Diane Dunaway
Desert Hostage
Karim Al-Sharif, the Sheik of El Abadan, is on a mission of vengeance. He is after the man who killed his father, and make the man's family suffer as well. While incognito in Europe, he meets and falls in love with beautiful Englishwoman, Juliette Clayton Thorpe. Unbeknownst to him, however, Juliette is the daughter of the man he seeks to destroy.
When Juliette balks at his marriage proposal, he nearly goes mad with desire and proceeds to abduct her and then brings her to his home in El Abadan. Juliette is furious at him for capturing her and remains desperate and defiant. She seeks escape only to find harrowing danger when she is no longer under his protection. Fearless and proud, Karim knows that he alone can tame Juliette, and that between them lies the secret that will bind her to him forever.
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The novel, which spans two generations, is searing hot. Beginning with Englishwoman Anna's capture by a powerful desert sheik, the story unfolds to tell the story of her son who is born during her captivity--though unbeknownst to anyone but Anna, the boy is not the sheik's biological son. Raised as an Arab, Karim soon finds himself on a mission of revenge when the sheik is murdered by an English soldier, Clayton. He vows to avenge his death by detroying Clayton, as well as his family. The story takes a sharp twist when the very woman he falls deeply in love with, Juliette, is the daughter of the hated Clayton. Naturally he imprisons her in his harem, but his feelings for Juliette run deep. There is no way she could just be another concubine destined to live the lonely harem life...and plenty of hot encounters between them make it abundantly clear that she will soon become his one and only. Good fun, and a great read!
PART I
ANNA AND THE SHEIK
THE SAHARA-1863
Chapter I
Every soul is the hostage of its own deeds. -The Koran
Was it a kiss?
Anna held her breath as the quickened pace of her heart broke the silence of the desert night. Was it a kiss that had awakened her?
Slowly she raised a hand so her white fingers traced the delicate line of her mouth. No, it wasn't a kiss, she told herself. Brandon had gone hours ago to check the men. It must have been something else-a noise perhaps that startled her. Then straining her ears she listened to every sound.
"Allah Akbar," it came again. Yes, that was it, the shouting of voices and yes, unmistakably the dull thudding of horses approaching at a gallop.
Instantly Anna was upright, thrusting her legs over the edge of her cot and running to the tent flap.
Outside there were Arabs, a pack of them all charging into the circle of tents, reining foaming mounts with one hand and firing rifles with the other. "Allahu akbar! Allah akbar!"
All around, soldiers burst from tents, hauling on their pants and shooting back at the black-robed men who already had tossed torches against the tents and were stampeding their horses.
Her eyes expanding, Anna touched her throat as a scream formed and pressed against the tightening passage. No, it was impossible. She must be dreaming. And where was Brandon?
More gunfire streaked the night sky orange as twenty Arabs rode thundering down the center of camp firing at the half-dressed Englishmen who reloaded, fired, and retreated ever closer to where Anna stood.
One by one the soldiers gripped their bodies, wrenched, and fell into the sand. Then the dozen remaining were forced tumbling into Anna's tent as they wielded their empty rifles like clubs against the pursuing Arabs who came on with raised daggers.
Stumbling to the back of the tent, Anna stood paralyzed, the blood drained from her face. The canvas surrounding her jerked and tossed and a lantern hanging from the center pole swung back and up and down; flying off its hook and crashing against the tent sides before bursting into flame.
Then suddenly Lieutenant Williams was beside her, the black powder and blood splatters on his face making him seem like a stranger, his eyes those of a man finding himself awakened in Hell.
"Madam . . . Madam Phillips," he said. "They must not take you alive, madam. You would . . . they would. .." He raised his pistol to her head. "It is my last bullet, madam."
Anna stared at the soldier, hardly able to credit his words, yet realizing numbly she was about to die. "Brandon?" she heard herself ask as if from a great distance.
"Dead, madam."
The word "dead" echoed inside her, dead, dead, dead, and she felt only a strange hollowness. She nodded then. Yes, she would die, they would all die. Did it matter? Everything was impossible, the blood, the screams. Only yesterday Brandon had said there were no hostile tribes within a hundred miles.
Was it really just a nightmare? Would she wake up when he pulled the trigger and find herself alone in the tent? But automatically she began, "Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee. ..:'
The cold metal of the pistol pressed tight against her temple, and somewhere in her mind Anna heard Brandon's voice saying again, "My little Anna, my one true love. Now only death can part us." '
Eyes squeezed shut; she held her breath, lips moving fervently. "Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for our sins now. . . ."
There was an explosion. Anna gasped and waited for death, but terror mingled with relief as she opened her eyes and found herself alive, her ears ringing.
All around, soldiers lay dead and, beside her still, Lieutenant Williams was looking incredulously at his own hand that once had held the gun and now was only a gory stump. Then the lieutenant was knocked to his knees. For an instant he was dangled by his hair entwined in an Arab's brown fist.
The Warrior's sword flashed and Lieutenant Williams's body crumbled to the floor while his head remained in the warrior's fist.
Anna looked down at what had been a man, hardly aware of her own scream as it released from her throat and was lost in the din. Panting, she looked up as the tall black-robed Arab perfunctorily tossed the head aside and came to stand hovering so close her vision was filled by his swarthy hawk nosed face.
His curious black eyes seemed to see all of her in a quick appraising glance and his lips drew open in a grin of hard white teeth. Sheathing his sword, he removed his black burnoose, wrapping her numb limbs swiftly in the rough material. Then abruptly, she was over his shoulder, her head draping down his back as he carried her from the tent.
Outside there was no more gunfire. Smoke stung her eyes and, daring to lift her head, Anna saw the camp was ablaze, the sky and sand reflecting the glowing orange that silhouetted the dark shapes of mounted warriors laden with boots and food and stolen rifles.
The Arab carried her a short distance before she was flung high across a saddle. He mounted behind her in a springing leap and, raising his sword overhead, held it there and shouted, "Allah! Allahu akbar!"
His horse plunged forward, throwing her bard against his chest, where an unyielding arm encircled her. Then with the horse's flying mane whipping her face, Anna felt herself swept away through the fire and smoke and enveloping darkness.
Chapter 2
Voices, voices all around. Chanting Arab voices faces, shapes undulating beyond grayed mists, dimly, like those seen through a distant window. There was a French voice from far away then calling "Mademoiselle, mademoiselle."
Anna rolled her head against softness, trying to speak. But her mouth refused to form the questions that vaguely shaped and surfaced in her reeling mind before floating out of reach.
Twisting, turning, her limbs felt weighted by stones and, because it was too hard to open her eyes, Anna never saw the women of Hamid al-Sharif standing around her divan, watching her with dark curious eyes.
So, this was the mysterious white girl who only the day before had been brought
to the harem in the master's own arms, they whispered among themselves. She was the palest, slenderest girl they had ever seen, all the color of her skin seeming drawn off by her blazing hair that tumbled around her and onto the carpets in colors of the sun when it glowed on the horizon red and gold and red again. Never had they seen one so rare.
Not even the creamy-skinned Berber beauties possessed hair so glorious, and never before had white soldiers dared thrust themselves so far into this land of Mohammed. But seven days before when their presence was discovered and reported to the master, the women of the harem themselves had heard the tribesmen gather before the palace gates and beg the sheik to rid the desert of these infidels.
"They destroy the water holes," complained several tribesmen who had been forced to ride two days without water.
"And their horses eat what little grass there is for our herds," others joined in angrily.
The sheik stroked his smooth chin, leaning down to the imam at his right, and listening most seriously to this holy man who added, "And they believe in three gods, a father, a son, and a ghost, when the prophet Mohammed has said there is only one single god and that is Allah!"
And so it was that, for the greater glory of Allah, the sheik Hamid al-Sharif, fresh from his recent victory over his cousin Yassan Hussar, immediately led a hundred warriors galloping north. But when days later he returned, he brought with him not only rifles and horses, but also this girl more beautiful and more ephemeral than the dawn.
As they stood over her now none of the women could resist glancing at Salsabil, the present favorite, to see her reaction to this white girl's unusual charms. But if they hoped to read the thoughts of the Moorish girl, they were disappointed. The black depths of Salsabil's eyes revealed neither hostility nor surprise and would have seemed disinterested had the women not known better.
Salsabil had been given to the master by her father, the leader of the Ben Sadre tribe to the south. Since that day the entire Ben Sadre tribe had prayed for the girl to conceive the first son of Hamid al-Sharif, thus guaranteeing their recent alliance with this most powerful bedouin lord in all the Sahara.
It was an ambition eagerly shared by Salsabil and, fortunately for her, this white angel who had seemed destined to replace her in the affections of the master now grew paler and paler as she thrashed arms and legs as if in bad dreams, crying out in a strange language only the head eunuch, Omar Zatan, could understand. And even as the eunuch gave her every attention and ladled potions down her throat, the girl's beautiful face still grew more transparent and closer to death until finally the women shrugged fatalistically.
"Insha Allah," one said. "All is in the hands of Allah."
"By morning it will be over," another whispered.
Then drawing away and salaaming politely to the head eunuch, they returned to the common room of the harem to loll and drink coffee, and to entertain themselves with gossip and speculations.
Hours passed then while Anna hung near death but refused to die, and it was near midnight when the report came, surprising everyone and spreading in whispers, first among the servants, and then among the women themselves.
Omar Zatan had performed a magical cure, it was said. With the aid of Allah the girl's fever had passed and she would live.
Opening her eyes, Anna saw first a blurring blue expanse that slowly focused into a high-domed ceiling inlaid with dark blue mosaic tiles. She drew a breath inward, finding the air sweet with the scent of baking pastries, an aroma that reminded her of the convent kitchens at St. Genevieve's. From somewhere came the soft haunting notes of a reed flute, and in the distance came the sound of water tinkling as if from a small fountain.
She blinked heavily. There was no violence here, and no sign of the ghoulish Arab warrior who had captured her sometime before-or had she been captured? It all seemed like a nightmare now. Could it be that she was dead, and this heaven? But Anna discarded this notion immediately as, feeling a sudden breeze, she turned her head and saw a man, as black and shiny as black jade, standing at the side of her divan and fanning her with a spray of ostrich feathers.
She rolled her head against the pillows, noticing his face and bare chest were smooth and hairless, and that his white pants were full cut down the legs and gathered tight at midcalf. Coming more awake, she was apparently so preoccupied studying this strange sight that she didn't notice the approach of a second man until his face was hovering over her. He was as black and smooth-skinned as the first, though his jowls were full and sagged like an old woman's so he seemed both like a man and a woman, and it was when, unexpectedly, he arched his hairless eyebrows and spoke in French that Anna was startled out of her stupor.
"You wish a bath, mademoiselle? You are hungry perhaps? It is many days since you are sick."
His eyes were so dark even the whites held a yellowish tinge, and reaching out a large pudgy hand, he touched her forehead with the familiarity of having touched her a thousand times.
She swallowed dryly as he continued. "You have no fever. For days you talk crazy. But all that is over now. You are safe and not to worry."
The fear tightening Anna's stomach began to subside. She had been sick with fever? Of course! There had been no attack! It all had been only a nightmare, or maybe a delirious fever. But now she was safe, and Brandon must be alive!
Relief spread through her stomach and chest and into her face, so it brightened as the man-woman leaned closer, his small eyes sparkling with question. "Mademoiselle speaks French?" he inquired.
Finding her voice then Anna said, "Oui. Si'l vous plait. I would like something. I feel terribly hungry."
Omar Zatan smiled, not in deference as Anna assumed, but rather at the unexpected beauty of this girl's melodious voice. How it would please the master! He clapped his hands in two brisk sounds to bring servants hurrying.
In minutes, Anna found herself served braised lamb on skewers, a roasted squab stuffed with rice, and date-filled pastries spiced with cinnamon that were still warm from the oven.
Her senses responded ravenously, and though silverware was not provided, it didn't stop Anna from sampling the feast and finally eating her fill of what seemed ambrosia after the simple camp fare. Then when she finally pushed the plates away and rested back against the cushions, coffee was served, sweet, thick, and boiling hot, in a small porcelain cup with a geometric design in the glazed surface.
The distinctive aroma of this Arabian brew reminded Anna of the mornings she had spent with Brandon drinking coffee served just this way by Arab servants. Remembering this now made her wonder again where he was and when he would come to visit her.
Weakly she lifted a hand to her forehead. How many days had she lain here? And what trouble she must have caused, especially after vowing faithfully she would be no trouble at all.
A servant girl approached, bowing deeply and taking the coffee tray away as, from beyond the room's arched windows, a bird trilled pha-La-la, pha-La-la, over and over. The air was warm, and the stir of fans wafted the floral fragrance of incense past her nose. Blinking against the brightness, Anna noted the sun slowly raising higher, its golden rays illuminating the intricately patterned floor tiles into a kaleidoscope of polished jewels.
Another girl tiptoeing noiselessly on bare feet pulled several filmy layers of drapery closed across the arched windows, shutting out the light and warmth and, looking up at the black man fanning her, Anna stifled a yawn to ask, "Do you know where Captain Phillips is?"
But the ebony giant only shook his turbaned head to indicate he didn't understand, while continuing the sweeping movement of the feather fan.
Sighing, Anna turned on her side, aware of the soft comfortableness of the cushions, so different from the hard traveling cot to which she had grown accustomed. Now where was that other fellow? She asked herself, the one who spoke such surprisingly good French. If he were here, he would know about Brandon.
But the black man-woman didn't appear. The sun grew warmer and her full stomach dige
sted contentedly as the mellow tones of a flute surrounded her and echoed in the dome above. She yawned again, feeling suddenly fatigued, her eyelids growing heavy and finally blinking closed.
Only later would she realize she had been drugged. Drugs were common in the city of El Abadan-drugs to awaken, drugs to sleep, aphrodisiacs for sensual delight, and poisons that killed without a trace. But Anna Phillips knew none of this, and only snuggled deeper into the silk pillows and peacefully slept.
Chapter 3
That night Anna dreamed of Brandon, and the next morning awakened with his name on her lips. "Brandon," she whispered with the same devotion as she said her rosaries.
How she adored him, her knight, her hero. And what would have become of her in that cloistered convent into which her loving, but strict, parents had sent her had he not come to the rescue?
Always Anna had considered herself an obedient daughter but her enrollment in St. Genevieve's had come on the heels of a particularly difficult year, one in which her body had undergone a strange and rapid metamorphosis that brought curves where she never had them before, and a series of crying spells. It was a strange and confusing time when it seemed she had changed into someone else who other people now called "lovely," instead of just "pretty," and who held the eyes of gentlemen as never before.
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