Nan Ryan (7 page)

She whipped her head around so quickly to smile her thanks, she unintentionally hit the Arab in the eye with a dampened lock of her tangled hair.

“Sorry,” she said, horrified, and automatically raised her hand to his face. But his grasp was too quick, too strong. His fingers encircled her wrist, staying her hand. She looked at his eyes. “I was only going to—” Her words were choked off in her raw throat as she stared at those mysterious black eyes. Diamond drops of water clung to the long thick lashes, and a hint of red showed in the left eye from the whiplash sting of her flailing hair.

He didn’t blink away the moisture from his lashes or close his irritated left eye, although she knew it surely hurt. He continued to stare straight ahead, urging his mount steadily eastward.

His single-minded determination was strangely comforting.

Confident he knew exactly where they were and how far it was to the next village, Temple exhaled heavily and lowered her eyes from his turban-covered face. She turned slowly to look straight ahead, as he was doing.

She clung to the saddle horn with both hands to keep from leaning heavily against him, lest he resent it. But it was all she could do to stay upright. In no time her poor back felt as if it might break from holding it rigid.

The burning sun overhead beat down with a vengeance from a cloudless sky, and a shimmering haze of heat rose from the desert floor ahead. The harsh, unforgiving landscape began to blur before Temple’s eyes. Her lids grew so heavy, she could hardly hold them open.

The only sounds were those of the stallion’s hooves regularly striking the ground and the moan of the desert winds blowing against her face. Both were oddly soothing, as was the sight of those tanned, well-tended hands loosely holding the reins in front of her. Firmly in command of the galloping horse.

And of her.

Without warning the Arab dropped the reins, controlling the racing stallion with the pressure of his knees, and encircled her with strong arms to draw her back against his hard, supporting chest. Exhausted, relieved she’d been found by this calm, authoritative man, Temple put up no fight; sighing, she allowed herself to relax against him. A reward of gold beyond this Arab’s dreams would soon be his. She’d see to it personally.

Almost immediately the pain of her aching back began to ease, and the slackening of tensed muscles was pure heaven. She smiled with pleasure and turned her face inward a little.

Her hot cheek resting against the flat muscles of his robed chest, she gazed again at those incredible ebony eyes. Surprisingly, the desert Arab was immaculate. His white robes were spotless, and his masculine scent was of clean, sun-warmed flesh.

She allowed her heavy eyelids to close completely over her bloodshot eyes. How fortunate she was. She could have perished alone in the heat and desolation of the desert. Or she could have been found by another tribe of lawless raiders like the savages who had heartlessly dumped her to die.

Instead this kind, compassionate Arab had come along just in time. He was probably a simple, good-hearted bedouin who roamed the endless stretches of this harsh land eking out a meager living for him and his family. Chances were he knew—without the aid of a map—where every desert well and wadi and oasis and village in Arabia was located.

He would, she felt sure, take good care of her. It was her last thought before sleep overtook her.

It seemed she’d been asleep for only a few minutes when Temple was jolted awake as the lathered white stallion came to an abrupt, plunging halt.

She looked up to see those dark, heavily lashed eyes flick to her face as the Arab’s arm tightened around her. It was then she realized she was no longer seated astride the stallion in front of him. She was lying across the saddle in his arms.

Temple jerked to total consciousness with a start as the Arab threw the reins to a waiting groom and gathered her more closely in his arms. Holding her against his chest, he threw a leg over the stallion’s back and dropped agilely to the ground.

He lowered Temple to her feet and she immediately asked, “Where are we?” She looked around at the palm-shaded oasis. “Is this your village? Are we far from a city? Can you take me to a city so that I can send a cable to my family?”

Robed men swarmed around them, speaking rapidly, excitedly. Temple couldn’t understand a word. She was beginning to grow uneasy again. What if none of them spoke English? How could she make them understand that she couldn’t stay here? She had to get out of the desert. To get to a city. A real city.

“I can’t stay here,” she said to the tall Arab who had saved her. “I’m very grateful to you, but I must get to a larger village. Do you understand? I must go someplace where I can send a cable. My family will be worried.”

The Arab gave no reply, merely took her upper arm and propelled her forward. Temple reluctantly allowed him to usher her through the crowd. Throngs of curious, chattering men moved swiftly, respectfully out of their way as she walked along beside the tall, silent Arab, hurrying to keep up with his long, fluid strides.

“Where are we going?” she asked. “Where are you taking me?”

He said nothing, but inclined his turbaned head, indicating a tent several yards ahead. The large white tent was set apart from the other smaller ones at the edge of a palm-shaded pool of clear sparkling water.

As they walked toward the tent, Temple looked around curiously at the men lining their path—and soon spotted, to her surprise and confusion, a number of the same barbarian brutes who had captured her yesterday, then left her in the desert to die. And there, towering above the crowd, stood her hired head guide, the big one-eyed giant, Sarhan.

Horribly, instantly, it dawned.

She hadn’t been saved at all! This tall, white-robed Arab propelling her toward the isolated tent was her kidnappers’ chieftain!

“No!” The word tore from her aching throat. Her eyes wild, she suddenly screamed at the top of her lungs, balking, refusing to go another step, clawing at his hand to free herself from his grip.

“Hush. Behave yourself,” he warned in flawless English, speaking in a voice so soft and deadly cold, it chilled the blood in her veins.

The scream immediately died in her throat, and he thrust her forward. In seconds they had reached the enormous white tent. Roughly he handed her into the spacious, well-appointed desert dwelling and followed her inside, pulling the flap closed behind them.

Turning to face him, Temple was almost paralyzed with fear. Attempting to understand what this abduction was all about—fearing she knew—she looked questioningly at the tall Arab standing before her.

He pulled the white turban from his face, then flung it off his head. His hair was as black as the darkest desert night, and his was the handsomest, cruelest face she had ever seen. Tall and broad shouldered, he stood there in his flowing white robes, his ruby-adorned right hand resting on the jeweled hilt of a curved Saracen scimitar stuck in the sash at his waist. His black eyes narrowed as if in distaste.

Unable to tear her frightened gaze from his, Temple asked finally, “Who are you?”

“I am
El Siif
, Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid,” he said, casting aside his heavy white robes. “Get undressed.”

At his shocking command
, Temple’s anger and pride shot to the surface. Shedding the last traces of debilitating fear and lethargy, she put her hands on her hips, narrowed her green eyes, and took a half step toward him, shouting, “No! I most certainly will not! Not now! Not ever!” Her voice rose as she added loudly, “I will
never
undress for you!”

She lifted her chin defiantly as she shouted, but her slender body was trembling.

Unperturbed by her outburst, the Sheik stood there waiting for her to calm down. His heavy robes cast aside, he wore a white shirt, dark riding breeches, and shiny black boots. The curved dagger, removed from his robe’s sash, now rested in a smooth black leather scabbard at his waist.

“Never, never, never!” Temple continued to shriek, her wild eyes fixed on him.

The Sheik came toward her, his own eyes half-hooded, a light beginning to burn in their dark depths.

“Stay away from me,” she ordered him, lifting her hands defensively. “I’m warning you!”

He continued to advance. She attempted to step around him, but he was too quick for her. He caught her in his arms and drew her to him. Certain she knew his vile intention, Temple shuddered with dread and disgust. She struggled in his powerful arms but couldn’t free herself. She tried desperately to pull away as he bent his dark head and pressed his searing lips against her own.

His hot mouth on hers, she was crushed against the hard length of his warm body and she knew, sickeningly, that she was no match for his superior strength. She couldn’t free her lips from his, couldn’t throw off the strong arms enfolding her.

In her furious attempts to extricate herself from his fierce embrace, she pummeled his muscular shoulders and back, beating on him with all her strength. As her fists rained rapid but impotent blows on him, her right hand slipped on the slick silk fabric of his shirt, fell to his trim waist, and brushed against smooth leather.

And then Temple remembered.

The scimitar! The Sheik was wearing it. It was sheathed just inside the smooth leather her hand touched. In the blink of an eye Temple’s fingers found and closed around the dagger’s jeweled hilt as the Sheik’s heated lips continued to move persuasively on hers.

With lightning speed she drew the razor-sharp dagger, pulled back her arm, and thrust the gleaming blade’s tip into his ribs.

The Sheik’s reaction was swift beyond belief. His mouth still fused hers, his strong fingers gripped her wrist to stay the blade just as it ripped through his shirt and pricked his flesh.

Slowly his lips released hers. He raised his head and looked at her, his dark, penetrating eyes unreadable. Temple was instantly terrified. She had tried to kill him and failed. Would he kill her now? Would he take the dagger from her and drive it into her racing heart?

His fingers were firmly encircling her wrist, applying increasing pressure. Temple opened her hand and let the dagger fall to the thick Persian carpets at their feet. He released her at once. She stepped back fearfully and watched as he calmly began to unbutton his shirt.

He removed the shirt, and Temple’s eyes, like his own, lowered to the blossom of bright red blood that had already begun to spread and trickle down his corded ribs. “Come here,” he said, dabbing at the blood with his discarded silk shirt. Cringing, Temple shook her head, stayed where she was. His dark eyes lifted, touched her coldly. “I said come here.”

She swallowed hard but didn’t move. Hands balled into fists at her sides, she said unapologetically, “You aren’t badly hurt.” Hoping that it was true, she added, “It’s only a scratch.”

The words were hardly out of her mouth when she gasped, stunned, as his hand shot out like a striking serpent. He grabbed her arm, drew her to him.

His voice continuing to maintain a low, level tone, he said, “Since you seem so eager to taste my blood, I insist you do so. Go ahead.”

“What … what are you saying?” Temple was baffled by his words. “That you’ll give me another chance to kill you?”

“I’ll give you another chance. Many chances. But first …”

He took her hand, guided it to the blood oozing down his side. Temple winced when her fingers touched the fresh, warm blood. She tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t let her. He forced her to leave it there until her fingertips were wet and red with his blood. Only then did he lift her bloodstained fingers up before her face.

“Taste it,” he coolly ordered.

“I will not!” she hotly refused.

“It’s your first and last chance,” he said in low, level tones, shrugging bare shoulders negligently. And to her relieved surprise he released her hand, adding casually, “I assure you you will
never
get another opportunity to taste my blood.”

Rubbing her fingers clean on her dusty riding breeches, Temple hissed, “Damn you, you are totally insane. A mad savage! A dirty, demented Arab beast!”

As if she hadn’t spoken, he carefully blotted the residue of blood from his ribs with his shirt, bent, and picked up the dagger. Tossing aside the soiled shirt, he held out the jeweled hilt of the dagger to her.

Temple stared at the dagger, not understanding his meaning.

He prompted, “Go ahead, take it. Try again. Maybe you won’t fail this time.”

Her jaw hardening, her eyes snapping with anger and frustration, Temple reached out and took it. She gripped the handle tightly in her hand and looked up at him. Their gazes locked for a long tense moment. Her eyes were hot green fire. His icy black stone.

Big and bare chested, he stood there unmoving, his arms at his sides, his booted feet slightly apart. Silently daring her to try it.

Temple watched him closely, like a predator with dangerous prey. Was this a trick? Did he have another weapon hidden somewhere on his person?

“It’s no trick,” he said softly, as if he’d read her mind. “I’m unarmed.” He lifted his leanly muscled arms and raised his palms. He turned about in a complete circle so that she could examine him.