The Sheikh's Disobedient Bride. Jane Porter
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you?” she asked.
“We will talk later,” he said, and turning slightly in his silver and gold embroidered blanket that served as a saddle, gestured to his men. “We go.”
“No.”
“No?”
“You nearly killed me!” Her voice was deep, raspier than usual.
He shrugged. “Fortunately I also saved you.”
“And you what? Expect thanks?”
“Indeed. If it weren’t for me, you would have died.”
“If it weren’t for you, I’d still be in town. Safe.”
“It’s a moot point. You’re here now.” He shifted on the embroidered blanket, reins loose in his palm as his gaze swept the barren landscape. “And this is where you want to stay? In the middle of the desert, on your own?”
Tally glanced right, left, saw only sand and pale dunes, the world a stunning ivory and gold vista in every direction. “We’re just hours from the nearest town.”
“Hours by horse.” His head cocked and he studied her curiously, black eyebrows flat above intense eyes. “Do you have a horse?”
She felt her spine stiffen, her teeth clamping tight in the back of her jaw. “Not unless you kidnapped one for me.”
“I’m afraid I did not.”
“Right. Well, then, no horse.”
He leaned down, out of his saddle so that his face loomed above hers. “I guess you’ll be coming with me.” And before she could protest, he swept her into his arm and deposited her on the saddle in front of him, back onto his lap from where she’d only just escaped.
Tally grunted as she dropped onto his lap. Damn. His lap was big, hard, just like the rest of him. Soussi al-Kebir. Chief of the Desert, indeed. “What group are you part of?” she asked, unable to remain silent despite her best intentions. She needed to know the worst.
“Group?” her captor grunted, even as he resettled her more firmly into his lap, his left arm slung around her, holding her against his hips.
She squirmed inwardly at the contact. “Who are you with?”
“With?”
If ever there was a time to be sensitive—diplomatic—this was it. But it wasn’t easy finding the right words, or the right tone. “You must be part of a group, a tribe maybe?”
She felt him exhale. “You talk too much,” he said exasperatedly even as he urged his horse into a canter. “Practice silence.”
They rode the rest of the day in virtual silence, traveling deep into the desert, racing across the sand for what seemed like hours. Tally had given up sneaking glances at her watch. Time no longer mattered. They weren’t close to anybody or anyplace that could help her. There was no one here to intercede on her behalf. The only thing she could do was stay alert, try to keep her wits about her, see if she couldn’t find a way out.
Just before twilight they slowed, horses trotting as they reached the bandits’ camp city, an oasis of tents and camels in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere.
At the camp, the men dismounted quickly. Tally’s bandit jumped from his horse but when he reached for her, Tally squirmed away and dismounted without his help. She’d had enough of his company and wanted nothing more to do with him. But of course her captor had other plans for her.
“Come,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Follow me.”
He led her past a group of men sitting on the ground, and then past another group of men cleaning guns. She gave the second group of men a long, hard look. Guns were not good. This situation was not good.
Her bandit stopped walking, gestured to a tent on his left. “You’ll go there,” he said.
She looked at the tent and then the tribesman. “It’s a tent.”
“Of course it’s a tent,” he answered impatiently. “This is where we live.”
She looked back to the tent, the fear returning, squeezing her insides, making it hard to breathe. “Is this a temporary stopping point?”
“Temporary, how? What are you asking?”
“Are we traveling on tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“Stopping.” He gestured to the tent. “Go inside. Dinner will be brought to you.”
Tally faced the tattered goatskin tent. It was hideous. Stained, patched, and worn. She’d been traveling in Northern Africa and the Middle East for six months now and she’d never seen such a rough encampment before. This was not a friendly camp. This was not a nomadic tribe, either. There were no children here, no women, no elderly people. Just men, and they were heavily armed.
Tally didn’t know who they were and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out, either. Survival was paramount in her mind at this point.
She turned to look at her captor. He was tall, and hard and very indifferent. She suppressed a wave of emotion. No tears, no distress, no sign of weakness, she reminded herself. “How long will you keep me here?”
“How long will you stay alive?”
A lump filled her throat and she bit her lip, hot, exhausted, grimy. “Do you intend to…kill…me?”
His dark eyes narrowed, and a muscle pulled in his jaw, tightening the weathered skin across his prominent cheekbones. He had a strong nose, broad forehead and no sympathy or tenderness in his expression. “Do you want to die?”
What a question! “No.”
“Then go inside the tent.”
But she didn’t move. She couldn’t. She’d stiffened, her limbs weighted with a curious mixture of fear and dread. While she hated how he snapped his fingers as he ordered her about, it was the cold shivery dread feeling in her belly that made her feel worse.
She hated the dread because it made her feel as if nothing would ever be okay again.
“What do I call you?” she asked, nearly choking on her tongue, a tongue that now felt heavy and numb in her mouth. Tally had been in many dangerous situations but this was by far the worst.
He stared down at her for a long, tense moment. As the silence stretched, Tally looked past him, spotted a group of bearded men still meticulously cleaning their guns.
“Do you have a name?” Her voice sounded faint between them.
“Seeing as you’re from the West, you can call me Tair.”
“Tair?” she repeated puzzled.
He saw her brow crease with bewilderment but didn’t bother to explain his name, seeing no point in telling her that his real name was something altogether different, that he’d been born Zein el-Tayer, and that he was the firstborn of his father’s three sons and the only son still alive. He’d survived the border wars and the past ten years of tensions and skirmishes due to a lethal combination of skill and luck.
In Arabic, Zein or Zain meant “good”, but no one called him Zein even if it was his first name because he wasn’t good. Everyone in Baraka and Ouaha knew who he was, what he was, and that was danger. Destruction.
Tair wasn’t a good man, would never be a good man and maybe that was all his captive needed to know.
“You’ll be fine if you do what you’re told,” he added shortly, thinking he’d already spent far more time conversing than he liked. Talking irked him, it wasted time. Too many words filled the air, cluttering space, confusing the mind. Far better to act. Far better to do what needed to be done.
Like he’d