Nan Ryan (12 page)

“The stallion’s unique color gave him his name,” Tariz spoke up eagerly.
“Toz
is Arabic for that rusty mist that shrouds everything when the desert wind whips up the powdery sands.”

Temple smiled and said, “Then his name suits him well.” She reached up and clasped a handful of saffron-colored mane and murmured to the stallion, “Will you allow me to ride you, Toz? Will you, boy?”

The horse danced excitedly in place, neighed loudly, and began shaking his great head up and down. Temple laughed delightedly.

“Toz is yours to ride,” said the Sheik. “He is as gentle or as spirited as you wish him to be. I trained him myself. He will run swiftly, when asked gently.”

Temple nodded. “May I ride him now? Take him out—”

“Tariz will ride with you,” Sharif interrupted, stepped closer, lifted her from the ground, and sat her astride the heavily embellished Moorish saddle.

“That was totally unnecessary,” Temple promptly informed him. “I have been riding all my life, and I’m quite capable of mounting a horse without assistance.”

In a split second the Sheik had plucked her out of the saddle and planted her on her feet. His hands on her waist, his jet eyes holding hers, he said, “My apologies. I forgot for a moment that you are not a lady.” He seemed to savor the words. His dark eyes narrowed then, and he added, “If you ever lay a whip to Toz, that same whip will be laid to you.” He released her, turned, and walked away.

“The master loves his horses very much,” said Tariz by way of explanation and apology.

Bristling, Temple replied, “It’s nice to know he loves something, even if it’s only an animal.”

With that she looped the long leather reins over her mount’s neck, grabbed the saddle horn, and swung up astride the big saffron-colored stallion. She wheeled him about, dug her booted heels into his sleek flanks, and guided him directly toward the retreating Sheik’s back.

If Sharif was aware of the snorting stallion bearing swiftly down on him, he never let on. He didn’t stop and turn. He didn’t so much as look over his shoulder. He continued to walk away at a graceful, leisurely pace.

At the last possible minute his long arm shot out, and he caught the speeding stallion’s reins and jerked his great head down. The horse stopped so abruptly, the unsuspecting Temple was thrown. She landed on her stomach, her hands stretched out before her, her eyes wide with shock.

Gasping for breath, she was yanked to her feet by a pair of strong brown hands.

“Are you all right?” asked the Sheik, his dark face bent close to hers, his ebony eyes registering a surprising degree of worry.

“Y-yes … I …” She nodded, sucking in air eagerly. “I … I think I am.”

His eyes changed immediately. Coldness replaced concern. Anger supplanted alarm. His hands gripping her upper arms, his dark head bent, he leaned close and said through thinned lips, “Do not forget who I am again. I am Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid, the only son of Sheik Aziz Ibrahim Hamid, leader of the most powerful tribe in northern Arabia.” He drew her closer, so close that her legs brushed his hard thighs and her stomach was pressed against his rock-hard belly. “Every man, woman, and beast here are under my command, in my control. All answer to me. All do as I wish or they reap the consequences. That includes you. You will obey me. If you do not learn to do so on your own”—his tone was level, but his words held a dark promise that unnerved Temple—”I will teach you.” Flustered by his nearness, Temple found herself nodding her assent. “Now,” he said, “assure me that you will give Tariz no trouble, and I will allow you to go on your ride.”

For a second Temple didn’t speak. But the look in his eyes told her that if she didn’t agree to behave, she would be taken back to the tent at once and never be allowed to go riding.

“I will give Tariz no trouble,” she said grudgingly.

The Sheik released her immediately. That cruel smile she’d come to dread lifted the corners of his full lips as he told her, “You couldn’t have actually run me down. Toz is far too well trained to kill his own master.” The smile broadened, grew more sinister. “You’ll have to find some other weapon.”

Wishing she could smack his smug, handsome face, Temple said, “And so I will. You may count on it!” She spun around on her boot heel, lithely mounted the waiting Toz, and rode away, her unbound hair flying about her head.

Tariz, on his iron gray stallion, smiled down at Sharif and said, “The American is a spirited young woman, is she not, master?”

“Don’t let her out of your sight,” said the Sheik, snapping his long fingers. The dutiful Tariz went racing after her.

“The Rub al Khali,” said Tariz, pointing, “the Empty Quarter. The world’s largest sand desert. Thousands of square miles of emptiness.”

“Do people live there?” Temple asked, shading her eyes.

Tariz grinned impishly and said, “Not for long.” Then he chuckled merrily at his own little joke, and Temple laughed companionably with him.

The two of them were now miles away from camp. Both were enjoying the long ride, especially Temple. It was the first time she’d been outside the Sheik’s tent since her arrival. Having no idea how long it might be before she was allowed out again, she was bent on gleaning all the information she could as to the chances of surviving alone in the merciless deserts.

“So to ride into the Empty Quarter would mean certain death?”

Tariz bobbed his turbaned head. “Only the most skilled of desert dwellers would stand a chance of making it through the Rub al Khali.”

“Why?” she asked, staring at the desolate, sandy plain stretching before them. “Is the Empty Quarter so different from the rest of the desert?”

“Ah, yes, yes, it is very different,” Tariz said, spreading his short arms to encompass the miles and miles of emptiness he went on to describe. “We are right now on the beginning fringe of Arabia’s dead southern waste, and this is like a cool, verdant oasis compared to what lies beyond.”

“Extremely hostile land?”

“The normal midday temperatures in the summer months are one hundred twenty-five, one hundred thirty degrees Fahrenheit. It is so hot the skin tightens painfully, and the eyes ache at the pressure.” He squinched his own eyes shut for emphasis. Then he opened them and said, “The only hope of making it across is after the rains of December and January, and then only if one has a great mastery of the desert.” He stared at the endless dunes stretching before them like waves on a mighty ocean and said, “Over the years scores of bedouins have vanished from the world by attempting to cross the merciless Empty Quarter. Many of the wells have dried up, and unless a rider knows the exact location of the remaining wells, he will die of thirst before he finds one. And with the lack of water, the only food to be found is an occasional
dihab
or
jerboa.”

“Oh? Some kind of hearty desert plants?”

“No. Lizards and rats.” Temple made a face. Tariz turned in the saddle to look at her. “It is said that the bleached bones of many an ill-fated caravan litter the old trade trails.”

“Mmm,” Temple mused, then asked conversationally, “So if riding into the Empty Quarter is suicide, which way would you ride if you decided to go on a journey and hoped to arrive at your destination?”

Tariz laughed. “The only journey I ever make is from our village north up to the … the …” Abruptly he stopped speaking, looked slightly troubled, as if he’d almost revealed more than he should.

Although curious as to what he’d meant to say, Temple did not prompt him. He obviously was not supposed to tell her where he went when he traveled to the north. So instead of pressing him, she lifted a hand, pointed, and asked, “Is that due north?”

He chuckled merrily. “No, no, that is west.” And he helpfully went about explaining how to divine directions without benefit of a compass. “Look down at the desert floor,” he said. “You see the ridges of sand? They tend to run north from south. The moist morning breeze tends to come from the Gulf. The east.” He pointed toward the east, and Temple nodded her understanding. He continued, “The wise desert traveler makes his best time between midnight and ten A.M.—resting the horse and himself in the P.M.”

“I see,” she said, showing a casual interest while taking great care not to alert him to her reasons for asking. “And he would need to know the location of the desert wells?”

“He would be a fool to set out otherwise.”

Proud of his knowledge, Tariz was more than willing to share it. Temple paid close attention as he spoke of the landmarks designating those life-giving wells that contained sweet, pure water. “Mind you, a man must be extremely careful,” he warned, shaking a finger at her. “Some of the wells have gone dry, while others have been poisoned by the vengeful Turks.”

“Why on earth would the Turks do a thing like that?” she asked, brows knitted.

His dark little face darkened even more. “Because they are evil incarnate.” Then, almost at once he brightened, smiled again, and said, “The sun is climbing. We must start back before the heat of the day sets in.”

*     *     *    

The early morning rides continued, and Temple found the aging little Arab to be the perfect companion. He was also endlessly resourceful. From him she learned more and more about her harsh surroundings and carefully stored all the pertinent information in her brain, to be written down when she returned to camp and had a moment to herself.

Tariz was consistently cheerful and talkative, unlike his maddeningly taciturn master. Hoping to learn more about the mysterious, unreachable Sheik and his purpose for holding her, Temple had wisely not yet questioned Tariz about her strange abduction. She knew that she first had to make a friend of him. She had gradually to gain his trust, to make him like her enough to tell her what she most wanted to know. Maybe in time he could even be persuaded to help her escape.

So, as they rode together, Temple laughed and joked with Tariz, taking care to ask the kinds of questions she knew the lively little Arab would be only too happy to answer. He never tired of telling her about the desert, his home.

The two of them quickly became friends. Temple genuinely liked the good-natured little man of indeterminate age. If she so much as smiled at him, he got excited and salaamed and grinned and chattered like a magpie. His dark eyes were constantly atwinkle and his manner unfailingly warm and friendly.

Unlike the dark, aloof man he served.

Clearly the cheerful Tariz loved the laconic Sheik. At Temple’s gentle prodding, he revealed how proud he was to have been Sharif’s personal body servant and faithful companion for all the years of the young Sheik’s life.

That he would gladly lay down his life for Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid was more than evident. That he would guard the Sheik’s secrets soon became just as apparent when Temple cautiously attempted to learn more about the Sheik from his smiling little manservant.

Completely loyal to his chieftain, Tariz would tell her little, other than the fact that Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid was a man among men, a scholar, a leader, and a mighty warrior.

“A scholar?” Temple arched her eyebrows. “You’re teasing me, Tariz.”

Excited, literally beaming with pride, he threw back his narrow shoulders and announced, “Young Sharif was educated in England. He is an Oxford scholar.”

“No!”

“By Allah, it is true.” He bobbed his turbaned head in emphasis. “When he went away to the university, his father and I were afraid he might never want to come back to the desert. I will never forget the day Sharif left us. The old Sheik and I watched with sad eyes as he rode away and we … we …” Abruptly Tariz stopped speaking and his expression changed. Contrite, he said, “Sometimes Tariz talks too much.”

“No, no, you don’t. Please, go on,” Temple encouraged him. “Tell me about Sharif’s father. And about his mother. Where are they? Why have I not seen either of them in camp? And why did his father send Sharif to England to be educated if he was afraid his son might not return?”

“It is time we start back,” Tariz said, pulling up on his mount.

“Yes, all right,” Temple drew Toz closer to Tariz. “Sharif s parents?”

“They are dead,” said Tariz.

“I’m sorry,” Temple replied. “Was it recently, or …”

Tariz shook his head. “The old Sheik has been dead for five years.”

“And Sharif s mother?”

“A long, long time ago.” Tariz kicked his gray into motion.

Temple quickly caught up to him and prompted, “The Oxford education?”

But Tariz had clammed up, refused to say anything more. “We must hurry back to camp. The master will be worried.”

Naked Nereids in gay abandon
.

The youngest and the fairest of Sultan Agha Hussain’s large harem played in the enormous blue-tiled bathing pool while bright sunlight spilled in through the high latticed windows. The aged sultan’s son, the indolent, obese, thirty-five-year-old Mustafa Ibn Agha Hussain; watched the young women from his perch at pool’s edge.

Lolling lazily on a many-pillowed divan, Mustafa greedily devoured candied dates from a silver tray as the most beautiful of his father’s many young female slaves splashed about and squealed.