Desert Hostage

by Diane Dunaway

  Automatically her hands raised to rub her eyes as she peered through the milky netting all around, unsure for a second if she was still dreaming as she saw Brandon across the room. Or should she think of him as Sharif now that she knew who he was-Karim al-Sharif, her father's murderer, looking sinister in his black robes as she had always imagined him.

  He must have known she was awake, since in three steps he was parting the netting and leaning over her, his eyebrows drawn together in concerned questioning. Handsome! Yes, despicably so. Sheik Karim al-Sharif! Desperately she had not wanted to understand, or face the truth. Why else could she have been so completely blind not to realize everything that first time she heard his name?

  Truly he was a murderer, and this time he couldn't deny. Twice he had shattered her life! Twice he had plunged her to the deepest despair. So easily she could remember her father and those happy times before he died-his smile, his warm words, those little gifts he brought home in his uniform pocket. He was the source of all security, all loving in the world, her shining god, far greater and nobler than any other father. It was his memory that kept her from despair during all those hard times that followed his death.

  And when, as if by a miracle, she had become an heiress and achieved freedom, she had gloried in it, trying to make up for all those earlier days. Yet not only had this man killed her father, now he had blotted her life a second time. Juliette's face hardened and the hairs prickled at the back of her neck. Murdering her father had not been enough. Now he had killed her husband, too, and like a thief in the night carried her off, ruining her-degrading her. She wanted to scream, to cry, to claw his black eyes, to kill him. But now,

  "You!" was all she could croak, scrambling to get her legs over the edge of the bed and pulling up the thin sheet to cover her nakedness. The room spun and carved wall paneling, wine-colored draperies, and Sharif all became a whirling of color and she fell down on the bed with a bounce.

  The light of expectation left Sharifs face as he straightened, arching an eyebrow. "Indeed, madame? I'd thought, under the circumstances, you'd have more to say."

  With deliberate movements he reached over to a bedside table and poured a generous glass of liquid from a jeweled flask, and turning back to her, he drank it.

  His calm manner was exasperating. And as the dizziness receded, Juliette gained control of her tongue at last.

  "But now I understand," she said in a scathing tone. "You can't lie to me any longer! I know who you are and I know what you have done! Yes, admit it! You murdered my father!"

  Sharif finished the drink, setting down the empty glass and meeting her eyes directly. "I killed him," he said quietly, and his cold admission astonished Juliette almost as much as what he said next. "And your father murdered mine. But, of course, what would that matter to you any more than it mattered to him. My father was only an Arab after all, a bloody nigger. And what does one more or less of that sort ever matter to you holy English."

  Juliette's jaw slacked, the momentum evaporating from her attack. She must not have heard correctly. "Your father?" she questioned, unable to focus his words or believe them. This was a part of the story she had never heard.

  Sharif set his glass down with a sharp rap. "Truly, madame, your conversation grows tedious-your father. Is that all you have to say? You disappoint me. But it isn't the first time, is it?"

  Juliette's eyes constricted to flashing slits. That he had the audacity to mock her now-that he made light of the enormity of what he had done was unforgivable. But when she spoke, her voice was suddenly calm and coldly serious. "It is fortunate for you I didn't realize before who you really were," she began. "Because if I had, Karim al-Sharif, I would have killed you myself!"

  His face did not change as he watched her steadily. "So now you admit wanting revenge. That's some improvement at least-a basis for discussion. Maybe you would have preferred I left you to the mercy of Abdul. Or were you so drugged you didn't know what they were doing?"

  "It doesn't matter!" Her head throbbed but she ignored it. "Whatever they would have done, at least I would be rid of you! Anyone else would be preferable!"

  A wicked smile curved Sharif's mouth. "You didn't seem to think so last night." He leaned closer, his smile mocking her. "Or do you always give yourself so readily?"

  Juliette's eyes dropped under the sparkling light that danced in his. Though her recollection was vague, try as she might, nothing could blot out the lingering sense of rapture touching her with fairy fingers, especially between her thighs where tremors like the aftershocks of an earthquake still rumbled.

  She blushed scarlet. "I'm not in the habit of being drugged."

  "Obviously, Cherie. But the state becomes you. You lose that stiff Englishness and become a woman for a change." A hand reached to stroke the hollow of her throat and trace the line of her breast. "And last night you became a woman-completely, whether you like it now, or not."

  Juliette -pulled away. "Of course someone like you would have to resort to drugs."

  He shrugged, "I only took advantage of a convenient circumstance. I find it much more pleasing to have you beneath me crying for more than listening to your barbed tongue. Usually you are quite insulting. If Abdul weren't already dead, I could ask him for his concoction. But then perhaps we won't need it. As you will discover, last night served only to spark a new appetite-not satisfy it."

  Juliette gasped. "Certainly you don't imagine that I could ever . . . would ever want . . ." She drew herself supremely erect. "You underestimate me. You are wrong, and you shall see!"

  Sharif's hands came to rest on his hips as he laughed shortly. "You have a lot to learn, Cherie, both about me and yourself. I will try to be patient-that is, to a point. And I think I won't underestimate you again. A fine horse is one trained slowly so it is molded by the trainer's hand, not broken."

  "You can be patient till doomsday! I'll never do anything but loathe you. And I'm not one of your horses! You might as well kill me because, if you don't, I'll find a way to kill you, or myself, before I let you touch me again!"

  He gave her a long considering look, then shrugged. "In sha'Allah, what will be is the will of Allah."

  His shift from the attack to apathy made her even angrier. "Damn you. You can't keep me like this! Where are you taking me? What are you planning to do?"

  Juliette exploded, pulling the sheet higher and snatching the end of it free to throw over her shoulder like a toga. She came to her feet and faced him. Her hair was in a tangled mass that flew tempestuously as she tossed her chin higher. But he didn't change expression and only reached down with infuriating familiarity to capture a waving curl whose end he brought to trail across his own cheek.

  "I'm taking you to my desert city. What I do with you remains to be seen. And I hope you've lost any foolish notions of escape. You may not be fond of warming my bed, but I think you will find it preferable to servicing all the others."

  Juliette tore the golden lock out of his grasp and glared at him, her mind racing in search of a retort to his horrible cutting truths. But she was forced to remain silent as no suitable answer presented itself.

  In this last he was correct. She had not forgotten the callous betrayal by Henry Farthington. The experience had been bitter, and had taught her how completely alone and among strangers she really was. She knew nothing of these people. Their customs and religion were all a mystery.

  This world was one apart, barbaric and unexplored. Indeed she was both helpless out of his protection and helpless within it. And to add to her dilemma Sharif had awakened a new untried dimension of her being that made everything all the more confused, a power he could use against her. And now, looking down, she curled her bare toes as she thought. It's true, I can't trust anyone. And as another, still foreign, tingle of delight darted through her loins, a voice within her added, "Not even myself."

  Chapter 53

  Outside the palace, the sun shone bright and mercilessly hot as Juliette found herself perched on
the pommel of Sharif's saddle and galloping at the head of fifty men to the outskirts of the city.

  A caravan was assembling there amid a choking stir of dust, and Juliette felt that she couldn't even open her mouth without getting grit in it as Sharif pulled his horse to a stop.

  A dromedary was kneeling there, one of the white variety she had heard the Arabs refer to as mahreh. It had an elegant pavilion strapped to its back that reminded her of the other vehicle from which she had so disastrously escaped.

  Sharif chuckled disconcertingly and, seeming to overhear her thoughts, said, "This time I won't be so far away."

  Averting her chin, Juliette pretended not to hear, and not waiting to be helped down, jumped from his saddle, climbed into the pavilion, and whipped the transparent draperies closed, refusing to meet his knowing expression.

  What was the point of making a fool of herself arguing, she thought, crossing her arms tightly against her chest. And so she said nothing, only glaring at his receding back as he galloped to the head of the column, horse and rider seeming as weightless as a large bird borne on the wind of his billowing blue-black burnoose.

  They traveled until midday, the sun beating down on the soft earth that stretched as far as her eye could distinguish. Only the slightest breeze stirred, and signs of life were limited to occasional scrubby bushes and lizards dashing from rock to rock as they were flushed from cover by the caravan.

  The sway of the dromedary, so different from the movements of a horse, was difficult to master. But Juliette did her best to move with it, swaying from side to side and back and forth in a circling movement though it made her stomach queasy.

  By the time the sun was directly overhead, she was parched and her head ached though, defiantly, she refused to ask for water. But finally, just when she thought she couldn't endure the terrible dryness or her thickening tongue any longer, she heard Sharifs voice from the front of the column shouting a command.

  Her mahreh halted, like the others, lurching forward and down to its knees so Juliette had to grasp the pavilion's frame for support as the animal settled to the ground, its long neck high in an aloof pose as it gazed into nothingness, calmly chewing its cud.

  Pushing aside the silk drapery, Juliette scanned the monotonous stretch of desert to her left, noting that Sharif was not within sight before dropping the material in place again.

  "Good!" she said aloud, hoping she would be spared the ordeal of his vile company. He was mad! Anyone would be mad to live in this godforsaken place!

  A shadow suddenly fell across her, and she jumped and turned to find an unfamiliar Arab bending to look through the curtained opening. The end piece of his black head scarf dangled to one side of his seamed leathery face, reaching to the tip of his gray-flecked beard.

  His small black eyes squinted to sharp points that seemed already to know everything as for a moment he scrutinized her. Then, apparently satisfied, he motioned her to follow with a certain intrinsic sense of command that made it somehow unthinkable to refuse. So stepping out of the pavilion and down the three wooden steps, Juliette followed as he led across the sand without looking again in her direction.

  He was Rashid, Sharif's servant, Juliette realized as she moved quickly to keep up with his long-legged strides. Her robe made the work more cumbersome, and she lifted it ankle high as they moved between white-robed boys unloading burlap-bound supply packs off camels held by a ring piercing one nostril.

  Off to the side stood a group of warriors who ignored her with polite deliberateness as she passed, though one younger than the others did glance curiously over his shoulder as she passed before a curt word from Rashid made him rush and turn away.

  Finally, at the entrance to a shaded awning, Rashid paused, not speaking or salaaming as the rest of Sharif's servants always had, but merely pulling aside the drapery before dropping it back in place as soon as she had stepped inside. Then he sat himself cross-legged just outside, his hand casually resting on the hilt of the knife sheathed Arab-fashion at the center of his waist.

  Apprehensive, Juliette sat on one of the several large tasseled cushions arranged on carpets over the sand, but she barely had time to wonder what might happen next when the curtain was lifted again and, looking up, she was surprised to see Cassia coming toward her, salaaming deeply and kneeling in front of her.

  "Madame! Oh, how I have prayed! And the master. . ." She rolled her eyes. "We were all so frightened! But Allah is merciful and you have been found." She smiled brightly, her gold earrings glittering. "And you are in great favor. Perhaps now you are happy?"

  Juliette had been returning the girl's smile, surprised to find she had sincerely missed her too. But her smile disappeared with Cassia's question. "Happy? Of course I'm not happy. Is this what Arab women call favor?"

  Cassia looked startled. "But of course, madame. Does not Madame sit in the shade of her own pavilion and ride in comfort when many walk? You are to be served only the finest delicacies of cakes and minced dates and rice." She indicated the Arab at the doorway.

  "And doesn't the master’s personal guard, Rashid, watch over you? You are being treated with great favor, madame. Many would give all they possessed to be as you are now."

  Juliette looked levelly into Cassia's wondering eyes. "I'm not surprised you don't understand. But if you were raised the way I was, you would. It's not right to take a woman against her will. It is against the law and well-barbaric an evil thing to do!"

  Cassia shrugged. "Perhaps. But the desert is different. You are lucky to be desired by such a powerful man-a man who will someday rule all of the tribes of the desert. And the stars confirm it will be his line of as yet unborn sons that will unite all Islam. It is a glorious destiny, is it not?"

  Juliette didn't answer. Instead, trying to wipe everything out of her mind, she concentrated her attention on the tray of pita bread, dates, and fruit-that another bowing black robed woman brought in, and which Cassia served.

  For an hour the, caravan did not move as the Arabs ate their dates and rice concoction. Some dozed for a time, their faces veiled by black turbans, while others hunkered on their heels, speaking together in low voices while drinking coffee in slow meditative sips.

  There were prayers later, each man kneeling on a carpet, shoes removed, and forehead bending to touch the sand as he chanted. Then the carpets and cooking bowls and food were all packed in bags by boys and a half dozen veiled women.

  Cassia left and Rashid came again, indicating that she follow him. He led her back to her own mahreh, indifferently helping her into the pavilion before bringing the animal to its feet with a sharp command.

  After that they traveled steadily southward, as the sun slowly set over a low range of mountains before dropping behind them. It was twilight then, a glorious red glow spreading over the cloudless sky before slowly shrinking to a red-orange band above the mountains, silhouetting their jagged peaks like the points of church spires.

  Then, to Juliette's bewitchment, the sky turned, a shade at a time, to lavender and darkened to violet, and a sparkling veil of stars came to mist the deepening sky and grow brighter as the heavens blackened to a velvety matte.

  Beneath the winking light, the caravan halted and, once again, Juliette's dromedary knelt and Rashid appeared. But this time he didn't lead her to an awning, but rather to a tent that was already erected, apparently by camp makers sent ahead of the caravan.

  Outside, Sharifs stallion, Fadjar, had been unsaddled and was being rubbed down by an Arab youth. In the pale starlight, the horse's shiny blackness made him almost disappear so only the whites of his great eyes showed as he threw his head and danced, pulling on his rope as they approached.

  The boy, careful to keep out of range of his hooves, spoke sharply to the animal. But it had no effect, and the horse continued to dance as Rashid lifted the tent flap and motioned her in before again taking up his station just outside the doorway.

  Hungry, exhausted by the heat, and dizzy from the sway of the dromedar
y, Juliette waited with growing apprehension. Obviously she was to be treated like a prisoner, a slave, in spite of what Cassia called "favor."

  Warily, she glanced around the tent. In the light of two large wax candles, she could see the room was larger than any tent she had seen before, and regally furnished with a small carved table inlaid with ivory, an embroidered brown hassock, and piles of cushions scattered on carpets that seemed luminescent in the flickering light.

  Apprehensively, Juliette walked to a pair of striped draperies and, parting them, discovered a second room taken up almost entirely by a bed tossed with leopard skins that made it seem like a stalking animal.

  Involuntarily, Juliette's throat tightened. Then dropping the drapery, she turned back to the main room, eyes suddenly rounded and glancing aimlessly about. A gold and silver hanging-a brass vase--a trail of smoking incense, all passed through her vision. But she could concentrate on nothing. This was his tent, and his bed. He might come in minutes or hours, or possibly, not at all. He was unpredictable, and she could only wait on his coming-his bidding-his pleasure! And when he did come. . . . The thought sent her pacing the carpets and wringing her hands.