Nan Ryan (16 page)

Temple lifted the tent flap and stepped outside.

And screamed in terror, dropping everything, when a jewel-collared cheetah, its golden eyes gleaming, growled menacingly and lunged at her. The big black-and-gold cat, flicking its tail and making low, guttural sounds in its throat, padded back and forth before her. Pinning her where she stood, threatening to pounce.

Frozen with fear and unable to move, Temple whimpered with relief when she felt a pair of strong arms come around her.

The Sheik swung Temple off her feet and into his arms as he spoke to the snarling cheetah in a low, calm voice. At once the cheetah fell silent and stretched back out on the ground beneath the shade canopy to take up his vigil.

Sharif carried the badly shaken Temple back inside as the dozing sentry, awakened and apologetic, begged for his chieftain’s forgiveness.

“You little fool,” the Sheik said when he got Temple inside. “Do you really suppose you can escape me?”

He lowered her to her feet in the tent’s main room but continued to hold her, his hands gripping her upper arms.

“Did you plan to ride across the desert in a silk dress?” He shook his dark head, and his black eyes blazed with fury. “Hear me, Temple. I told you earlier that until I am ready to let you go, you will not go.”

Angered, he released her so abruptly, she lost her balance, had to reach out and grab his biceps to keep from falling. Just as abruptly, Sharif drew her roughly to him. A strong arm encircled her waist.

It was then that Temple realized he was still naked. Instant heat flooded her from the incredible warmth of his hard flesh pressed against her, from the feel of his hand cradling her head against his bare chest. Temple’s face burned hot as she involuntarily lowered inquiring eyes. She was unable to see anything. The fabric of her dress covered the part of his anatomy about which she was so curious.

She was mortified to realize he had read her guilty thoughts when he said above her head, “Shall I release you so that you can see everything?”

Anger flaring, Temple jerked her head up and looked into his half-mean, half-smiling eyes. Longing to hurt him, she said, “Let me assure you, Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid, that the last thing I want to see is the unclothed body of an uncivilized desert pirate, a dirty, despicable savage!”

She tried to pull away.

He held her fast.

“You, Miss High-and-Mighty Temple DuPlessis Longworth, not only wish to look, you are wondering what it might be like to share the bed of this particular dirty, despicable savage.” That cruel smile twisted his full lips as he asked, “Shall I show you?”

Her eyes shooting green fire, Temple pulled free of his embrace, whirled about angrily, dashed into the bedroom, and dove beneath the covers of her sleeping couch.

The Sheik followed calmly.

Seeing his large frame loom closer in the deep shadows, Temple shrank away from him as he came toward her. He reached the divan, stood beside it, tall and naked and sinister. He yanked the covers away, took hold of her arm, and forcefully drew her up onto her knees atop the pillows.

“Please … please, don’t,” she begged, badly frightened now.

Holding her by one arm, the Sheik curled lean fingers down into the dress’s low neckline. The ruby on his third finger cut into her sensitive flesh. She sobbed, “No … no,” when she heard the delicate fabric of her dress rip.

Shaking with a mixture of icy fear and blazing attraction, Temple was held there on her knees while an angered Sharif tore the white silk dress from her bare, shaking body and tossed the ruined garment to the rug below.

She was now as naked as he.

His piercing eyes snaring hers in the shadowy bedchamber, the Sheik put a knee on the mattress and drew the trembling Temple into his close embrace.

Spellbound by the unreadable expression in his gleaming black eyes and tingling from the feel of his hard, bare body pressed to hers, Temple didn’t fight him when he bent his head and kissed her hotly.

His plundering mouth stayed locked on hers until she was rendered powerless against the wild, unwanted passion he aroused. If he meant to take her now—and she was certain that he did—she couldn’t save herself. Couldn’t stop him. Wasn’t sure she wanted to stop him.

Despite all efforts to resist, Temple felt herself melting against him as his masterful mouth did wonderful things to hers and his hands, so strong yet so gentle, spread incredible fire with their skilled touch.

Ever an enigma, the Sheik abruptly ended the searing kiss, roughly lowered the stunned Temple to the divan, and said softly, “Try escaping again and I will not be as merciful.”

An early summer dawn
streaked the desert’s eastern horizon with tinges of pale pink. A gathering of eager men and high-strung horses waited impatiently for the appearance of their leader. All eyes were fixed on the large tent set apart from the others on the far side of the palm-lined pool.

Cheers rose from the group when the black-clad Sheik stepped from the white tent and out into the aurora of a new day.

There was no mistaking the tall, powerful figure in black striding purposely toward them. Tariz, standing beside his saddled iron gray, caught sight of Sharif and immediately began to beam. Pride swelled in his breast as he watched the Sheik approach. His imposing looks matched his exalted position. The strong features, the powerful black eyes, the imperial bearing. Lord of the land, unquestionably.

The Sheik reached the waiting assembly. A young groom stepped forward hastily and handed him the reins to the saddled black mount, Prince. Sharif swung up astride the big dancing stallion, turned, smiled down at Tariz, and asked, “Are you ready, my friend?”

Tariz mounted quickly and nodded, his smile wide and radiant. Indeed he was ready. He had hardly slept and couldn’t wait to be off. He was as excited as a child. That excitement grew when Sharif extended a leather-gloved arm to receive his hooded falcon.

Tariz loved the sport of falconry, as did the young master. Falconing was in their blood, and riding out into the deserts with the winged hunters never failed to bring great joy and peace of mind.

The Sheik kicked the black into motion, and the camping party departed for the rolling, dawn-lit deserts where game was plentiful. Unlike the forays of the old days, when they relied on falcons to hunt food for their nightly campfires, this hunt was more for sport and for pleasure.

Tariz recalled those long-ago times when the hunting parties sometimes lasted for weeks. Now they would stay gone no more than a couple of days, if that long. So he knew he must savor every precious moment of the brief adventure.

Tariz looked at Sharif riding several lengths ahead now, the hooded falcon perched atop his gloved right hand. The amazing bird had always inspired great awe in Tariz. Passive on the master’s arm, but a terror in the sky, the falcon could dive on prey at speeds of up to two hundred miles an hour.

Yet a single broken feather could impede performance.

As the party rode directly southward, Tariz recalled fondly how the old Sheik had loved the hunt. Many was the time they had ridden into the deserts with their trained falcons and returned with enough game to feed the entire camp.

Tariz smiled, remembering the feasts that followed those hunts, the joy and laughter and dancing. And then the towering Sheik Aziz Ibrahim Hamid rising to stand before the shooting flames of the campfire with his long arms extended as he’d said in that deep, commanding voice, “Eat freely that which you have taught the birds and beasts of prey to catch, training them as Allah has taught you.”

Tariz’s smile broadened at the recollection of the day he and the aging sheik had taught a seven-year-old Sharif how to handle the dangerous hunting falcons. He could still see the pained expression on Sharif’s boyish face when the old sheik had ordered him to hold out his short brown arm. Sharif had obeyed instantly, but his head had turned and his dark eyes had closed when the old sheik placed the big peregrine falcon on his small gloved hand.

“Open your eyes, my son,” the old sheik had ordered, stern faced. Sharif had complied, nodding obediently at the tall, robed man, who said, “Do not shame your father before his men. You must be afraid of nothing, as I am afraid of nothing. I am a powerful man, and you are my son.” He had laid a gentle hand atop Sharif’s dark head then, ruffled his dark hair affectionately, and said softly, “My son. My beloved son.”

Those words came back to Tariz later in the day when the air had cooled and the desert glare had softened. The Sheik, leading the hunting party, took his falcon to the northern rim of the Rub al Khali, that vast sea of sand that extended into the heart of Arabia.

There, repeating the traditional words of the falconer, he said, “In the name of Allah,” and released his bird to hunt.

The falcon took wing. Sharif removed his leather glove. The ruby on his right hand caught the strong rays of the desert sun. In a flash the blinding red reflection brought back to Tariz the first time he had seen both the ruby and its wearer.

His eyes closed. The years fell away, and Tariz was a strong healthy man of thirty-nine, the old sheik a vigorous fifty-one.

It was a day much like this one, very hot and very still. Their week-long falcon hunt had been successful. He and the old sheik had left the party early.

The two of them were returning to camp. They said little as they rode across the endless dunes. The heat and the monotony making them sleepy, they dozed sporadically in the saddle, trusting their well-trained mounts to carry them safely home.

The sudden nervous whinnying of Tariz’s chestnut stallion jolted him abruptly to full consciousness. He touched his weapon automatically, his dark eyes scanning the horizons.

He heard the old sheik say, “I don’t see anything.”

“Nor I, but the horses smell danger.” Tariz twisted about in the saddle, searching the silent dunes for signs of approaching horsemen.

He saw none.

“Listen,” said the old sheik, and pulled up on his mount.

Tariz halted immediately, turned his head, and listened.

A faint sound shattered the stillness.

“The wail of an animal?” Tariz asked, expecting no answer.

“Look,” said the old sheik, pointing at a huge black buzzard circling low in the cloudless sky less than a hundred yards ahead.

The two men exchanged worried looks. Simultaneously they drew their weapons and kneed their stallions into a fast gallop. They topped a long slanting dune and saw what the hungry carrion were circling.

Shouting loudly to frighten away the vultures, Tariz and the old sheik thundered down the dune to the desert floor. Tariz was the first one out of the saddle. His wide dark eyes took in the horrible scene in one quick, disbelieving minute.

A blond young man lay on his back, his clothes soaked in blood, his sightless eyes open and staring in horror. Mercifully, he was dead.

A few yards away a young, dark-haired woman lay on her side. She was naked save for a torn riding skirt twisted and bunched up around her bruised, bloodied thighs. A slim, blood-streaked arm was curled protectively around a wailing, red-faced baby, who was seated in the sand beside her, patting her face with short, chubby fingers.

The old sheik swiftly shrugged out of his flowing white robes and covered the woman. He shaded her face while Tariz felt her throat for a pulse. At his gentle touch her tear-swollen eyelids lifted slightly. She saw the two brown-skinned men leaning over her, and terror filled her pain-dulled dark eyes.

“We will not harm you,” said the old sheik in his native tongue as Tariz reached for his goatskin to dribble cooling water across the woman’s badly chapped lips.

Tears of relief sprang to her eyes, and she whispered in accented Arabic, “You are Arabs?”

“We are,” said Sheik Aziz Hamid, and reached for the crying baby.

“My son,” she rasped, starting to cry softly now. “Please … you must take my son with you.”

“We will take you both,” said the old sheik, and stroked the tangled, blood-caked hair back off her forehead. “You are safe now.”

Cradling the crying baby close to his massive chest, he held out his hand for Tariz to pour water into his palm. He brought the water to the baby’s lips, and miraculously the infant stopped crying and drank thirstily from the old sheik’s cupped palm.

“We will take you to our camp,” Tariz told the suffering woman. “And when you are better, we will—”

“No,” she murmured. “No. I will not live to reach your camp.” The old sheik and Tariz knew that it was true. “You must listen to me,” she said, a pleading expression in her tear-filled eyes. “There is so much I must tell you, and so little time.”

Nodding, comforting her as best they could, the two friends listened as the dying woman revealed, in horrifying detail, what had happened.

They learned that she and her husband were English geologists, in the Arabian deserts for their latest dig. They loved their baby son so much, they couldn’t bear leaving him behind, so they had brought him with them.

Only this morning they and their native guides and bearers had left their caravan and set out on their own across northern Arabia. Not an hour later they had met up with a horde of black-robed horsemen carrying European rifles and wearing crossed bandoliers of ammunition. There had been nowhere to run. No place to hide.