Loving Lies. Tina Donahue
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the tip of his sword between the latticework.
She pressed her hand over her mouth to keep from making any noise.
The fakir kept pushing against her, forcing her toward the opening.
As she entered the narrow hole, liquid sprayed the side of her face and hand. She flinched and looked down. In the faint light, whatever was on her appeared to be red. Blood?
A scream caught in her throat. The man outside hollered and struggled to open the cabinet doors. On his knees, the fakir pressed his mouth to her ear. “The blood is a trick, nothing more. Stop only at the other end of the tunnel. No matter what happens, I will be behind you. Go.”
The moment she was past the steps, she forced back fear and entered the small tunnel. Earth pressed in on all sides, casting her into darkness so profound she might have been blind.
The men’s shouts drifted down. The fakir pressed closer. “Hurry.”
The robe wrapped around her legs, slowing her progress, the same as the blackness ahead. She had to feel what she couldn’t see. The earth was hard and cool. It stunk of decay and death, the perimeters as confining as a grave. To die down here… She shuddered.
More shouts. The guards followed, intent on dragging her back to the market.
She pushed the robe over her hips, exposing her nudity, and crawled with greater determination though the journey soon seemed endless. After a time Isabella wasn’t certain whether she was going in a straight line or if the tunnel was veering to the right, the left, perhaps deeper within the earth. Her elbows and knees stung from scraping against the packed dirt.
She could barely draw a breath. Quiet pressed in. She slowed.
“What is it?” the fakir asked.
“The shouting stopped.”
“For the moment. The men will follow.”
Faint cries drifted down the tunnel. She crawled as fast as she could despite her bruised elbows, aching fingers, and scraped knees. Repeatedly, the robe fell from her back and wrapped around her legs. There seemed no end to the time she’d been in here. She kept pushing back panic until she couldn’t any longer. She wanted to shriek in terror and pain but didn’t.
A faint gray light was ahead. The end of the tunnel?
She stopped and stared.
The fakir shoved her forward. “¡Darse prisa!”
After what seemed a lifetime, sweet air wafted in from the outside. Gulping it greedily, she was soon free of the tunnel’s entrance, surrounded by a thick stand of mulberry trees. On her side catching her breath, she noted the angle of the sun. The journey through the tunnel had taken even longer than she’d thought.
She pushed to a sitting position. Countless leaves obscured the surrounding area, giving everything a strange green cast. Never had Isabella seen such a place. She’d hoped the tunnel would end beyond the walls of Granada or, better, within a Spanish village where she’d be on her way to safety. What if she wasn’t? This might be outside the fabled Alhambra, a fortress and palace known for its gardens and the harem. The fakir could have led them to a tunnel going to the Sultan Boabdil in order to collect gold for selling her flesh.
Isabella pushed to her feet to flee. The fakir was immediately upon her, his arm around her waist, his other hand clamped over her mouth.
“Keep still.” His lips were against her ear, his dirty beard trailing down her cheek. “Do you want our enemies to drag you back to their foul city?”
Then they were outside Granada’s walls, though she had no idea where or why the fakir would speak of his people as their enemies.
“Do you?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Then keep still. If you flee, I may not be the one who captures you, though you will be captured.” He released her. At the mouth of the tunnel, he kicked away the planks supporting the roof. The tunnel collapsed upon itself, belching dust in a thunderous rumble. The fakir worked feverishly. Soft grunts poured from him as he forced stone after stone against the opening to cut it off completely.
Isabella hoped she was now safe from the Moors, yet what of the fakir? She kept witnessing his surprising strength. He appeared to have a sword hidden beneath his filthy robe. Now she saw the high boots he wore.
She backed up, ready to bolt. Before she could, he grabbed her wrist and looked over both shoulders. “Now we must run.”
She stared. He expected her to stay with him? To go where? To what end? She had no chance to ask and couldn’t match his mad pace. He tugged her roughly to follow. She winced at twigs, small rocks, and other debris digging into her bare feet. At last, she cried, “I cannot keep up.”
“You must.”
Despite his words, he slowed somewhat.
Mulberry trees swirled past. Greens smeared into browns, the sun darting between the heavy foliage. Isabella’s breaths came hard and fast. At last, she was so dizzy the ground gave out beneath her. Before she could fall, the fakir wrapped his arm around her waist, holding her firmly against him as he slowed to a brisk walk, forcing her to do the same.
She panted. “Where are you taking me?”
“To safety. Ask no more, lest someone hears you.”
No one was around. Even the guards had given up their chase. The only sounds were wind rustling foliage, their feet scattering fallen leaves, their breaths rushing out.
Good sense told her to fight him. She worried her struggle might make matters worse.
She tried to see the fakir’s face. He held her so tightly she caught only brief glimpses of his beard and cheekbone as he scanned the area. They continued for what seemed an eternity. No village appeared through the countless trees. Did he expect them to walk forever? Fatigued and disheartened, she pleaded. “I must stop.”
After a short distance, he helped her to a massive mulberry tree gnarled with age. Panting, she slumped against the rough trunk with him in front of her, his body huddled close.
Too close. His breathing slowed, his shaft stiffened, pressing against her thigh.
Her heart skipped several beats. She twisted to get away. He tightened his arm, trapping her.
She pushed against him. He didn’t budge. She frowned. “Release me.”
He looked at her.
Her mouth went dry. His face wasn’t lined as it should have been for an ancient man. His eyes were even more striking than she’d realized, lushly lashed, the color of honey, an inner heat burning within them that imprisoned her…until he casually stroked her hip. Blood drained from her face. Her robe had parted, revealing her nudity. She yanked the fabric over herself and tried to pull away. He wouldn’t allow her any freedom.
She spoke through her teeth. “I demand you release me.”
His beautiful eyes seemed to smile, while his embrace remained strong with none of this making sense. Although his beard and brows were filthy from the tunnel, they were still white. Yet, he wasn’t bent as he’d been in Granada. He stood at his full height, with it being considerable. Thinking back to their escape, Isabella realized when he’d spoken to her, he’d never sounded frail. His shoulders were broad beneath his robe, the look in his hooded eyes unmistakable. He was aroused.
She pressed against the trunk. “Who are you?”
His sensuous lips curled up in an unexpected and decidedly amused smile. “Your future husband.” His voice was rich and deep with a young man’s needs. “The man you will always yield to as a wife should.”
Before she could comment on such madness or scream, the fakir lowered his mouth to hers. She froze. He brushed his lips over hers, tempting, coaxing, not yet demanding. She whimpered and ordered herself to flee