The Sheikh Who Claimed Her: Master of the Desert / The Sheikh's Reluctant Bride / Accidentally the Sheikh's Wife. Teresa Southwick
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for her swept over him as their gazes met and held. But he had closed his heart to her, he reminded himself sternly, to protect her from a ruthless king.
‘You had a good night, I trust?’ he said, taking the plate out of her hands and choosing some delicacies for her himself.
‘No. Did you?’
Would he ever get used to her bluntness? He saw hurt and disappointment mixed with the defiance in her eyes. She had expected him to come to her, he realised. However deep the rift between them, she thought they could get over it and pick up where they had left off. ‘I rode out,’ he said briskly. ‘Is there anything else you want from here?’ He scanned the buffet.
‘No, thank you. Did you ride all night?’ she asked innocently. ‘Did you have things on your mind, Ra’id?’ The look she gave him was fast and accusatory.
‘No. Should I?’
She raised a faint smile. ‘I guess not.’
Now her cheeks were flushed and her breath was coming faster, as if her heart couldn’t keep pace with her emotions. He turned away, effectively dismissing her, but he carried with him her fresh, clean scent and innocent appearance. That and the appeal in her eyes had almost melted him, he realised, but thankfully he was ruled by his head and not his heart, so it was easy for him to walk away.
He had almost reached the door when he realised she was at his elbow. He glanced down. ‘Yes?’
‘I can’t wait to see the citadel,’ she said, as if this was a holiday for her and he was her tour guide.
He made a brief hum of acknowledgement, before sweeping on his way.
‘What about your breakfast?’ she demanded catching hold of his sleeve.
He looked down at her incredulously, ignoring the collective gasp.
She seemed unaware of it. ‘Aren’t you going to eat anything, Ra’id?’
His look hardened. ‘I have more important things on my mind.’
‘So you don’t feel like eating either?’ she said, actually tightening her fingers on his sleeve so the fabric was crushed.
‘On the contrary—but I will eat in private.’ He shook her off.
‘Of course. I forgot,’ she snapped. ‘In your ivory tower.’
‘Will you excuse me?’ he murmured, ignoring the barb. Whether she would or not, he was going to the stables to make sure their horses were ready for them to leave at once.
She shouldn’t have annoyed him. She ate breakfast, if only for the baby’s sake, and returned to her room to get ready to leave. If Ra’id took her to see the citadel, which was by no means certain now, it would be no magnanimous concession on his part, but another opportunity to rub her nose in the fact that her dream of a fun-filled castle to be used to such good effect by the charity was a naive and frivolous plan. One which without Ra’id’s water supply would fail utterly.
But she was going to call Ra’id’s bluff. She refused to be put off by his threatening manner. She would go into the desert. Whatever it took she would find the water she needed somewhere, and then she would renovate the ancient building and make it live again.
The opportunity to tell Ra’id about their baby seemed further away than ever, Antonia reflected anxiously, but she wouldn’t get a chance to tell him unless she stayed close to him. She had to keep with her original plan to visit the citadel with Ra’id. How could she not when there was still this huge and pressing secret between them?
He watched Antonia stride across the stable yard in a blaze of purpose. She had put on a little weight, he noticed, and it suited her. She was glowing with health, in fact. Her hair in particular seemed to gleam more than it ever had, though she had made an attempt to tame the abundant locks in a severe chignon which did her no favours. The hairstyle was the one jarring note in her appearance—that and the look in her eyes.
So this was war, he thought with a mixture of anticipation and amusement. Excellent. Let battle commence.
‘Are you ready to go?’ she said, eyeing the quiet gelding he had chosen for her before raising an eyebrow when she viewed his stamping monster of a stallion.
He almost had to curb a smile at the sight of the girl he recognised even without a knife in her hand. This was Antonia white-lipped with determination, and even the kind gelding he had selected for her was hanging its head uncertainly, as if it sensed trouble approaching its back.
He soothed it with a gentle touch as she mounted up, and then said, ‘Ready?’
Her gaze was like a lick of flame that wavered when he held it. Travelling into the desert with him wasn’t so appealing, suddenly, he guessed. On my own? he imagined her thinking. With you? Without anyone to take my part?
‘You have a hat, I hope?’ he said. ‘The sun is hot. You may have noticed?’
She crammed on the totally unsuitable headgear she had been holding crushed in her hand.
‘That hat isn’t suitable for the desert,’ he pointed out.
‘Well, it’s what I’m wearing.’ She gave the brim a defiant tug.
‘You’ll need this.’
She huffed contemptuously at the scarf he was holding out for her to wind about her face and head. ‘Keep it!’ she exclaimed, as if accepting anything from him was the first step on the road to damnation. ‘I’m just fine as I am,’ she assured him, wheeling her horse around.
One hour and a sandstorm later, she was begging him for the Arabian headgear.
‘I suppose you think this is funny?’ she demanded as he sipped cold, clean water from a ladle offered to him by the Bedouin who had set up temporary camp around a well of clean drinking-water.
‘Not at all.’ Having unwound the yards of fabric he wore to protect his head, neck and face, he was largely untroubled by grit and sand, while Antonia looked more like a sand sculpture, with her red-rimmed eyes the only sign that she was human. ‘I have a solution for you.’ He smiled.
‘You do?’ She glanced towards the stallion, where his saddlebags full of the supplies he considered necessary were hanging.
‘Certainly,’ he said, tipping the bucket of water over her head. ‘That should clean you up a bit—and cool you down.’
Spluttering, she swore at him. ‘Why, you—’
‘Brute?’ he supplied mildly, already on his way to retrieve the spare howlis he’d brought for her to wear.
By the time he had returned, the laughing women of the camp had helped Antonia to wash her hair, and were hustling her away between them, no doubt to find her something more suitable for the desert than her Hollywood gear. Bedouin were kind that way, he reflected; infinitely generous.
He waited with mounting impatience as the minutes ticked by, chatting with the men whilst keeping an eye on the women’s tent where they had taken her. He wouldn’t put it past Antonia to steal a camel and make a break for it—and this time when she left the country he wanted to be sure it was for good.
But as he held that thought Antonia just ducked her head to leave the tent, and now was coming towards him with her head held high and that seemingly irrepressible look of determination and challenge locked in her eyes. She was wearing a serviceable but undeniably sexy outfit. The Bedouin women knew a thing or two about such things. It comprised a robe and a headdress that both protected her and—regrettably, as far as he was concerned—made her seem only too well suited to the hostile environment. She didn’t belong here, and in his opinion the sooner Antonia realised that, the better.
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