Desert Hostage

by Diane Dunaway

  Well, possibly it still all could be arranged, and now; having seen the girl again, his mind was settled. He must have her, and would-one way or another.

  That day, the caravan traveled steadily southward up a long sandy incline, a light breeze fluttering the silk curtains of Juliette's pavilion as she rode. She had expected today to be the same as all days-that they would travel until midday, rest; and then continue on until dark. So she was surprised when instead Sharif's voice halted them only an hour after beginning.

  Pulling back the curtain, Juliette peered out, seeing they had stopped near the edge of a plateau where the desert floor stretched three hundred yards below in a desolate plain for as far as she could see.

  Why were they stopping here? And she was even more curious when the camels were quickly hobbled and those horses, that so far had not been ridden but had been led tethered to camels, were saddled and mounted by the men.

  No one spoke to her, nor did Rashid escort her to the awning. But Juliette dared not even stick her head out to try and spot Cassia for fear of seeing Sharif instead---and she couldn't, no, wouldn't face him-not after this morning.

  She had thought he was going to strike her, even strangle her with his bare hands that flexed occasionally at his sides as he had lectured her with quiet, horrible calm. "Women are to be discreet," he told her. "They are never to appear before a man's guests-never! And you will not again."

  Oh, how she hated him. But what choice was there but to nod, cringing inwardly as he impaled her with a last look before he shouldered his way under the tent flap and was gone. No, she didn't want to see him again, not until she had to. She didn't look out, but stayed in her pavilion until Cassia came, offering her a small tray of tea and plump dates.

  "What is going on?" she asked. "Why are we stopping?"

  "We are to wait here, madame. The master is traveling ahead to another caravan carrying rifles and ammunition to the French fort at Ihir. The master has gone to bring back these guns."

  "Bring them back?" Juliette questioned. "Do you mean steal them?"

  Cassia cocked her head. "Perhaps steal, yes, madame. But this is Arab land, not French. Yet the French have come-have built fortresses, and, if they have more weapons, they are more dangerous. The master will not permit this. He will capture the weapons and take them to El Abadan." Cassia touched Juliette's hand lightly and reassuringly. "Please do not look so frightened, madame. The master never fails. He will return to you unharmed."

  "But he must fail sometimes!" Juliette said indignantly.

  A volley of shots interrupted them and, though they were not loud, Juliette held her ears. Murderer! Attacking innocent people just to rob them. How could he?

  The shots were returned by another volley of fire that rolled across the open sand plain like thunder. But it was short-lived and in minutes the shooting stopped. It was an hour before the party of men returned, conspicuously without prisoners and leading a line of camels laden with crates.

  There was a brief rest while horses were watered, unsaddled, and tethered again to camels as the other mounts were re-saddled. Then, as if nothing important had occurred, the camels were un-hobbled and urged-to their feet with a lurch, and the caravan moved off again in long rhythmic strides.

  The sun paled to burning white, the sand and sky blending into one as heat waves rose off the desert floor in filmy streaks flowing upward and veiling like ghosts a herd of gazelles as they ran along the open plain in the distance.

  In spite of the water she drank before, Juliette's throat was already parched, her tongue feeling thick. Oh, God, this was torture. She had nothing left to lose. Instead of cringing, why hadn't she accused him of bargaining to sell her to that swift-eyed little man?

  And now in his typical matter-of-fact way, he had murdered those Frenchmen. Oh, how could he? She thought, putting her hands to her eyes and wanting to whip her emotions into a fury. But somehow, she felt too hot even to think further and, leaning her head back, she closed her eyes and wished that somehow her temples would cease throbbing.

  When the caravan halted for the night, it was Rashid who, as usual, appeared to escort her to Sharifs tent, his hard sparse body striding effortlessly over the sand. In the last hours the weather had finally cooled and now rare clouds dotted the cooling sky in puffs of salmon against turquoise as she stepped inside the tent, looking from side to side and half expecting to see him there.

  But he was not, and a quick perusal of the bedroom told her he had not yet arrived.

  Wearily she leaned against the middle post of the main room, a part of her feeling beaten, defeated, without hope, even as another part of her was infuriated by her own weakness. Could anyone despise another as much as she did him?

  Her eyes shifted toward the open tent flap where, outside, a mahreh was being led past, the last sunlight playing against its white coat. Then turning away, she began pacing the floor, her feet sinking into the soft rugs as she traveled up and down, one small fist pounding into the palm of her other hand.

  She couldn't just sit here, waiting like a snared animal for him to do whatever he planned. She couldn't allow him to take her whenever he wished and to wring, in spite of herself, a response from her traitorous body.

  A noise outside brought her up short and, running lightly to the entrance, she peered outside. It was Sharif, his stallion prancing and snorting as it was reined to a stop.

  A groom jumped to the horse's head as the tall man swung nimbly down, tossing the tasseled reins to the salaaming Arab and giving the animal an affectionate pat before it was led away.

  Juliette withdrew out of sight, shuddering as he came forward, the end of his black head scarf hanging loose against one shoulder. Her hands entwined, whitening her knuckles. He was coming, just as before . . . to hurt . . . to humiliate her. She couldn't, she wouldn't bear it, no, not any longer.

  Stormy eyes swept the room, settling on the large candleholder sitting on the low table. Then, driven by sudden impulse, Juliette quickly reached to grab it and moved to the doorway, stepping up onto another table there and waiting, the candlestick rose like a cleaver.

  If only she could kill him. He deserved it! He deserved worse! And when Sharif entered, she brought the weapon down with all her might.

  Chapter 56

  Some instinct must have warned him, or he saw the blow coming-Juliette never knew which. But he was suddenly beyond the reach of it and grabbing her just above the elbow to jerk her off the table and beneath one of his arms.

  "Bastard! I hate you!" she screamed as he wrenched the candleholder free and replaced it on the table. Then carrying her to the hassock, he sat down pulling her across his knees.

  "Let me go! I'll kill you! I hate you-murderer!"

  Sharif held her easily, letting her wear herself out.

  "I think it's time we understood each other, Juliette. I consider you my woman, but that makes you no better than any of my servants. And you will call me sayyid as they do."

  This was too much! He was no master of hers-no, never! Yet she feared him and, flushing, she turned her face away, shaking her head.

  Immediately Sharif's smile disappeared. He stood up, letting her tumble off his knees onto the floor, and she didn't attempt to rise, automatically drawing up her legs and arms as a shield as he loomed over her, his scowl making her quiver.

  "How shall I convince you?" he asked quietly, his hands rising to ride his hips. "What do you hate most?"

  He didn't let her answer, but merely pushed her further down on her back, straddling her, pinning her between his knees. She didn't have to see his hands unfastening his robes to know what he planned. And suddenly anything was preferable to his touch, to his presence within her, to the shame of her 'own renegade responses.

  "Please!" she cried.

  His eyes shifted to her face and, leaning forward, he pressed her shoulder blades to the floor, his thumbs resting on her breasts. "Sayyid," he pronounced softly through clenched teeth.

  For
long moment steady ebony beams met her faltering gaze before she jerked her chin so he had only her profile to study. What remained of her pride was revolted by her surrender, but still she found her lips forming the word sayyid in a scathing hiss.

  Magically she was released and pulled to her feet so again the robe fell to her ankles. Her legs felt weak, shaking so she could hardly stand and, swaying, she looked up.

  "So-you really hate me that much. You surprise me!" He laughed shortly. "I've never encountered a woman who wanted so much to resist, particularly when her own body is so willing."

  His smile deepened, and his hand tilted her chin up as he studied her wordlessly. Then his hand dropped and, walking to the tent flap, he lifted it, indicat¬ing from east to west with a sweep of his arm.

  "This is the desert, Cherie, and I see I must explain that here exists a place, worlds apart from England or France or anything you have known before."

  His arm swung to the east. "There is the most rugged territory in the world, nothing for miles but crushed rocks burned black by the sun. Arabs call it the gravel pit of Hell since no one dares live there, and no one crosses it unless he must. It is a border more formidable than if it were patrolled by a thousand armies."

  His arm indicated northeast. "There is Egypt, a land already subjugated by Europeans; a place easily used to supply those English armies that are already competing for territory with the French and Italians in the north.

  "And last are the Hussar," he said pointing south, "waiting, I suspect, until we get closer before they attack. Abu Hussar's tribe and mine have been at war for generations now, and there will be no peace until one of us is dead."

  He turned back to face her, his hands on his hips. "Hostility is all around, Cherie." He opened his arms outward. "And here I am in the middle, only a man of flesh and blood. You call me murderer, but just to live in the desert is a constant war between the elements and the people. In war there is always death. Today I killed-is that why you are so angry? But you will learn that sometimes it is necessary to kill to prevent being killed. Why do you think the French are arming themselves? Not for peaceful purposes, I assure you. In a way it is your fault I had to kill them. If you'd come with me willingly months ago, I could have avoided this much trouble. As it was I had to make sure the ship was delayed in Marseille long enough so I could catch up with them here-but no matter. Whatever you call what happened today, it is a fact that in the desert only strength has value. Arabs are a tough breed, and if I am to lead them, then I must never demonstrate either weakness or sentimentality, especially where a woman is concerned. It is only fortunate this incident tonight was not witnessed and can remain a private matter between you and me, and if you are wise, you will not provoke me again, madame." His piercing appraisal riveted her in a vise of black. "I would rather not have to demonstrate just what a savage I really am."

  PART IX

  HUSSAR

  Chapter 57

  The desert sun blazed high overhead, a white-hot furnace blending the boundaries of sky and sand into a single sea of undulating waves. It might have been a lake. Certainly, from a distance, the endless stretch of sand seemed to sparkle and dance with lights as it must have ages ago, when it was a huge water-covered plain.

  Under a shaded awning, poised cross-legged on a pillow, Juliette sat drinking tea and eating dried meat her portion of the food which had been rationed ever since several pack camels were lost in a sudden sandstorm three days before.

  Sandstorms. They were a new phenomenon, like nothing she had ever seen. Wind blowing dust into gritty waves that turned the ground into rivulets resembling the ridges of a washboard, and sand, sand everywhere until one could not move outside the tent and even the animals were brought inside with the people.

  The wind, the dust, the very power of it had frightened her at first. But later, after the first storm had passed and Juliette stepped outside the tent, she found the desert transformed into an oddly beautiful infinity of wavy patterns as pristine as a new fall of snow.

  There had been two smaller storms since then and now she was more fascinated by, than afraid of, the howling wind. It seemed impossible that only a month had passed. Hadn't she been traveling forever in this endless, frightening, yet magnificent desolation? Yet lately she was forced to-admit that the desert did have a certain magic-a sense of total presence that made the appalling dryness and the sudden rains seem only a part of a great mystery.

  And sometimes now, when the night was still, she would slip from Sharif's side and tiptoe to the tent's entrance to watch the twinkling stars, to feel the sheer magnitude of space and the silence so complete, so empty, that it reached the depths of her soul.

  Yes, a month had changed everything, and she, like the Arabs around her, had learned to survive, to obey this man and, with a shrug of her shoulders, she accepted it. Why bloody herself against an obstacle she had no hope of overcoming? Why make herself unhappy when she could concentrate instead on the beauty of dawn when the sky turned from red to orange and finally to a strange haunting pink before clearing to blue as the sun peeked over the edge of the endless sand.

  But within this mystery and magic there was danger. As they penetrated deeper into the desert, the terrain changed from sand to endless fields of gravel dotted by sporadic upheavals of rock. It was a land more forbidding, more majestic than ever Juliette imagined. She also noticed the guard was doubled now, and the careless talk and laughter that characterized the men earlier had changed to silence.

  They no longer wore their rifles slung on their backs, but rested them instead in the crooks of their arms, their constricted eyes scanning the expanse. And, when they did speak, they often mentioned the name Hussar.

  Scouts were sent ahead any time the column neared a hill or pass that might hide an ambush, and sentries climbed the cliffs and signaled back to the caravan with mirrors that tossed the sunlight from point to point in a code of their own.

  Just this morning, in fact, scouts had ridden off toward a stone formation that crouched like a huge animal in the distance and, having a view of the camp from her awning, Juliette noticed now that a mounted group was galloping toward them.

  Squinting, Juliette had just realized these were not the returning scouts, when Sharif's men began reaching hastily for their rifles and again she heard the name Hussar. Sharif appeared among the men, also looking toward the riders, a curt word from him instantly easing the tension.

  There were a dozen riders, two of them at least being women, and, as they came to a halt, Juliette saw their leader jump from his horse and prostrate himself in the sand before Sharif's boots.

  Sharif said something Juliette couldn't hear, and the man - rose again and, with chaotic waving of his arms, began a stream of rapid Arabic.

  "They are entertainers-Gypsies, you would call them," Cassia translated in a whisper.

  "They were with a caravan from Algiers that was attacked by Hussar. They are the only survivors and beg protection from the master."

  Juliette heard Sharif's voice deep and clear across the open space. She could understand more Arabic now than she could speak, and knew he had granted their request. Again the man fell at Sharif's feet kissing the hem of his robes before rising and leading the group of horses and riders away.

  False alarm-for now, Juliette thought, though she knew the news of the Hussar warriors being nearby would have an additional unsettling effect on the men and wasn't surprised as they all checked their rifles and added crisscrossed bandoliers of cartridges across their chests.

  Looking at Sharif, Juliette found him thoughtfully watching the receding backs of the Gypsy party, his profile etched against the white heat of day as clear as the face on a coin.

  The sun had bronzed his complexion until it was only a shade or two lighter than the other Arabs and, within his robes, his body lost all its civilized graces.

  Now he bore little resemblance to the man she had once called Brandon. Those same hands that had once formed genteel salo
n gestures now seemed just as natural wielding a dagger with deadly accuracy or pulling the clothes from her with slow deliberateness before exploring her as no gentleman ever would.

  The days he spent at the head of the caravan, fully erect in his saddle and apparently heedless of the intense heat and glare. The nights he passed meeting with various lieutenants or studying maps by candlelight until finally coming to bed near dawn, throwing back the covers to bare her naked body, and taking her wordlessly. Then rising again he would dress for the day and was gone.

  His preoccupation and silences that often lasted for hours or even days wore on Juliette. What was he thinking?

  And feeling irresistibly curious one evening she asked, "You are so silent, Sharif, you hardly speak. What occupies you so?"