Nan Ryan (38 page)

But they would not listen.

Their leader had given them orders from which they were not to deviate. They were to ride home. All the way home. They were not to stop until they were back at his desert oasis.

No matter who was wounded or killed.

Temple sighed softly now, rubbed her hot cheek against Sharif’s cool arm, and raised her head wearily. She looked again at the face of the enigmatic man she loved so much. Sadly she mused that this revered leader of men had trained his loyal warriors too well. They respected his judgment too much. They obeyed his commands without question. They did exactly what their chieftain ordered them to do.

That unquestioning obedience might cost the Sheik his life.

Temple shook her head sorrowfully. She studied the dark, beloved face and wondered how she could go on living if he died.

The thought was overwhelming, unbearable.

“I love him, Tariz,” she said miserably, continuing to look only at Sharif, “and I have killed him.”

“No, Temple,” Tariz said in a low, soothing voice. “The Sheik will live. Sharif is very strong. He is not so easily killed.”

She smiled wistfully. “Perhaps you are right. You desert Arabs are physically superior to us.”

Tariz, too, smiled, and said, “Sharif is not an Arab.”

Temple looked up, stunned. She blinked at Tariz in the shadowy light. “Not an Arab?”

Tariz sighed and shook his turbaned head. He rose, came around the foot of the big ebony bed, and smiled kindly at Temple. “Perhaps it is time you learn more about Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid.”

“Yes … please … tell me.” She was staring at him, stunned, curious. “Tell me everything.”

Nodding, the leathery-faced little servant drew up a straight-backed chair and sat beside Temple. Without preamble he began to speak, to tell the secrets of the past, and Temple learned of the Sheik’s true heritage.

Tariz told her of that day so long ago when he and the old sheik had come upon the horrible scene in the northern desert. Temple’s mouth dropped open in shock and then compassion as he spoke unsentimentally of the pain and degradation Sharif’s mother had suffered at the hands of the bloodthirsty Turks.

Into Temple’s mind flashed the vision of Sharif shouting, “That was for my mother!” when he had shot and killed one of Mustafa’s palace guards.

“Sharif was born Christian Telford,” said Tariz. “His biological parents were Sir Albert Telford, a titled nobleman, and his wife, Maureen. Lord and Lady DunRaven. Christian was their only son.”

Wide-eyed, Temple looked from Tariz to Sharif and back again. “But he’s so dark and …”

Tariz nodded. “His mother was a beautiful black Irish lass. The blood of the Moors flowed through her veins. Sharif took his coloring from her.”

Tariz talked and talked, telling Temple how the old sheik had raised Sharif as if he were his own son. Explaining why Sharif had been sent to England for his education. It was his mother’s dying wish.

“Does Sharif know?”

“Yes. He was told when he was five years old. The old sheik explained everything to him. And he told Sharif—when Sharif went away to the university—that if he did not wish to return to the desert and the Arab way of life, we would understand.”

“But Sharif came back,” Temple said softly. “He prefers this way of life to—”

Proudly, “Yes. He was born an Englishman, but his heart is that of an Arab.”

The two continued to talk in low voices as the long dark night passed. Temple, full of questions, interested in anything having to do with the Sheik, listened and nodded and attempted to digest all she was learning of the man she loved.

Finally she said, “Why, Tariz? Why did Sharif find it necessary to abduct me? To bring me here?”

“You saw the intercepted message that was meant for your uncle, did you not?”

“Yes, Mustafa had it. But I still don’t understand why Sharif—”

“He never meant to harm you.” Tariz’s narrow shoulders slumped minutely when he added, almost apologetically, “For more years than either you or Sharif have lived, DuPlessis Munitions has been supplying arms to the hated Turks.”

“And yet Sharif …” Temple’s words trailed away.

“Yes. He risked his life saving you.”

“Oh, Sharif,” she murmured, gazing lovingly at the dark man in the bed.

“Sharif tried,” Tariz continued, “as did the old sheik before him, to reason with your family, to make them understand that death and destruction were being rained on the Arabs by the DuPlessis-armed Turks. Sharif doggedly endeavored—using every avenue available—to persuade the munitions company to stop providing the Turks with weapons and ammunition. They would not listen.”

The servant rose abruptly from his chair, circled the bed, and went directly to the tall ebony chest. He picked up the spent shell casing that he had taken from the pocket of Sharif’s bloodstained clothes. He came back and held out the brass casing to Temple.

“Take it,” he said, “and look at the bottom.”

Temple took the shell casing from Tariz’s palm, turned it up, and looked at its end. She drew in a sharp breath when she saw the distinctive manufacturer’s stamp.

Du-P

“That casing was in Sharif’s hand the day we found him in the desert thirty-four years ago,” said Tariz. “Agha Hussain’s men killed Sharif’s parents with bullets supplied by DuPlessis Munitions.”

Shaking her head, picturing the nine-month-old Sharif with the shell casing gripped in his tiny fist as he sat beside his dying mother, Temple said almost inaudibly, “Oh, God, no.”

As if she hadn’t spoken, Tariz said, “The Ottoman Turks are vicious murderers who have killed many of our people. Their weapons are far superior to ours in number and precision. Every skirmish is a bloodbath, every battle a scourge.”

Temple said nothing, merely stared at the damning shell casing in her hand.

“It is said that your uncle James DuPlessis is childless and that he dotes on you as if you were his own daughter. Is this not true?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“That is why Sharif abducted you. He sent the cable knowing that your uncle would do anything to insure your release. Even stop shipping arms to the Turks.” Tariz exhaled wearily. “As we both know, the cable never reached DuPlessis.”

“No,” Temple said softly. “Mustafa’s men intercepted the message. That’s how the Turkish sultan came to know about me. How he learned that the Sheik was holding me.”

“Yes,” Tariz said simply. He waited then for Temple to say something more. She said nothing, just closed her eyes, overwhelmed by all she had learned.

Finally Tariz rose, patted her slender shoulder, and said, “I will be just outside the tent if you need me.”

Temple opened her eyes and nodded. Tariz turned to go.

“Wait, Tariz,” Temple said abruptly.

He stopped. “Can I get you something?”

She shook her head. “Exactly what does
Naksedil
mean?”

Tariz smiled at her. “‘My beautiful one.’”

For a long time after Tariz had gone, Temple sat there cupping the spent shell casing in her palm.

Sharif moaned in his sleep, and she immediately forgot about everything but him. She rose anxiously from her chair and laid the shell casing on the night table beneath the lamp. She sat down carefully on the bed, facing Sharif. She took his hand in hers again, leaned down, brushed kisses to his handsome face, and whispered to him that she didn’t care what he had done, she loved him. Would always love him. Could he love her? Just a little?

Temple stayed there with the wounded Sheik through the long, silent night. Touching him. Kissing him. Murmuring words of love.

Near dawn, Sharif’s dark lashes began to flutter on his high olive cheekbones. He was struggling to cast off the chains of unconsciousness. Finally, after several failed attempts, his eyes opened to see a tired, tearful Temple hovering above him.

“Oh, my love,” she said with relief, “you’re awake at last. Thank God.”

“What did you call me?” he asked in a whisper.

She smiled, brushed a lock of limp black hair off his damp forehead. “My love. You are my love, Sharif, whether you want to be or not. I love you and I will go on loving you forever.”

Surprisingly, a faint mist of tears filled the dark, beautiful eyes of the supine man and he said, “No, Temple. You cannot love me. I will not let you love me.”

“I am not asking your permission. I am telling you that I love you.”

“Have you forgotten? I abducted you.”

“I’ve forgotten nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“I’ve been cruel and heartless to you.”

“So cruel and heartless that you risked your life to save me.”

“Our cultures are—”

“Cultures?” Temple said, shaking her head, incredulous.

“You are American. I am an Arab.”

“No, you are not. You are British, my darling Sharif. An English lord, nonetheless.”

He frowned. “Yes, but I live as an Arab.”

She smiled. “I’ll get the doctor.” She leaned down, pressed a kiss to his lips, and said, “Rest, my dear, and when you are better, I will persuade you to let me love you.”

The Sheik stood beneath the
tent’s shade canopy with one foot raised on a hassock and his arms folded over his bent knee. His dark face was set in rigid lines, his eyes fixed on some far distant point on the northern horizon.

The hour had come.

She was to leave today.

This morning.

Sharif lowered his booted foot to the carpet, moved to the edge of the canopy, gripped a supporting pole, and swallowed hard. The dull ache in his upper back where a bullet had ripped through muscle and bone was nothing compared to the sharp steady ache in his heart.

A week had passed since his French physician had extracted the bullet from his back. Too bad, Sharif mused wistfully, Temple couldn’t be so easily removed from his heart. Already the bullet wound was healing and he had regained much of his former strength.

But the injury to his heart would never heal.

Sharif drew a long, painful breath and took one of his Cartier cigarettes from the pocket of his white linen shirt. He lighted the aromatic cigarette, blew out the smoke, and told himself—for the thousandth time—that he was doing the right thing. He could not think of himself. It was Temple’s welfare with which he must be concerned. It was her happiness that was important.

Last night he had attempted to make her understand that this was best. That she belonged in America with her family and friends. That there could be no future for the two of them. She was American and he was—no matter whose blood flowed in his veins—an Arab.

He was sending her away.

Sharif had agonized over the decision since he had regained consciousness and opened his eyes to see her beautiful face above his own. From that unforgettable moment there followed six sweet, golden days with him confined to the bed and her spending every moment at his side. Those days—and nights—had been the happiest of his entire life.

And the most torturous.

Always decisive, he had found himself hesitant, tentative, vacillating from one hour to the next. Just when he had made up his mind that he had to let her go, she would look up from the book she was reading to him, smile endearingly … and his resolve would weaken.

The woman was hard to resist.

In those precious tranquil days she had constantly amazed him, revealing sides to her many-faceted personality he had never seen before.

On those occasions when he could not totally conceal his suffering, she was the kind, compassionate nurse, bathing his feverish face and changing his soiled bandages and soothing him with soft words of comfort and caring.

When the pain temporarily passed and peace took its place and he felt blessed slumber overcoming him, she would look at him with undisguised love shining from her beautiful emerald eyes and say, “I’ll be right here when you wake. I will never leave you.”

There were those enjoyable, fun-filled times when the throbbing pain had subsided and he was feeling better and she would entertain him eagerly. Articulate and witty, she was full of amusing stories to share with him. She was a great mimic; she could do Tariz and Chauncey—and him—to a T. Enchanted, he egged her on and applauded and laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks.

And then, as he quickly began to mend, there were those tender, tormenting moments when she would kick off her slippers, climb onto the bed, stretch out beside him, and press kisses to his face, his throat, his chest, whispering kittenishly of all the forbidden things she was going to do to him when he was fully fit again.

Finally, last night, on his first evening out of bed, he had told her.

“I’m sending you back, Temple,” he’d said quietly. “Tomorrow.”

She’d looked at him as if he had struck her but had said nothing.

He’d cleared his throat needlessly and continued, “A dozen of my men will escort you safely to the coast, where you will sail immediately to France. From France you will return to England for the voyage home to America.” He’d tried to smile, found it impossible. A long, strained silence had passed between them. Then he’d said gently, “Temple, it wouldn’t work for us. This desert is my home.”