with over fifty printings within the first two years of release. The book was also made into a silent film that catapulted its leading man, Rudolph Valentino, to superstardom. Given its huge success in its time, I have no doubt many readers will wonder at my motive in re-writing this romance classic.

  As a reader, I have always found the "forced seduction"/rape-to-love trope appalling, and have never had such mixed feelings about a book as I did after reading The Sheik. It had so much to offer with its strong characters and beautiful descriptive prose, but it fell sadly short for me in so many other ways. I found the narrative too repetitive and the pace plodding. There was too much navel-gazing on the heroine's part, and far too little actual interaction between the hero and heroine for a romance. In sum, I loved and loathed it in equal measure.

  Nevertheless, this story captured my imagination and even though I had a number of other writing projects in progress, The Sheik held me hostage and absolutely refused to let me go. Once I began fantasizing about alternate scenarios, dialogue, and plot twists, I knew it was calling to me. I had no choice but to re-tell this story the way I envisioned it.

  While I have taken a number of liberties in my re-telling, the main plot, characters, and descriptive passages are largely unchanged. I kept everything I loved and changed what I loathed. Although my version is not completely devoid of violence (to omit all of it would only have watered down Ahmed's powerful alpha character), I have taken out the rape and animal abuse which I abhorred in the original. I have also thrown the bedroom door wide open.

  Most important, however, is my portrayal of Diana. Even though she falls deeply in love with her captor, my version of the character stays true to her strong and self-willed nature right to the end.

  While I believe The Sheik Retold will compare favorably to E.M. Hull's The Sheik, readers of this book will be the ultimate judge.

  Contents

  HISTORICAL TITLES BY VICTORIA VANE

  WRITING AS EMERY LEE

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  ~END~

  ABOUT VICTORIA VANE

  The Sheik Retold

  CHAPTER ONE

  The city of Algiers, French Algeria- May 1920

  "Diana, won't you please let me manage this," Jim pleaded with me once more.

  "Not on your life," I responded, hackles upright. "I've already been ‘managed’ as much as I can stand, thank you very much."

  "That's not what I meant." He gave me a look of dismay that evoked a twinge of guilt on my part. My predicament was not his fault. On the contrary, had I only listened to his advice two months ago…

  He continued in a placating tone. "What I am trying to say is that you might be a bit too distraught at the moment to handle this with the tact it may require. Won't you please consider waiting another day, or better yet, let me intercede on your behalf. Given the military governorship, my presence alone should lend more credence to your story. They may have trouble swallowing it, you know. It is quite an incredible tale."

  Deep down I knew he was right. First Lieutenant James Arbuthnot was both an officer of distinction in the British Army, as well as a gentleman of the first order, but I would not listen. My mind was filled with a militant mania for justice, vindication, and vengeance—in whatever order they might be achieved. I didn't care that I was at the governor-general's mansion sun beaten, wind burned, wild-eyed, and dressed like a heathen—I probably smelled like a camel too. Nevertheless, I couldn't bring myself to concede once more to a man—not after all I had been through at the merciless hands of men.

  I squared my shoulders and met him with my haughtiest stare, one maybe not intended to kill outright, but certainly to maim. "But it's also the truth."

  I refused to back down, even though I wasn't certain which office was the governor-general's. With the lack of British diplomatic presence in Algiers, I perhaps should have gone first to the secretary of police, but I was a lowly woman amongst the Arabs and knew the contempt I would experience from them. No, I would begin at the top of the pyramid—with the highest French authorities— rather than letting myself be relegated to the bottom.

  "Step aside, Jim. I'll speak for myself."

  His grey gaze met mine and wavered, a sure sign of weakness that I was quick to exploit. Leaving him gaping after me, I barreled ahead and straight past the two armed legionnaires who took only seconds to give chase. "Arrêtez-vous ou je vais tirer sur vous!" shouted one of the guards.

  "Shoot me then, by Jove!" I flung back over my shoulder.

  I'd already proven that I had as many lives as a cat. I'd survived a plot against my life, been shot at multiple times, had endured almost two months of captivity, and had survived a three-hundred-mile trek across the barren Sahara. Although, I'd surely used at least five by now, I figured I must still have three or four lives remaining.

  Amidst the melee, a portly man in a highly decorated French uniform flung open a door and stepped into the corridor with hands thrown up in classic Gallic fashion. "Porquoi tout ce remue-ménage?" he demanded with an air of authority and then eyed me with patent surprise. "Et qui est cette femme?"

  "I am Diana M
ayo," I answered back in French. "I came here to see Monsieur Jonnart, the governor-general."

  "Diana Mayo? The English heiress?" He stepped closer, regarding me with renewed scrutiny. He reeked strongly of both garlic and disbelief. "She is dead these two months."

  I laughed hysterically. "Au contraire, monsieur. Though others may have done their best to achieve my demise, I am very much alive."

  "C'est incroyabale!" He shook his head. "No English woman could survive in that wasteland!"

  "I speak the truth!" I cried. "I am Diana Mayo. The governor-general knows me personally. We met in Paris only a year ago at an Embassy soiree just after the signing of the peace. My brother and I came to Algiers at his express invitation. If you still do not believe me, there are at least a dozen people in Biskra, citizens of my own country, who can positively identify me." I took a deep breath, willing a demeanor of cool authority that I seemed to have lost. "Now, monsieur, I demand to see Charles Célestin Auguste Jonnart, the governor of this backward province."

  He smiled slowly, revealing two gold teeth. "I'm afraid that is not possible, mademoiselle. Charles Célestin Auguste Jonnart has been recalled to Paris on official diplomatic business."

  "When does he return?" I asked with growing impatience.

  "He does not. Another has been appointed in his stead."

  My stomach sank. "Then please tell me who acts in his stead?"

  He puffed his chest and raised a hand to twist the end of his waxed moustache. "The acting governor-general of this backward province…would be me, mademoiselle." He completed the introduction with a curt bow. "I am General Jean-Baptiste Eugene Abel at your service."

  I closed my eyes on an inward groan. Damn! Why hadn't I listened to Jim? It seemed I was defeated even before I had begun! I wondered if the new governor would have me quietly carried out of the building or dragged through the streets as a madwoman.

  Neither, it seemed.

  His gaze flickered over the two legionnaires shifting restlessly on either side of me, looking as uncertain as I felt. He waved them away with an irritated gesture. He then stepped back to motion me into his office. Large and opulently furnished in gilts and silks, it was a fascinating meld of Ottoman Empire and ancien régime.

  "S'il vous plait." He waved me to a low Turkish divan. "Come and sit, mademoiselle. I shall call for coffee and then you shall recount to me all that is the cause of your great distress." He smiled and settled his girth into a large leather-covered chair. "I wish to know precisely how such a delicate English woman managed to survive alone for months in such inhospitable conditions."

  He lit a cigarette and then offered his case to me, but I didn't care for the scent of the cheap Gauloises tobacco, having become accustomed to the rich aroma of pure Turkish Murads.

  "I am not so delicate, nor was I alone," I replied. "I was abducted and held captive."

  "Were you indeed? I suppose these savages demanded a ransom for your release?" he asked before taking a long draw on his cigarette.

  "No, he did not."

  "He?" His brows rose as he blew a wispy cloud of grey smoke.

  "Yes. My captor wanted nothing monetarily."

  "Is that so?" He was silent for a long moment as his beady black gaze swept over me. The unspoken implication and his lascivious leer sent a profusion of heat to my face.

  Nevertheless, I forged on. "As it turns out, my abductor inadvertently saved my life."

  "How do you mean, mademoiselle?"

  "It is my belief that my own brother may have intended to kill me."

  "You believe your brother has intrigued against you? And where is he now, this brother?"

  "He is in New York, or perhaps Newport. He has a perfect alibi, of course, but I have evidence to support my suspicions."

  He nodded slowly and then pursed his lips. "Then your captor was an accomplice in this nefarious plot?"

  "No. It is not as simple as that."

  "Alors! This is fascinating indeed. I wish to hear this tale en totalité, but first I shall summon my scribe to record this story. After which, I intend to send an urgent dispatch to the British Embassy in Paris."

  He stubbed out his cigarette and then his gaze narrowed on me with a disconcerting intensity. "As to your abductor, I shall deal with this heathen dog, this barbaric bâtard, personally. You must tell me, Mademoiselle Mayo, who was the perpetrator of this…this…outrage to your person?"

  And in that moment I knew.

  It was not the details of my intended murder that had captured his interest. No, he didn't care at all about me. He desired only to know what I knew—specifically, the name and location of the force behind the simmering unrest—my captor and my lover—Sheik Ahmed Ben Hassan.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Biskra, an oasis town in Northern Algeria- two months earlier

  I was desperate for some air after hours in the stifling ballroom. My jaw ached from smiling and laughing, and my mind had grown numb from the effort of polite conversation. Aubrey had long ago drifted off to the card room, leaving me looking out over the dancers without my normal enthusiasm. I cared nothing to dance tonight, but rather was possessed with a strange feeling of detachment. Although I'd looked forward to the party for days, I found myself increasingly edgy and eager for my departure. Biskra had been very gay for a time, but I had grown bored. My thoughts were already far to the south, drifting over the barren Sahara.

  Craving just a breath of cool night air before returning to my social duties, I stood beside the open terrace doors leading out into the hotel gardens. The strike of a match and a brief flicker of light caught my attention. Leaning against a nearby pillar was a man in European dress, but with the dark complexion and indolent air of a native. He had lit a cigarette, a particularly rich blend of tobacco. Pure Turkish, I suspected. He inhaled of it with an air of arrogance as he gazed through the open window into the ballroom filled with inanely chattering people. He looked as bored as I felt—until his gaze fixed upon me.

  Our eyes met. Even in the darkness, his face was arrestingly handsome. His eyes were black and penetrating, holding mine with an expression of disdain, before his mouth twisted into a sneer. Erect and proudly poised, I matched his display of scorn with a supercilious lift of my brow. I thought he would come to me then, as soon as I acknowledged him, as most men did, but instead, he cast his gaze heavenward and exhaled a series of lazy smoke rings.

  He was probably one of those who resented all the well-heeled Infidels who had turned Biskra into a favored holiday spot after the war. Aubrey and I were amongst that exclusive set of globe-trotters who lived out of our massive steamer trunks and claimed the entire world as our playground.

  We were truly an incongruous pair of siblings, Aubrey and I, opposites in almost every possible way. Nearly two decades my senior, Aubrey was the by-product of my father's first marriage, the one he made under duress to satisfy his family. The union ended as badly as its inauspicious start, but our father's second marriage to my mother was for love. Unfortunately, they both passed away when I was very young, which left Aubrey responsible for raising me—an aberration in itself. I was a motherless girl left to the tender mercies of a brother who was frankly horrified at the charge that had been thrust upon him.

  For the first few years of my life I was left in the exclusive care of nurses and servants who spoiled me indiscriminately. Then one day Aubrey came home from a long tour and fixed on my training, which he modeled rigidly after his own. Dressed as a boy, treated as a boy, I learned to ride, shoot, and fish—not as mere amusements, but to enable me to later take my place as my brother's companion. With that end in view, my upbringing had been Spartan, with no allowances made for my gender or temperament.

  Aubrey's air of weariness was purely an affectation. In reality, he was as hard as nails, and intended that I should be the same. He treated me as a boy, and wanting to please him, I never behaved otherwise. I threw myself heart and soul into the arduous life he'd mapped out for me until I was physica
lly able to take up the role for which he had always intended me. From that time on, I set out with him on our ceaseless travels. Six years of perpetual change, of excitements and dangers— which had led us to North Africa. But it was here that I had finally decided to chart my own course. Tomorrow would begin my new independence, and my eagerness was the source of my unrest tonight.

  Gazing out into the gardens, I heard a trio of familiar voices. Although I clearly recognized them, they hadn't taken notice of me.

  "Are you going to try your luck?" asked a red-headed Englishman whose name I have forgotten. I couldn't help overhearing and quickly realized to my amusement that Aubrey and I were the subject of their discourse.

  "I sure am not." The lone American in the group, a chap named Henry, bit off the end of his cigar with a little smile. “The haughty little jade turned me down flat early in our acquaintance. Said straight out she had no use for an American who could neither ride nor dance. I don't blame her of course," he added a rueful laugh, "but her extreme candor still rankles. No, Sir Egotistical Complacency has gone off to play bridge, which suits me much better. He's not a bad chap underneath, if you can swallow his peculiarities, and he's a capital sportsman. Doesn't give a damn if he wins or loses. I suppose it matters little with a banking account the size of his."

  "So you say?" remarked Jim Arbuthnot, a young regimental officer on holiday. "Yet only a few nights ago, he took quite a fit after losing. Ordered a bottle of brandy and disappeared for the rest of the night. Personally, I've never taken to gaming. I find dancing much more amusing and less expensive, so I suppose I shall go and take my chances with the fair sister."

  Henry pushed him forward with a mocking laugh. "Go then! Run along, foolish moth, and get your poor little wings singed."