Desert Hostage

by Diane Dunaway

  His face did not change. "So, even that dousing hasn't cooled your hot head. And let me assure you, if you were a man I would already have killed you. No man lies to me and lives."

  "I lie? You dare accuse me?" Juliette countered sitting up in spite of her dizziness and throbbing head, and clutching the quilt tight around her. "You lied, didn't you? At least you didn't tell the truth. You with your mistress-and you knew I didn't realize you were an Arab. How could you be so . . . so deceitful! You had no right to say what you said . . . to make me feel that ..:" She dropped back, bracing herself on one elbow, fighting to control the tears springing in her eyes, ". ., to hurt me like that."

  Brandon pulled his attention from those soft curves beneath the quilt, attempting instead to concentrate on her crimes. Still he couldn't deny the awakening in his loins. How she sapped his resolve, he thought. Her beauty was like a curse that set him against himself and, realizing his own weakness, angered him.

  "So now you accuse me of hurting you, is that it? Do you expect me to believe that? I'm no English prig like your Rodney. This isn't the first of your kind I've known. But I must congratulate you. Your true nature is well concealed. Just don't expect to fool me twice."

  Juliette's overly bright eyes stared at him as she threw her head back challengingly. "And you think you can judge me! You pretend such dignity, such honor when it is obvious, monsieur, you have none!"

  There was a pause as they faced each other. What had happened? Juliette asked herself. Could this be the same man who once had made such tender love to her, who had called her his fragrant rose of beauty, who had made her want him? A pain pierced her pounding heart like a red-hot knife.

  "Honor? You dare talk to me of honor?" Now Brandon's voice was ominously quiet as he stepped closer, his fierce look penetrating.

  Juliette tilted her head higher. They were only inches apart, so close Juliette saw his eyes were not completely black, but ringed with gray. Eyes that had once been so different, shining with a wonderful light. Oh, what difference did that make now, she thought, that or anything.

  Her voice was low as his, "Go ahead. I don't care what you do. Blood? Is that what you savages need?" she asked, imagining him crushing the life from her with his bare hands.

  Kill me then!" she finished with a sneer.

  Brandon's hands reached to encircle her neck so his thumbs stroked where it pulsed.

  Juliette neither cringed nor cried out, but squeezed her eves shut and, unaware of the single tear running down her cheek, waited.

  But moments lengthened, and when she looked at him again, his expression held a strange spark. "You have the most irreverent tongue I've ever heard. Arabs cut out the tongues of women like you. But I'm not going to kill you, Cherie, not now."

  Juliette grimaced and, knocking his hands away, withdrew further back on the divan. But he was coming nearer, grasping the quilt and wrenching it out of her hands.

  Crouching in an attempt to cover herself, Juliette screeched, "I hate you!" before edging further into the corner of the divan.

  Still he came, leaning forward to capture a wrist in each hand before spreading open her arms like the wings of a bird. Juliette, unable to meet his gaze, looked away with a low moan.

  "I don't need to kill you," Brandon was saying, his voice containing a husky note. "My revenge is sweeter to have you like this."

  Juliette did not speak, but her huge luminous eyes stared at the divan's satin surface as it blurred and swam through tears.

  "It would be better," he continued, "if we could begin by being honest. I could respect you if you were. But this masquerade is absurd and insulting to both of us. I wanted revenge and so did you. Admit what you have done and everything will be easier."

  Juliette shook her head weakly, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears that rained onto her knees. "What do you expect me to say? I've told you before. I never wanted to marry anyone. I wanted to have the right to my own choices. I thought you of all people would understand people wanting to dictate their own lives."

  "Damn!" he swore as the grip on her wrists tightened until she winced. "You will not lie to me! Do you expect me to believe you? Yes, I suppose you do. But then explain to me why you took Rodney Keiths as a husband no longer than a month after you swore to me you would never marry anyone and what were you doing with a document stolen from my possession, an order for guns to be sold to my enemies?"

  Juliette tried to squirm away. "I don't know anything about that document. I never saw it before until Rodney showed it to me. And it's all your fault I married him. I only did it because you sent me that horrible note. It was to get away from you! And Rodney said…”

  She stopped short then, biting her lip. She hadn't wanted to give Brandon the satisfaction of knowing she hadn't loved Rodney.

  Brandon's hold slackened only slightly. "And I suppose you deny knowing my name, Karim al-Sharif," he said watching her with steady concentration. But there was only a look of confusion on her face as she repeated the name.

  "Karim al-Sharif?" Her eyes unfocused. Karim al-Sharif. Yes, she remembered Rodney called him that and the name did strike some other familiar chord though she couldn't place it. A wall thick with years stood in her way, leaving her memory blank.

  "Don't look so innocent!" His fingers dug painfully into her shoulders, shaking her as he demanded, "Do you deny it?"

  Juliette gasped from the bruising pain. "I . . . I don't know!" she was trying to remember what the name meant to her and realizing it was somehow the key to this elusive puzzle in which she was uncomprehendingly playing a role. “Rodney did call you that. And I think ..:' she paused, but try as she might, her thoughts remained jumbled. She felt at any moment she would remember. It was so close, and yet the catalyst floated just out of reach of her grasping mind.

  "Bah!" he said at last holding her at arm's length, his frown deepening to a heavy scowl as bright hawk eyes probed the depths of hers. "I want the truth, Juliette!" He gave her another shake that snapped her neck like a whip. “Do you deny it? Do you deny knowing who I am?"

  "No . . . I mean yes! I do deny it!" Juliette finally wailed, wanting only to escape the sinewy fingers that crushed her shoulders. "Why is it so important that I do or don't know your name? It was enough to find out you were an Arab, and to realize there could never be any ... anything between us."

  Humiliated, frightened, all understanding drowned in confusion, Juliette stifled a sob as tears cascaded onto burning cheeks. Oh, what was the use!

  The pressure of his fingers relaxed now as he appeared to consider her. His face darkened, his jaw twitched dangerously. A meaningless syllable ejaculated from his lips as he flung her, belly down, and stepped off the divan to stand towering over her for a long moment. Then, grabbing a heavy cape and stepping out the door, he gave her a last look of disgust before closing it with a resounding bang.

  Chapter 47

  Brandon did not come again, nor did Cassia, and the next morning when Juliette awakened from a troubled sleep and looked out the porthole, she saw dark clouds covering the sky from horizon to horizon, blotting out the sun.

  The wind was stiff. A storm, she thought, closing the porthole and going to the stove to warm her hands. Already the ship's cradle like sway had given way to bucks and bobs, and in another fifteen minutes, Juliette was forced to balance herself against table and chairs when she moved about the cabin.

  By midday, the first rain began, gathering momentum until it was an unbroken sheet of water. Another hour passed and the ship tossed like a tiny cork as the storm increased. Overhead the beams creaked and popped in a chorus of agonized cries as the swelling sea became endless mountains of gray that rolled in smooth slides.

  The cabin lurched with each roll, and after being thrown off the divan, Juliette stumbled to the Persian carpet in front of the stove, and gathering woven cushions beneath her, huddled before the warmth. Through the window lightning flashed. From the decks above came the muffled shouts of the crew as t
he rain pelted furiously.

  Day passed into night, and the gale worsened until Juliette, still bundled as near to the stove as she could squeeze, put her hands to her ears, blocking out the terrible moans of the ship and praying it wouldn't shatter to pieces. She had thought that Brandon would kill her. Never had she considered dying like this, sinking to the sea's fathomless depths, the fare of crabs and sharks.

  By midnight the stove's fuel ran out, and ravenous with hunger and numb with increasing cold, Juliette was tossed about in complete darkness, unable to see even her hand before her face as everything pitched chaotically, making her dizzy, disoriented, and nauseated until she lay down full-length on the carpet, her fingernails clenching its softness to keep herself from sliding across the deck.

  It was nearly dawn before the wind stopped howling, the masts began to creak less, and the ship's wild plunging resumed a less violent rhythm. Curling into a ball among the cushions, Juliette fell asleep at last.

  Hours passed then and she knew instinctively that it was much later when she became aware, first of the gentle rocking of the ship, and then of a brightness that reached the insides of her closed eyelids.

  Juliette stirred, absently flinging back the quilt and turning onto her back before rising on one elbow. Automatically her eyes blinked against the morning fight-sunlight, and she brought a palm to her forehead.

  Had the ship been sinking or had she dreamed it? Outside there were shouts and, getting up and pushing her hair back, she walked to the porthole and twisted open its fastening.

  Outside a flock of seagulls was following at the stern, screeching, flapping, and diving into whitecaps as hungrily they fought over fish cast out by the crew.

  Puzzled, Juliette listened to the rapid Arabic spoken by the men who were conversing excitedly. Then, in a flash of understanding, she realized the full implications of the birds. Gulls didn't live in the ocean, but on land. And not bothering to relatch the porthole, Juliette ran to the one overlooking the bow.

  Not more than a mile away there were yellow and green hills crowding close upon a buff strand of beach. Directly above it thunderheads hung suspended against the blue sky, and as they sailed closer, Juliette could make out the rolling surf tumbling up the naked sand in licking tongues of pearly foam, a dock, and bay cliffs, topped with the great walls of a ruined fortress.

  Had the storm blown them off-course? Where were they? Juliette could hardly bear to think. "I'm not afraid," she told herself firmly. "Now that we've reached land, I'll have an opportunity to escape. There must be a way...”

  “I'll make one! And once I'm free," she concluded, raising her chin and pausing, not sure what to add, "then I'll contact the British consul and seek protection from him," she finished.

  She leaned closer to the window, watching the beach loom larger. A flurry of small boats was being rowed toward the Black Hawk by grinning boys in faded turbans. Cheerfully they called to the crew and the smaller boats flanked the larger one as they swept info the harbor, gliding more slowly now that the sails were lowered. Then, carefully, the Black Hawk was maneuvered alongside the dock.

  From her vantage point, Juliette could see a myriad of children skittering and shouting along the pier and pausing with others to stare at the impressive craft, until a crowd formed.

  The people wearing white robes or shirts and pants shortened to knee-length appeared to Juliette to be men. But there were others, clothed from the tops of their heads to their dark-sandaled feet in black shapeless garments with hoods that covered their faces so they looked like priests, or possibly children masquerading as ghosts.

  Juliette studied them as they converged into a group directly across from her porthole, and noticing now that several of them were slung with babies, Juliette realized they must be women.

  Indeed, their robes were ridiculously modest, more so than any nun, Juliette thought. And wondering why women would wear such confining clothes in so hot a climate, Juliette listened to their high-pitched singsong voices as they gestured and pointed, obviously excited by the Black Hawk's arrival. The only word that Julliette could understand was "sheik, sheik," which was repeated over and over.

  Nearby a number of small boats, curved up at both bow and stern in the shape of crescent moons, were anchored about the sunlit water. Each had a tall single mast and another support at a right angle to the mast that held a colorful canvas and acted as the boatman's tent. From under these awnings, happy, curious faces peered, the occupants fanning braziers that spiced the air with frying fish.

  "Tripoli, a charming sight, isn't it, Cherie," a voice said behind her, making her jump and whirl round in one motion.

  It was Brandon, impeccably groomed, freshly shaven, and wearing robes and turban of black so he looked more sinister than ever. Juliette clutched the quilt tightly about herself as she watched him scan the room, pausing at the pile of pillows by the stove where the curl of her body was still imprinted. Then he turned back to her, holding out a bundle.

  "Take this," he said shortly, "and put it on."

  She glowered at him, stepping backward and tossing her head. "I want nothing from you."

  He laughed softly. "It is not a gift, Cherie. It is a necessity where I am taking you. I doubt if you'd prefer parading past my men in that." He indicated her silk gown. "Now put this on. We're leaving immediately."

  "Leaving? Where?"

  "We are to be the guests of the Arab governor of Tripoli."

  "But that's absurd!"

  "Your opinion is immaterial."

  "Indeed? And what does the governor think of kidnapping? Don't think I won't tell him. I'll see you punished for what you've done. And if he isn't prepared to help me, I'll find someone else who will!"

  Brandon smiled with only one side of his mouth, as if her threats were those of a child. "You may tell whomever you please, although I doubt if you'll see the governor. We Arabs are more possessive than you're accustomed to. It is not customary for one man to see the women of another, so you will be kept out of sight in a harem, where you can amuse the other women with your tales to your heart's content. Now put this on," he finished, holding the dark bundle toward her again. "I'm in no mood today for your shrewish ness."

  Juliette stood as if frozen to the floor. "A harem," she repeated.

  Purposely Brandon misunderstood her. "Yes, you'll be quite safe. You will stay there until we are ready to travel. And, of course when we reach our destination, you will live in my own harem." He watched the frantic disbelief rise in her eyes. "Hadn't you expected it?" His eyebrows rose sarcastically. "I thought you were informed about Arab customs."

  Juliette stared at him, her mouth slack. She prayed he was joking, but at the same time, knew he was not. And now, no longer waiting for her to take the bundle, he unrolled it himself and held it up to her.

  Juliette's eyes passed from his face to the garment, seeing, to her horror, that it was none other than a replica of the black shapeless dresses she had seen the women on the pier wearing.

  "You can't be expecting me to wear ... to wear that! You can't be serious. I'll suffocate . . . I'll be blinded . . . like a walking mummy!"

  "I told you before," came the answer. "I expect you to do what pleases me." His eyes were hard as he continued. "It would have been quite different if you had married me. But as it is, you are just another servant of my household. And here, my will passes for law."

  "Really," Juliette said. "And what did you do to make your other women do your bidding … beat them ... torture them?"

  She wanted to strike him when he only chuckled. "I was not speaking of women, cherie. All other women have been eager to please me, eager to give themselves. It is only you who have been so reluctant. But you will change. And if you don't, there is plenty of time to decide what to do with you."

  Juliette knew he meant what he said. If she didn't wear the robe, if she didn't go peaceably, in a word, if she didn't obey, she would be forced, humiliated in front of all those curious brown eyes that
pressed ever tighter around the yacht.

  Her position was untenable, and he knew it. So she didn't protest further when Brandon dropped the dark stifling robe over her head, allowing it to fall to her heels before bringing up the hood and fastening it.

  Surprisingly the garment was not uncomfortable and she could see through the fine mesh over her eyes better than she guessed, though she still felt degraded to be treated in this way, to have no choices whatsoever-to belong to him.

  Now his hands were on her shoulders, drawing her close. She looked up.

  "`This robe offers you protection that should be welcome," he said. "But as usual you are thinking only of your own wants and can't grasp the obvious."

  "Protection!" Juliette burst out. "How can you speak of protecting me?"

  But he didn't seem to hear. "Once we reach the governor’s palace and his women see you, rumors will spread concerning your white skin and blond hair and the color of your eyes. Here a woman's worth is measured by such things, and your coloring is rare among these people. I will not always be with you, and my men here are few. There will be many eager to taste your charms, or to sell you to others for the same purpose." He paused and his eyes narrowed seeming to measure her as she stared back, mute, her lips rebelliously compressed.