"You will not get away with this," I babbled. "Mustafa Ali or one of the caravan men has surely given the alarm in Biskra by now."
"Mustafa Ali will not give any alarm in Biskra…or anywhere else for that matter."
"Why not? Have you murdered them all?" I asked in a choked whisper. Myriad tales of ruthless Arab cruelty surged through my mind.
"No. I have not murdered them," he replied. "There was no need when all had been arranged. When you come to know me better, you will realize that I leave little to chance. Of course, all things are with Allah, blessed be his name, but it is well to remember that Allah does not always concern himself with the affairs of men."
My head swam dizzily at his reply. "What are you saying, that you planned all of this?"
He smiled slowly. "Voyons! It was all very simple. You engaged a caravan in the charge of Mustafa Ali to travel in the desert. You set out from Biskra, with the intent of traveling northward to Oran, where you would dismiss the caravan. From there you were to cross to Marseilles, then on to Cherbourg to embark for America where you would join your brother." His slow, casual voice detailed my itinerary with the quiet certainty of perfect knowledge.
I swayed on my feet and whispered with dry lips, "H-how can you know…all…this?"
He replied with a blithe half-smile, "I wished to know."
"But why?"
"I have told you, my dove. As to how, you paid Mustafa Ali to guide you into the desert. Your brother paid him even more to leave you for dead, and then I paid him even better to lead you to me. Well enough indeed to make him content to remove himself from Biskra, where awkward questions might be asked. Indeed, well enough to retire to a place where he no longer has a need to make his living as a caravan leader."
To my amazement, he released me. I was too stunned to run, yet my mind raced with all he had revealed. Though I tried to reject it all as lies, tiny glimmers of truth broke through the darkness. I recalled vividly waking in my hotel room to a fleeting vision. There had been someone there. My revolver had been tampered with. I had not missed my shots; they had been substituted with blanks. Mustafa Ali's shifting eyes, his desire to hurry from the oasis where we had rested at mid-day, his tone, were all explained. He had acted his part to perfection right down to the imaginary wound that had toppled him from his saddle. My faithless and deceitful guide had led me to a man who had bribed him to betray me. Even the horse I rode was trained to this sheik's whistle. I could not deny that at least part of this absurdity was indeed truth.
The knowledge that I had been duped filled me with impotent rage, but the suggestion of Aubrey's complicity was ludicrous! Nevertheless, seeds of doubt took root in my mind. Could this be why Aubrey had reacted so uncharacteristically the night before? Suddenly I recollected the last moments before our parting. What had he and the guide been discussing just before my departure? Had he really planned to kill me? But why? Aubrey lived a life of extravagance. Could he be in need of funds? In the event of my death, my entire fortune would be his.
I recalled the strange look in his eyes. Was it a pang of guilt over the murder he had planned? Had he had second thoughts at the last minute? Had Aubrey really paid the guide to kill me? My hands gripped my throat. My God! It could not be true!
"I don't believe a word you say!" I gasped. "You are a brigand and a liar!"
His expression grew grim. His eyes shone cold, hard, and black as onyx. He came close behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders and then slowly slid them up to rest around my neck, where his thumbs caressed my pulse. His voice was low and soft. "Were you a man, I would slice your throat for such calumny. Do not ever disparage my character again."
My heart stood still. "But why me?" I choked out.
He dipped his head to murmur in my ear. "It was fated. I saw you once before—in Paris. You were surrounded by your panting lapdogs and would have none of them. It was then I knew that I alone would have you. The rest was Allah's will," he continued matter-of-factly. "You came to Biskra. You arranged a tour in the desert. You were bored and wanted adventure. I have granted that wish." He flashed a feral smile. "And now you will grant mine."
He released me abruptly, but my knees were so weak that I almost fell backward against him. It was all as he had said, and I felt dazed, hopeless, like a fugitive who has turned into a cul-de-sac. I heard the strike of a match, and then the pungent scent of Turkish tobacco drifted in a thin thread of smoke across my face. This banal little incident nearly snapped my nerves.
"You are mad. You have no right to keep me!"
"Au contraire, ma belle. You are mine. I have every right."
It was his second such reference, and every fiber of me rebelled against the thought. Could it be true? Would the laws of this primitive place uphold such a barbaric bargain? It could not be. This awful thing could not have happened—not to me, Diana Mayo! It was a dream! It must be a ghastly dream! My blood roared.
"Is this a normal practice for you?" I asked. "Are there so few women willing to have you that you must resort to abduction…to rape?"
His jaw clenched. His fingers clamped on my chin. "You are misguided. To be chosen for my bed is the greatest of honors."
I snorted my contempt. "I'm afraid I don't see it that way."
He returned an indulgent smile. "You will. In time. I do not expect you to comprehend yet, my dove, but you shall. Soon. Very soon."
"Please." I changed tack, begging with an earnest urgency. "Just let me leave this place and I will say nothing to anyone. To keep me here will only condemn you as a criminal. Under the law, your actions are nothing more than those of a lawless brigand—a kidnapping rapist."
"Once more you insult my character? Did I not just warn you of this?"
His darkening expression sent a ripple of dread deep into my belly, but I still refused to be cowed. "It is not an insult if it is the truth. You have abducted me."
"No. The truth is that you belong to me." He released my chin to stroke a knuckle along my jaw. His voice became as soft and sultry as his caress. "You must accept this fact, my dove."
I ground my teeth. "You do not own me."
He laughed. "You are much like an unschooled horse—one that has yet to be mastered, and I am the master here."
Mastered? My heart lurched into my throat. "What do you mean? Do you intend to lock me away? To beat me? Is this your notion of mastery?"
"Neither method is my preference." He released me with a blithe little shrug.
Perhaps I was weak with fatigue and hunger, or maybe my body had just shut down in shock, but my legs gave way beneath me. He caught me in his arms where I lay as if dead. I was barely conscious of him carrying me across the tent, through curtains, into an adjoining room, where he laid me gently on the silk damask counterpane of a huge tester bed. His bed? His dark eyes raked over me until I was certain my masculine clothes had been entirely stripped away, leaving my very feminine body bare to his gaze.
"You make a very charming boy," he remarked at length, "but it was not a boy that I saw in Biskra. You understand?"
Yes! I understood him, plainly enough. He was telling me to remove the boyish garb that had lent me courage. My masculine clothes had always given me a sense of strength, and in them I had felt more able to face what lay before me. Out of them I would be exposed. Lost. Diana the girl was a stranger, a cowardly quivering creature that I despised.
"The decision is yours, my dove," he continued, "but know that if you persist in this pretense, I will only be more compelled to use you as a boy." He shrugged. "Of course, it is no great difference to me. I will have you either way—and in any way that I choose."
Comprehension came upon me in a sick and nauseating wave.
"I see you do understand," he remarked with a faint smile. "Do not make me wait too long," he whispered and left.
Desperate for any means of escape, I took stock. Within this tent, I was trapped like a snared animal, and outside, the place swarmed with his followers. I was powerl
ess, my life bartered to a savage Arab who intended to enslave me! How had I suddenly become the thing I most loathed in all the world?
Aubrey's words came back to me with a terrible irony.
"Oh God!" Shaking all over, I tore at my hair and clenched my hands, sobbing tears that scorched my cheeks. "Curse him! Curse him!"
In the midst of my fit of hysteria, a young Arab girl appeared with fearful brown eyes. She held a silk wrap that I recognized as one of my own. "I am Zilah, to wait on madam," she said in stilting French. The notion that I would be expected to adopt a similar attitude of subservience to him gripped me with rage and humiliation.
I noticed my suitcases behind her, lying open and partially unpacked. The familiarity of my belongings gave me a tiny measure of calm. I began firing a volley of questions at the girl, who shook her head at me uncomprehendingly. She drew back from me like a scared child, although my queries had only concerned the whereabouts of the camp and of the fate of my caravan. Of the man himself, I could not bring myself to speak.
Ignoring the girl, I explored the rest of the tent, pulling aside another curtain leading into a bathroom that was far better equipped than the one I had known in India, which had seemed the last word in comfort and luxury. Soon an entire parade of servants appeared with eyes respectfully downcast as they filled the large tub with steamy water.
"What is this?" I demanded.
"Your bath, madam," Zilah answered. "He ordered it for you."
At first I was resentful that he had ordered anything regarding me but then shook off the absurd sentiment, knowing the hot bath would not only remove the grit that covered me head to toe, but would also help restore my strength and confidence. I undressed with Zilah's assistance, striving to rid myself of the feeling of contamination that saturated my being, although the robes which had surrounded me were spotless and the hands that had held me were fastidiously clean.
I basked in the bath, concentrating on regaining the strength that had abandoned me. When I finally stepped out, I snatched the towel from Zilah, rubbing my body dry with fierce vigor. Upon my return to the bedroom, Zilah was on her knees poring over my scanty, but diverse, wardrobe, fingering the European-styled clothing with a look of bewilderment. She selected my green silk gown, submitting it tentatively, clearly not understanding which was the front and which was the back of it.
I waved it aside, pointing to a clean set of riding clothes instead. The girl bit her lip and shook her head, but her diffident manner served to restore my self-possession. I knew I would soon have to contend with him again and was bound to do so on my own terms—not his.
I waved the girl away to dress myself, shrugging into the button-up blouse and throwing my legs into the form-fitting breeches. I pulled on my tall boots and gave a satisfied stomp. Zilah had disappeared as quietly as she had come, vanishing through the bathroom instead of passing into the adjoining chamber. I froze for an instant, starting at every soft sound that came from behind the curtain. Was he waiting for me there?
Good. Let the bastard wait. He could damned well cool his heels.
Although I hated to admit even a passing interest in him, I was always possessed of an aberrant curiosity. Now, with the girl gone, I had the freedom to explore. It was a lavish bedchamber that I already knew was his, but his personal effects, everything on which my eyes rested, drove home the hideous fact. On a low, brass-topped table by the bed was even a half-smoked cigarette. The chamber itself was a curious mixture of Oriental luxury and European comfort that conveyed a certain voluptuousness, an unrestrained indulgence, that made me instinctively shrink.
There were several leather-bound books on a bedside table. What did a Francophile-Arab read? I examined the spines. There were two volumes on sport and travel and another on veterinary surgery. They were all in French. I leafed through the pages of the last, noting it had been frequently handled. There were also numerous notes penciled in Arabic in the margins. I wished, with a feeling I could not fathom, that the books had been anything else. The proof of his education and refined tastes somehow troubled me even more.
I threw down the book and went to the dressing table to stare with growing resentment at the pale color and haggard eyes that confronted me in the mirror—the face of a stranger. I glowered at my reflection, at the new shadows that filled my eyes, and my old obstinacy emerged, mixed with self-contempt. Must I endure his mocking glance with chalk-like cheeks and eyes like a beaten hound? Had I not even courage enough left to hide the fear that filled me? I hated him; I hated myself. I hated my beauty that had brought this horror upon me.
This wave of anger rushed the color back into my cheeks, but my self-satisfaction was cut short with the faint scent of rich Turkish tobacco, the same scent from the night of the party, the same that had enveloped me during the wild ride across the desert. I froze at the appearance of white robes behind me, blotting out my limited view of the room. The sheik had entered with his peculiar noiseless tread.
"I trust that Zilah has taken proper care of you?" His soft, slow voice contrasted oddly with his neat, clipping French.
I exhaled at the sound of his voice, my illusion of restored self-confidence already shattered. Though he stood at my back, I refused to acknowledge him.
"Look at me."
I shivered, my downcast gaze wavering only briefly before defying him again.
"Look at me." An inflection had crept into his low tone that was unmistakably commanding.
I lifted my gaze with great reluctance and met his in the mirror. Though I wanted to, I could not look away from his handsome sun-bronzed face with those inscrutable eyes. They were not black as I had thought, but the deepest indigo blue. Dark and intense, they burned into me. I was fascinated. Mesmerized.
He swung me around to him, taking my chin in hand and tilting it upward. "Bon Dieu! Do you know how beautiful you are?" His gaze dropped to my clothing, and his eyes became fierce again, his stern mouth parting in a cruel show of teeth. "Perhaps you are unaware that Zilah shall be severely punished for your foolish rebellion?"
"No!" I cried, straining back as far as his grip allowed. "It wasn't her fault. I sent her away."
"You sent her away before my wishes were carried out?"
"Will you kill her too? Like you did the horse?" I accused. "If you kill everything that does not obey you, you might as well shoot me now!"
"I will deal with the girl as it suits me." His glower had broken, replaced by a mixture of mild anger and patent amusement. "As to you, ma belle, it appears I must be your valet, as well as your lover."
"Lover?" I gave a contemptuous laugh. "Is that how you perceive yourself?"
He lifted a brow above his fathomless eyes. "You question my prowess?"
I remained stoically defiant, letting my silence speak.
His black brows met in a thunderous scowl. "There are many things you must learn, ma chère. Of utmost import to your well-being is that, save only for Allah, there is no will in this camp above my own." He continued impassively, "I could have you now, you know. In this very moment, I could tear your clothes, throw you down on that bed, and take you any way and as many times as I wish." He paused, smiling at the flare of fear in my eyes. "Fortunately for you, that is not my wish…at present."
He stroked the pad of his thumb over my lips. His expression grew almost whimsical. "Shall I make you care, cherie? Shall I make it your deepest desire, your only desire, to please me? I can make any woman love me when I choose."
He was amusing himself at my expense. He did not care if I hated or loved him, but was only enjoying a new form of torture, one that was even more detestable than anything that had gone before it. The mere suggestion that I could ever care for him, that I would ever look on him as anything but a brutal savage, infuriated me. I felt degraded and soiled that he would class me with the other women he spoke of. "I would rather you killed me," I replied coldly.
"So would I." He chuckled drily. "If you loved me, you would bore me to death. Whil
e as it is…I do not regret the chance that took me into Biskra. It is Kismet, cherie." He gave a feral smile and another soft laugh, but just as suddenly, the humor disappeared from his eyes.
"Mon Dieu, how I want you."
His fierce mouth came down on me, kissing my hair, my eyes…my lips. Once more I resisted him, turning my head, twisting in his arms, persisting with the courage of desperation. Though I was at his mercy, I still refused to surrender, to give him what he wanted. His tongue invaded my mouth. I sucked it in deeper and then bit down. Hard.
He recoiled from me with a bitter curse. I broke away but stumbled backward, sprawling to the ground where I crouched, gasping. Waiting. Agonizing. Watching as he touched his fingers to his mouth and chuckled at the spots of blood.
"So my English rose has thorns." His voice mocked, but the cold rage in his eyes sent a shiver down my spine.
"You have no idea," I responded with a choking cry. "Let me go at once…or …or I swear I shall spill all of your blood!"
"But you have already tried and failed, have you not?"
My scornful retort died away in my throat. I was no match for him, and we both knew it. I just refused to confess it aloud. To admit defeat would be more demeaning than I could bear, so I maintained my pretense, testing him just as he tested me. I was humiliated, yet this man had it in his power to hurt and humiliate me much more.
His gaze tracked me as I scrambled back to my feet. "You refused to change your clothes. You continue to defy me. I perceive my earlier words of warning have fallen on deaf ears."
He had warned me, had clearly drawn the line in the sand, and I had knowingly and defiantly crossed that line. For the first time in my life, I had pitted my will against one stronger than my own. I had met an arrogance that was greater and a determination that was fiercer than mine. Panting, trembling, my gaze fixed on him. I wondered if he would strike me.
The Sheik Retold Page 5