The Sheik Retold

by Victoria Vane

  When the hour was up, I rose and mounted, taking no notice of the guide's sullen look. We rode forward steadily and silently. I had not been mistaken about the horses. They responded eagerly to the brisker pace demanded of them. Mine in particular moved out in a swift and easy gallop that was the perfection of motion.

  We rode for several more hours. By now I was wondering where my baggage train was. Even with my earlier delay, given the pace we had set on horseback, we should have overtaken the lumbering camels long ago. Yet the desert spread out cleanly before us with nothing aside from the rapidly descending sun obstructing my view of the distant horizon.

  "Where is our caravan, Mustafa Ali? I see no sign of an oasis, and the darkness will soon come." I had begun to fear it would indeed be nightfall before we reached our destination—even though we had ridden much longer and faster than I had ever intended.

  The guide scowled. "If mademoiselle had started earlier—"

  "If I had started earlier, it would still have been too far," I snapped. "Tomorrow we will arrange it otherwise."

  His hand went to his forehead in a pious gesture. "Tomorrow is with Allah!"

  I wished with growing irritation that he would stop relegating his responsibilities to the deity and take a little more active interest in his missing camel train. Perhaps fatigue and hunger fired my ill temper, or perhaps I was only annoyed by my guide’s poor planning. In either case, I was suddenly oppressed by the same silent desolation that had only a short while ago inspired such delight.

  Another retort hovered on my lips until I noticed a collection of black specks far off across the desert. They were too far away to see clearly, but there was definitely something moving across the plain. "Look there!" I cried. "Is that our caravan?"

  Very soon I realized the black specks were moving far too fast to be lumbering camels. It was a band of mounted men coming swiftly toward us. I had never seen so large a body except in a regiment on parade. It was impossible to count their number, for they were riding in close formation, and in orderly ranks that suggested a military discipline I would not have expected amongst the natives.

  I watched the band with appreciatory eyes. The horses were all beautiful creatures and the riders were magnificent, with the wind filling their great white cloaks, making each man look gigantic. My interest flamed into excitement. It was like discovering a passing ship upon a hitherto empty sea. As the distance between our two parties rapidly decreased, I saw that they were armed and held their rifles in front instead of slung on their backs. I wondered why.

  "What are they?" I called out to Mustafa Ali. He didn't answer. To my added distress, my escort lagged some distance away from me.

  My horse was becoming fretful and restless by the proximity of the galloping horses. She reared, but I reined her in. The troop of Arabs passed quite close to us—alarmingly close—maybe a few yards away, but none of them turned a head in our direction or slackened pace. It was as if we were invisible. I watched with my heart in my throat as the galloping horses drew level with the last stragglers of my party. They reined in to an abrupt halt that flung the horses far back on their haunches. My admiration of the wonderful horsemanship was supplanted by growing trepidation. The solid square of armed men split up and lengthened into a long line of two abreast. Wheeling behind the last of Mustafa's men, they came back even faster than they had passed and encircled me, cutting me off from my escort.

  Twice they galloped around, their long cloaks fluttering, tossing their rifles in their hands. Bewildered by this chain of events, I strove to soothe my fretful horse. Perhaps this was just some kind of demonstration? Maybe they intended to simply fire a parting salute and move on? I knew the decharge de mousqueterie was much loved by the Arabs. Of course by then I was grasping at straws.

  My excited horse spun in an attempt to bolt. I managed to regain control only to discover the rifles no longer pointing up into the heavens, but aiming straight at us. By now my mind was reeling with disbelief. What were they doing? What was their intent? Were they bandits? If so, I had nothing of value for them to steal. Everything was with the caravan. Surely this would only be a question of a ransom. It was an annoyance, but the experience would add a certain piquancy to my trip.

  Mustafa Ali's men were blotted out from my sight, cut off by the band of Arabs. A volley of shots caused an icy hand to clutch my heart and a moan to burst from my lips. My guide slid out of his saddle to the ground. My mind reeled, but I took a deep breath, telling myself that the Arabs hadn't really meant to hurt anyone, that they were just excited and someone's shot had mistakenly aimed wide. It could only be that. I still would not acknowledge that there was any real threat, though my heart was pounding out of my chest. I was too near Biskra for any true danger. Wasn't I?

  The French authorities had tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t listen. In my proud obstinacy I had taken none of it seriously, but now the sheer gravity of the situation had come home to me—that my very life was in danger, a notion that filled me with both fury and terror. My guide was wounded, his men surrounded, and nobody had even put up any kind of a fight! I reeled with a sudden faintness and then dragged my horse's head around. I was trapped, and the net was closing fast. My hands shook, and my legs trembled beneath me. Reading my fear, my horse responded accordingly, rearing and plunging.

  In the midst of this chaos, a steely resolve settled over me. Crouching low over the mare's withers, I clutched her neck and jammed my heels into her flanks. At the sudden contact of my spurs in her sides, she bolted, bursting through the armed barrier like flood waters through a dam. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the leader turn in his saddle and raise his hand high above his head with a wild shout. Clearly I had taken them by surprise, and I clung to that advantage as tightly as I could.

  I expected shots to follow me, but it didn't matter. I had no thought beyond escape. The horse needed no encouragement either. We were both running wild and scared, frantically tearing across the desert back in the direction from whence we had come. After about a half mile, I shot a glance behind me to discover a solitary Arab in a black cloak—the leader— had given chase.

  Panic-stricken, I crouched forward on the bay's neck and rode as I had never ridden in my life, spurring, coaxing, and shouting, heedless of the rough and dangerous track. Better an ugly toss and broken neck than to be taken by him. I wanted to shriek but clenched my teeth on my lips to keep back the scream that rose in my throat.

  I glanced back again. He was at least a hundred yards away but appeared to be gaining. There was a sinister deliberation in the way he followed, as if riding me down. The thought made me dig my spurs even deeper. As a sportswoman, I'd often wondered how a hunted creature felt. Now I was in a fair way of finding out. Like the fox to the hound, I was determined to give this Arab dog a run for his money. I could ride, and there still seemed plenty of steam in the frightened animal beneath me. I kept down, lying low against her neck, alternately coaxing and spurring. I would ride until I dropped—or the horse did.

  From behind came a long, shrill whistle and the mare's mood instantly changed. Her ears pricked, and her pace noticeably lagged. Clearly she was responding to a signal she knew. The whistle came again, and again, and despite my relentless spurring, she continued to check her pace.

  Damn her! Damn her to bloody hell!

  Perhaps it was the horse that was the cause of all the trouble? The guide's reluctance to give any history of her came back to me. She must have been stolen and belonged to the Arab. The sum of Mustafa Ali's delinquencies was mounting up fast. But it was his affair, not mine. I had paid for the horse and was not about to be waylaid by Arab bandits. I dared not look behind again, but only straight ahead, as I hauled the bay around perilous corners, bending lower and lower in the saddle to aid her. I was approaching open desert with nothing but the sheer speed of my horse to save me. I wondered how long I could count on that.

  I had ridden hard all day, but the other rider was much larger and his weight
considerably greater. Maybe we could still break away. The perspiration was rolling down my face, and my lungs burned as if I were the one running. Though I urged the horse on with all my power, it was still to no avail. I flashed another backward look over my shoulder. The Arab was perilously close—closer than I had been aware. I had a fleeting glimpse of a big cloaked figure, dark piercing eyes, and gleaming white teeth. I could see the mockery in his expression, and the knowledge enraged me.

  Driven by a sudden madness, I withdrew my revolver and fired twice—full in his face.

  But rather than plunging from the saddle, a low laugh rang out from him, sending a cold ripple down my spine. I had missed again, just as I had missed that morning. It was inexplicable. With a curse, I flung away the useless revolver, trying once more in vain to force my horse's pace.

  A deep voice called out to me, not in Arabic but in pure unaccented French. "Arrêtez ou je tire sur le cheval!"

  Good God! He threatened to shoot my horse! Did he mean it? I swayed a little in the saddle, clutching the bay's neck to steady myself, but I still did not falter. I would not stop; nothing on earth could make me stop. I kicked my feet free of the stirrups lest I get hung up. He said he would shoot, and I knew he would shoot. My only hope was that he would miss. Yet if the bay shied or swerved even a hair's breadth, I might take the bullet instead. He obviously wanted me alive, but perhaps death would be better for me, surely more merciful than what I would suffer at this brigand's hands.

  Even before I heard the report, my horse bounded in the air and fell with a crash, flinging me far forward to land on the sand. I was stunned and winded by the fall but crawled over the hot ground to the prostrate animal. She was lashing out wildly with her heels, making desperate efforts to rise. As I reached her, the Arab dashed up alongside. His chestnut horse reared straight up and then the Arab leaped to the ground where my wounded mount lay. I shut my eyes on the second report, thankful he had the decency to put my horse out of its misery.

  I knew my flight had been madness from the first. I should have known I could never succeed. Every nerve in my body quivered, yet every faculty was suspended, swallowed up in the one dominating force—the dread of his voice and the dread of his hands. He came up beside me, and I turned away, refusing to look up at his savage face.

  He made no comment, and I made no resistance when he tossed me roughly into the saddle and swung up behind me, spurring his horse into a headlong gallop. I could not look at the body of the mare as we passed. I looked at nothing, but clung to the front of the saddle, and stared ahead unseeingly. I was stunned and choking with fury at the sheer ignominy of my situation.

  I had been out-ridden and out-maneuvered. I had been a fool to imagine I could ever win. My stubborn pride and willful arrogance had become my downfall.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When my senses returned, I fought him, struggling wildly. I was filled with rage—blind, passionate rage—against the man who had dared to lay his hands on me. My struggles against him were futile. He stifled my head in the thick folds of his woolen burnous, holding me in a suffocating grip. His hard, muscular arm was locked tightly around me, crushing my ribs and making it nearly impossible to breathe. Fear bloomed inside me as its insidious petals unfurled. Abject fear had come to me for the first time in my life—and was gaining on me with a force that made my head reel.

  He checked his horse, and the chestnut wheeled, spinning high on his hind legs before bounding forward again, but with my face hidden, I had no sense of direction. I only knew that we galloped swiftly, and the man seemed in no way disturbed. He swayed easily in the saddle, and even the wildest leaps did not cause any slackening of his arm around me.

  I eventually lay still, almost in shock, during which time the pressure on my body was relieved by degrees, allowing me to turn my head a little, but still not enough to allow me to see. I sucked in cool air, and it seemed to fan what little courage remained in me. I waited, collecting all my strength, and then made a sudden desperate spring. The Arab snatched me back into his hold with a quick sweep of his long arm, but as I fought him, my spurred heels tore into the chestnut's flank, causing him to rear.

  "Doucement, doucement." My captor's voice was soft and deep, but I couldn't discern whether the calming words were intended for me or for the horse.

  As I persisted in my struggle, he maintained total control over both me and the maddened, snorting horse, the latter with only the pressure of his legs. "Lie still, you little fool!" he snarled at me. "Better me than my men."

  His threat stunned me back into submission. I was already spent and gasping for breath and knew any further resistance would result in only pain and injury. He turned his attention back to his horse, speaking only when the chestnut shied and he muttered something under his breath.

  In about half an hour, a clear tenor voice called out to my captor. He answered curtly, and the men of his troop fell in. I lost all sense of time, just as I had already lost any sense of direction. I wondered what had happened to my guide and his men. Had they been butchered and left where they fell, or were they, too, being taken into some obscure region of the desert? My sense of terror grew until I trembled and great drops of moisture ran down my forehead.

  The Arab shifted, jerking me roughly, but the movement at least freed my head from the stifling folds of his cloak. Soon afterward, the galloping horse halted on his haunches. We had arrived. The Arab dismounted first and threw me unceremoniously over his shoulder like a sack of grain. I could still see nothing for the darkness and my upside down position. There was a cacophony of voices—confused, unintelligible; then they died away.

  He carried me a few paces and then set me down inside a large and lofty tent, brightly lit by two hanging lamps. I looked wildly about, blinking against the light that shone in dazzling contrast to the darkness that had gone before, but I took little heed of my surroundings—I was fixed instead on the man.

  He had flung aside the dark cloak that enveloped him and stood before me, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in white flowing robes, a waistcloth embroidered in black and silver wound several times about him. He was also armed. My gaze darted with panic to the dagger thrust into the folds, but I reassured myself in the same breath that had murder been on his mind, he would have carried it out already.

  My eyes tracked upward to rest on his sun-bronzed and lightly bearded face. Harsh and angular in the lamplight, it was at once the handsomest and cruelest face I had ever seen. He regarded me fiercely with scornful eyes. Those eyes! Surely I had seen them before.

  I gasped. It was him! The man from the party who had eyed me with such insolence. Even now he gazed at me as no other man had ever dared—in a way that made me acutely, almost painfully, conscious of my sex.

  "Who are you?" I asked hoarsely, speaking in French without thinking.

  He replied in French as well, "I am the Sheik Ahmed Ben Hassan."

  The name conveyed nothing. "Is it money that you want? Are you holding me for ransom?"

  He regarded me for a long and silent moment with an expression of contempt. "I have no need of your money."

  "What then?" I demanded, but deep down I already knew it was not a question of ransom. The way he looked at me was far too revealing and made my stomach churn. "Do you think that you can keep me here, you fool?" I lashed out in growing panic. "Do you suppose I can vanish into the desert and that no notice will be taken of my disappearance? That no inquiries will be made?"

  "There will be no inquiries," he answered me calmly.

  "There will be inquiries," I choked out. "I am not such a nonentity that nothing will be done when I am missed. The English authorities will make the French government find out who is responsible. You will pay for what you have done."

  "Pay?" His amused look sent a cold feeling of dread through me. "I have already paid…in gold that matches your hair, my gazelle. Besides," he continued, "the French have no jurisdiction over me. There is no authority here above my own."


  My trepidation grew by the second. "Why have you done this? Why have you brought me here?"

  "Why have I brought you here?" he repeated with a slow and heated appraisal. "Bon Dieu! Are you not woman enough to know?"

  Understanding descended upon me in a nauseas wave that flooded me with heat, filling me with a horror that made each separate nerve in my system cringe. Instinctively, I shrank back. My gaze fell away from his, darting to the flap of the tent, but he read my mind, catching me in his arms before I could flee. My limbs quivered, and he laughed softly, his breath hot in my ear. His mirth was more frightening to me than anything he had said.

  I averted my head, refusing to look at him, but he forcibly turned my face to his. I set my teeth and squeezed my lids shut, but I could not block out the vision of his eyes burning into me, nor the feeling of his hot, moist, mint-scented breath fanning my skin.

  "I wanted you from the moment I saw you, my golden one…And now," the backs of his long brown fingers brushed my hair, "you are mine."

  You are mine. His whispered words sent a wave of shock jolting through me.

  "Damn you to hell!" I cried. "I am my own woman! No one owns me!" I knew he intended to force himself upon me, and the anticipation made me shudder with fear and revulsion. I could not win, but still I fought, writhing in an effort to free myself. When this attempt failed, I slumped in his arms in a feint of submission.

  Unfazed, his lips neared mine. He murmured low and dark, his breath hot and faintly sweet against my face, "On the contrary, my gazelle, I do. I exchanged a large sum in gold with your would-be murderer. I bought your life. You are mine to do with as I wish."

  I willed myself to remain passive as his scorching lips met mine and his scalding tongue invaded my mouth, but the urge to escape resurfaced, reanimating my numbed nerves and galvanizing me to act. In a sudden surge of strength, I stomped the heel of my boot onto his instep. He drew back with a fierce curse, his grip loosening just enough for me to spin in his arms, yet when I tried to lurch free, the union with his bigger and stronger body remained. It was my valiant last stand…and it had failed.