The Other Guy's Bride

by Connie Brockway

  “He’s disgraced,” Mildred whispered from beside him. “I’ve…I’ve read about this. In his culture, it is forbidden to touch another’s property without his prior consent, and the leader is responsible for the actions of his subordinates. So he has been shamed. He might feel the need to make amends. But be careful what you say; he will try to twist any careless comment into something at which he can take offense.”

  Jim gave her a small nod to let her know he had heard. Some of the more isolated tribes he’d come across were notoriously patriarchal, at least outwardly. If he seemed to be asking her counsel, his status would be lowered, which he couldn’t afford right now. The information she’d whispered was invaluable, but he was too experienced to rely much on this man’s sense of obligation. He might make use of it, but only to a very specific point. The tricky part was figuring out where that point was.

  The man was a trader, and the first rule of bargaining was to let the other guy make the first offer. So he held his tongue.

  For long, silent minutes, the men took each other’s measure, and then, with an impatient gesture, the man began to speak. The words were a mixture of Arabic and his native language and more was left unsaid than said, but in a short few sentences Jim had the gist of it.

  Apparently some time ago this group’s chief had insulted another clan’s chief, and as the other clan was substantially stronger, richer, and more powerful, their chief had rethought his initial stance and sent Juba, the man in front of him, to purchase an Arabian mare from Bedouins as a placatory gift. Disappointingly, the Bedouins had been unwilling to part with any of the more valued mares, and they had been forced to return with a stallion.

  Jim listened to all this without remark, keeping his expression haughty.

  It seemed to work. Juba gnawed on his lip. If Mildred was right, he would be hoping that Jim would make some comment he could purposefully misinterpret. Then he could salvage the situation by taking righteous offense, killing Jim, and taking off with Mildred. But Jim remained implacably silent. The Tuareg would assume he was awaiting an apology.

  And once Juba apologized, he’d be forced to let them go unharmed. In every nomadic tribe Jim had encountered, a universal truth prevailed: as much as one might want to, one simply did not rob or murder someone to whom one has made a formal apology. In a twisted sort of way, Jim even understood the concept.

  “I have this wondrous horse,” Juba finally said, red-faced with ire. “He is a King of Stallions. See for yourself.”

  With apparent boredom, Jim glanced toward the gorgeous creature prancing restlessly at the end of the line. He looked back, his expression noncommittal.

  The Tuareg clapped his hands and shouted. From out of the shadows limped the man Jim had cold-cocked with the rifle, leading the stallion. He stopped in front of Juba, warily eying Jim.

  “Look,” Juba said. “Every line perfect. Note his noble head, the small, neat ears and wide nostrils. Look how he stands with his neck so regally arched and legs so straight. He is first among stallions.” The Tuareg beckoned him over. “Feel. See for yourself, how sound, how well-muscled.”

  With a shrug, Jim crossed over to the horse. The stallion’s nostrils quivered at his approach. Catching scent of something alien, he backed up, pawing the earth, his ears twitching back and forth as he listened intently.

  He truly was superb. His topline was level, his back short and broad. As Juba had pointed out, his neck was long and arched, with the clean throatlatch typical in the best of the breed. Unlike the stocky, heavily haunched little mustangs he’d ridden as a boy, this animal, though not appreciably taller, had the long, leaner muscles and smaller hooves of a creature suited to covering long distances.

  Jim held out his hand, and the stallion stretched his neck, his large, luminous, dark eyes fixed on Jim. He took a tentative sniff, the warm, moist air brushing over Jim’s knuckles, then withdrew his head and waited. Slowly, Jim ran his hands over the animal’s croup up to his withers and down his legs. The stallion stood easily, every now and again flicking an ear in his direction.

  “See? Is it not so?”

  “He is a fine horse,” Jim agreed carefully.

  “Fine? He is unequaled in all of Egypt. A horse fit for an amenokal.”

  “Ah-huh.”

  Juba scowled, wheeled around, and paced back and forth in front of the stallion, finally coming to a stop right in front of Jim. His blue-stained face broke into a huge smile, displaying very white, very broken teeth. “I like you. You, too, are a son of the desert. You touch a horse knowledgably. Not as knowledgably as a Tuareg,” he lifted his shoulder apologetically, “but as good as a Bedouin.”

  Jim didn’t say a word, waiting for what would come next. He had a pretty good idea.

  “Because I like you, I am thinking that I will make you a trade. There will be no bartering in this trade,” he said, and from the lethal glint in the otherwise amiable face, Jim could well believe it. He appreciated the warning. “It is not even a trade, really. It is more a gift.”

  “Yes?”

  “I will trade you this Prince of the Desert, this Brother to the Wind, for that camel.”

  Jim waited.

  “Yes? I see. I understand. You are struck speechless with your good fortune. As would I be were I you. There. Is it done?”

  “The one-eyed camel for the stallion?” he said. “That’s it? That’s the trade?”

  “Yes!” Juba laughed, making an effusive gesture. “I amaze myself.” He turned and began to untie the stallion from the end of the caravan, and then abruptly he stopped and turned back around, as if just remembering something, something of such little consequence he was embarrassed to even bring it up. “Oh. And the woman, too.”

  He heard Mildred make a small choked sound, but he didn’t so much as glance at her.

  “Do we have a deal?” Juba asked.

  “You bet,” Jim said.

  Ginesse watched Jim secure his kit, emptied of his pistol, over his shoulder and accept the canteen Juba offered. Then he leapt lightly atop the stallion’s bare back—a saddle was not part of the deal. He looked down at Juba. “The girl is a virgin. I believe your leader will set great store by that,” he said in a loud, but otherwise inconsequential tone.

  Ginesse thanked him for that. He’d just turned her virginity into part of the gift the Tuaregs were bringing to the chief, the amenokal. Juba would be much less prone to rape her now that his compatriots had been informed of her increased value. She hoped.

  She stared at Jim, willing him to turn around and look at her and somehow relay that everything was going to be all right. Even dazed with fear and shock Ginesse could not help but admire his horsemanship. Her father was a good rider—no, a great rider—but he had nothing on Jim Owens. There was no violent kicking, no coarse whoops, or lashing of reins. Whatever he did was done noiselessly, undetectably. One instant the horse was standing perfectly still, the next the pair of them were flying silently out across the sand, past the reach of their fire’s light, a centaur come to life.

  He did not look back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “My father is Harry Braxton.” Ginesse spoke in Arabic, keeping her voice carefully respectful as she followed the Tuareg leader through the camp. “He is an important man. A fierce chieftain. He will reward you well for my safe delivery to Fort Gordon.”

  Juba ignored her, as he’d ignored all her pleas and petitions for the last four days.

  “Please, you must listen,” she said urgently.

  He looked around, as if surprised to see her still there. She stopped, holding her hands palm up in supplication. “Please, my father—”

  “Sold you,” Juba interrupted. “Enough. You are a slave, not my wife. You will make my ears bleed with your lies and pleas.”

  Whatever her father’s reputation, it had not extended to Libya. Each day Juba stuck her on a camel in the middle of the caravan. Each night, he pitched his sumptuous tent and left her to huddle next to one of the
camels for warmth. He let the desert be her warden; it proved a vigilant guard.

  Where could she go? How far would she get on foot before succumbing to the elements? And if she did manage to steal off on one of the camels, even the swiftest one, eventually they would find her and bring her back.

  But today was different. They had left the dunes behind and were heading into rockier terrain: a mixture of sand and gravel occasionally broken by low plateaus and shallow wadis where small stands of tough little acacias huddled. Juba called an early halt to their travels and had his tent pitched at the mouth of a small fissure.

  The men exchanged wary glances but set about making camp, building a fire, and unloading and hobbling the camels. Ginesse felt Juba’s eyes on her more than once. The harsh conditions, her ultimate destination as a gift for a powerful leader, and her virginity had so far kept her safe and well-fed. She feared that was coming to an end.

  That first night she had been certain that Jim would come back for her, steal into the camp in the dead of night and take her out from under their noses. He hadn’t come back.

  And a good thing, too, because the Tuaregs had also expected him. They’d lain in wait, the rifles across their laps, their eyes alert to the smallest movement out in the desert. The next night, and the next, she’d remained awake straining to hear the sound of Jim’s stealthy approach. But he hadn’t come back then.

  She was frightened. If she let herself think, she would edge to terrified. Each time Juba glanced her way, she trembled. Each time she thought of him lying over her in the way Jim had, her stomach rebelled and she had to knot her fist against her lips to keep from retching.

  Time was running short. She should have stayed out of his sight, made herself as inconspicuous as possible. Now he was studying her thoughtfully, stroking a dirty, broken thumbnail up and down his cheek. She could almost see him consider his options. He had only Jim’s word that she was a virgin, and if she proved not to be, well, Juba could always claim he’d been deceived by the slaver who’d sold her to him. True, he would be embarrassed, and that certainly weighed heavily with him, but how heavily? Not enough, she feared.

  Damn that henna powder, for Ginesse had no misconceptions about her desirability; her value lay in her red hair and its ability to bestow good luck on whoever possessed her. It wasn’t even that red anymore.

  “Go into my tent. Wait for me there. We will discuss your father and your ransom.”

  He was lying. He wasn’t even making any concerted effort to hide the fact. His tone was indolent, his gaze scornful.

  “Please. We can talk out here—”

  “We will talk in my tent,” he cut in brusquely. “Later. You go there now and wait for me. Unless you wish to learn how a slave is punished amongst my people.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Good. Because you would end up in my tent either way.” He pointed at the tent. “Go.”

  She had no choice. She bowed her head and did as he commanded. Inside, the tented was outfitted with accoutrements worthy of a sheikh. The sand had been covered with thick layers of Persian carpets, a half dozen pillows of gem-colored embroidered satin piled in the center. Silk tassels the size of gourds hung from the ceiling alongside a pair of ornately worked copper lanterns, as yet unlit.

  A table of hammered brass that carried an enameled carafe and demitasse cups squatted near the center of the tent, and a low ottoman bed had been set up along one side. This, too, was piled with pillows and covered with a striped blanket. A water pipe stood near its head.

  It all looked very civilized and comfortable, and Ginesse wheeled around and began hunting for something she could use as a weapon. Juba kept a curved dagger in a sheath at his waist, and she had seen knives strapped to the upper arms of the other men. Perhaps there was something…

  Five minutes later she gave up her search. Except for some clothing, the tent was remarkably antiseptic. There was nothing she could use as a weapon except the spurs on a pair of boots. That would have to do.

  Frantically, she set to prying off a spur, one ear tuned to the movements of the men outside. When she was done, she carefully set the boots back in their original position. Then she waited, her heart thudding dully in her chest.

  She listened to the low back and forth of conversation between the men, the clang of cooking pots, the soft “nurrr” of the camels, and the crackle of firewood. The light grew murky inside the tent and the wind rose, sending sand hissing along the tent’s sides. Then, as the last light faded from the tent and she’d struck the flint and lit the hanging lanterns, she heard Juba bark some peremptory commands. Men reluctant to comply answered in grumbling complaints, but a bit later she heard the groaning of camels being roused from their rest.

  He was sending some, if not all of his men, away. Likely those he least trusted to keep a secret.

  Her heartbeat kicked into a gallop, and she backed further into the tent, clenching the spur tightly behind her back. Her hand grew slick with sweat, and her knees felt watery.

  It seemed like she stood like that, facing forward, forever. The camp had gone preternaturally quiet, the only sound the occasional moan of a camel or snap of the firewood breaking. She heard a man say something, a muttered reply, and then footsteps leaving.

  Then, finally, horribly, she heard the sound she’d been dreading: the self-assured footfall of a man approaching the tent.

  She lifted her chin, horrified to feel tears welling in her eyes. Furiously, she blinked them away. She was better than that. She was braver.

  She saw his silhouette looming large against the tent flap, his robes swirling around him on the quickening breeze, tall and ominous and infinitely threatening. A dark hand seized the flap and switched it violently aside. He ducked his head and entered.

  Jim Owens.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  She was a tall woman, but she looked heartbreakingly fragile standing at the back of the tent. She stared at him, rooted to where she stood, her whole body shivering uncontrollably.

  “I never left. I was always out there. Watching. I couldn’t come sooner because they were expecting it.” He was speaking too fast, too urgently, the words tumbling out past the constriction in his throat.

  God, she must have been terrified. She must have thought he’d abandoned her. But there’d been no way to tell her, no sign he could have given that wouldn’t have been picked up by her captors. If they’d suspected for even a second what he was about, she would have ended up in Libya as a slave.

  “But I wouldn’t have let him—” He broke off, gazing at her beseechingly, willing her to understand.

  He’d endured the torments of the damned these the last four days, knowing how she must be suffering. More than once he’d been on the verge of throwing caution to the wind and taking his chances. But while he would take chances with his life, he couldn’t with hers. So he’d bided his time, waiting until the tribesmen were separated and their guard down, each moment extending into a hellish eternity. Then tonight, Juba had sent two of his men ahead; they wouldn’t be returning anytime soon.

  “You came.” It was barely more than a whisper, and God help him, he couldn’t read anything in it, couldn’t tell if it was shock or disbelief or condemnation or something else that flavored her voice, and ultimately the only reply he could make was the simple truth, a promise as much as an assertion.

  “Always,” he said. “I’ll always come for you.”

  With that, whatever paralysis had held her broke. She launched herself across the tent, flinging herself into his arms, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. He staggered back a step under her momentum, clasping her high against his chest.

  “I knew you would come,” she sobbed against his throat. “I knew you would, I just didn’t know when, and then when you didn’t I was afraid something terrible had happened to you!”

  He closed his eyes, fighting the wave of emotion that threatened to drive him to his knees. She’d known he was coming. She�
�d trusted him, had faith in him. She had never doubted him. Instead, she’d worried about him. Him. When she was the one in the hands of a slave trafficker.

  “Never leave me like that again.”

  “Never.”

  She was crying in earnest now, her whole body racked with sobs, tears spilling from her eyes and streaming down her cheeks as she gazed up into his eyes. He was lost, incapable of thinking clearly, uncertain what to do, what to say, how to fix this. Always in his life when something went wrong, he acted, he did something; he sought, he tracked, he stole, he fought, he used fists and muscle and brain and cunning and he acted. But here, now, with her, he had no idea what to do.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, turning her face up to his, searching her eyes, trying to see into her, to discover if he’d been too late after all. “Are you all right?”

  “Tell me what to do,” he said. “Tell me how to make this better. Should I kill him?” Now there was an idea with some real merit.

  “No!”

  “It would be a fair fight. Juba and the only other man left are tied up and unconscious right now, but I could rouse Juba, wait a while, and then use broadswords or guns. His choice. Or fists.” He liked the idea of fists.

  “No!” she said. She pushed back a little. “No. You…you…” Their eyes met. He watched in fascination as her pupils grew larger, her lips parted, full and rich and incredibly inviting. The tip of her tongue dabbed at the center of her upper lip. It utterly undid him.

  A maelstrom of relief and lust awakened in him, turning his body rock-hard. He felt each point where she was pressed against him in excruciating detail, the soft weight of her breasts, her slender waist, her lithe thighs dangling against his, the slight mound at their apex riding above his brutally stiff erection.

  He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe. His control teetered on the brink of dissolving completely.