Nan Ryan (17 page)

The bandits had quickly surrounded them. The guides and bearers bolted and were swiftly slaughtered. In desperation, her husband had attempted to reason with the bandits. They would not listen; they shot him in the chest. But he didn’t die. Badly wounded, he lay helpless and in pain a few feet away while the bloodthirsty barbarians raped and tortured her. When finally, after long, agonizing hours, the depraved animals tired of their evil sport, they shot her husband in the head and left her and her son to die in the desert.

As she spoke the old sheik took from the baby’s clenched fist a spent brass shell casing. He turned it up and saw the telltale munitions stamp.

Du-P

Tears of compassion mingling with hatred in his dark eyes, the old sheik stated simply, “The Turks.”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “I heard them speak of their leader, Sultan Agha Hussain.”

The old sheik’s broad hand closed around the brass shell casing and he said softly, “Allah is waiting for you in Paradise, my child. Never will you suffer again.”

“You will take my son?” she asked, the light fading in her dark eyes as she slipped toward that other world.

“And raise him as my own,” said the childless old sheik.

She nodded feebly, relieved, then said, “When he’s of an age, he must learn who he is. Who his parents were.”

“He will,” promised Sheik Aziz Ibrahim Hamid.

The dying young mother told them that the baby, born nine months ago in London, was Christian Telford. She, Maureen O’Neil Telford, black Irish born, was his mother. His father, the fair-haired man lying dead in the sand, was Albert Telford, Lord DunRaven, son and heir to a sizable fortune.

Suddenly she struggled to reach something hidden deep in the pocket of her torn riding skirt. She produced a dazzling rope of Starfire Burma rubies. Tariz and the old sheik blinked as the magnificent rubies caught the sunlight. Her weak arm lifting, she pressed the rope of rubies into the sheik’s large hand and said, “These rubies were my wedding present.” Tears slipped down her cheeks. “Give them to my son and promise me you will educate him in England.”

“It will be done,” swore Sheik Aziz Ibrahim Hamid.

“Christian,” she sobbed the name softly, her lifeblood ebbing away.

The old sheik lowered the squirming baby, gently laid him on his mother’s breast, and wrapped her tired, weak arms around him.

She turned sad, grateful eyes on the old sheik, kissed her son’s downy head, and cooed to the baby, “My son. My beloved son.”

Part Two

Sharif s falcon soared off
and turned in its first slow circle. It wheeled leisurely above a thorny acacia tree, then rose majestically and swooped at breakneck speed toward its prey.

Before it made the kill, the Sheik was distracted by the ruby on his hand. It had lost some of its brilliant fire.

The stone had mysteriously darkened.

The Sheik’s heart slammed against his ribs. Without a word he turned away and headed for his horse.

Puzzled, Tariz scurried after him. “What is it?”

“We must return to camp at once,” said the sternfaced Sheik.

“Return to … But why?” questioned the disappointed Tariz. “The hunt has only just begun.”

“Tell the men to collect the birds and follow me,” said Sharif. Dumbfounded, Tariz stood there staring at him, unmoving. “Now!” It was a command, a tone of voice Tariz had never heard out of him before.

Sharif leapt up astride his waiting black and raced away.

* * * 

Temple was fidgety.

A growing uneasiness afflicted her.

She paced restlessly back and forth in the tent’s main room, unnerved, jittery, questioning her very sanity.

A week had passed since her failed attempt to escape. Since that night the Sheik had ignored her completely. He did not talk to her. He did not acknowledge her when she walked into the room. And, perversely, she was bothered by his lack of interest, his utter coldness.

She wondered at herself. In the beginning all she had wanted was for Sharif to leave her alone. Now he was leaving her alone and she was more miserable than ever. As hard as it was to understand, she wanted his attention. She watched him eagerly for some sign of change, a softening toward her. She wished he would laugh and talk with her as he did with his loyal followers.

But he did not.

It was as if she were not there. As if she didn’t exist. She was left alone to languish while the distant Sheik occupied himself with his tribal meetings and blooded horses and hunting falcons.

He was gone now on a falcon hunt and was not to return for at least two or three days.

Temple sighed wearily.

All week long Tariz had talked excitedly of the planned falcon hunt. The little Arab had been counting the days, looking forward to the big hunt. No more so than she. As soon as she had determined that Sharif would be leading the hunt, she too began counting the days, eagerly anticipating the hour when the Sheik would leave camp and be gone for two or three whole days.

And nights.

Yet now, as bedtime approached on his first day out, she found surprisingly little joy in his absence. She almost wished he hadn’t gone. Now that he had gone, she half hoped he wouldn’t stay away for the entire hunt. God, she was surely losing her mind.

Perplexed, Temple stopped pacing. She shook her head in self-disgust and flung herself down amid the cushions of the long soft sofa. She kicked off her velvet slippers and curled her long slender legs beneath her.

She sat rigid and troubled on the sofa in the flickering lamplight, unable to get Sharif off her mind. Try as she might, she couldn’t forget how she had felt when the angered Sheik had torn off her white silk dress.

Temple experienced a quick fluttering in her stomach as she recalled those dangerous, exciting moments when she was naked and he was naked and he held her in his powerful arms and kissed her as she’d never been kissed before.

She lifted a hand to her mouth, touched her lips, and sighed. No man’s kiss had ever thrilled her half so much. No man’s touch had set her afire as had a single caress of his hand. His burning kiss, his masterful touch, had awakened in her a passion of which she’d never thought herself capable.

How strangely ironic that the only man to stir such emotion was not one of the kind, tender, attentive gentlemen who had courted her, loved her, wanted to marry her. Oh, no. He was a callous, harsh, neglectful bastard who paid her no attention, didn’t even like her, much less love her, and was probably already married to several wives.

And what did that say about her?

It made no difference.

While her head told her how she should feel about the Sheik, her heart wouldn’t listen. She feared him but was attracted to him. She hated him, but she desired him. She loathed him. She wanted him.

There, she’d admitted it! She was drawn to him with a power and a passion that left little room for logic or reason.

Her heart suddenly pounded with panic as Temple faced these shocking truths about herself. She was, she realized, anxiously awaiting the return of the hard, heartless Arab Sheik who was her callous captor.

She wanted the Sheik to come home!

The tent’s flap suddenly opened, and as if brought forth by a rub of Aladdin’s lamp, the Sheik ducked inside and straightened to his full, impressive height. Startled, Temple shot to her feet. A hand went to her throat.

She looked at him.

He looked at her.

Their gazes held, and for a moment Temple caught a puzzling expression of relief shining from Sharif’s night black eyes.

It was gone at once, replaced by the usual coldness as he approached her, saying crisply, “It’s time you were in bed.” They were the first words he had spoken to her in a week.

“I was just about to call for Rhikia,” she lied, and involuntarily took a step backward from the tall, compelling man who was dressed entirely in black and badly in need of a shave. He looked singularly dangerous and demonic. And incredibly attractive and desirable. “Back so soon? I thought you were to be gone several days.”

“I was, but I heard you calling out to me.” A cruel smile lifted his full lips, and he added, “You missed me and wanted me to return.”

His sarcastic remark struck too close to home for comfort. Temple felt herself flush and wondered if he could somehow read her innermost thoughts.

She turned her back on him haughtily and said over her shoulder, “If I never saw you again, it would be much too soon.” She marched toward the bedchamber, paused at the entrance, and commanded, “Get Rhikia in here. I’m bored and sleepy.” She turned about to face him, yawned dramatically, and said, “Your company always seems to have that effect on me.”

The sudden eruption of gunfire jolted Temple awake later in the night. Her eyes had barely popped open when the Sheik was upon her, his hand clamped over her mouth so that she couldn’t scream or speak. Roughly he dragged her off her divan to the floor and shoved her underneath his big bed.

Outside, the high whine of bullets and the sound of whinnying horses and shouting men shattered the stillness of the night. Temple was terrified, her eyes wide and wild with fear. She didn’t know what was happening.

The Sheik knew.

Continuing to cover her mouth with his hand, he put his lips close to Temple’s ear and whispered, “Stay down. Do not move and do not make a sound!”

She nodded anxiously.

His hand left her mouth, and he rolled away from her. Her heart drumming double time, Temple clutched at the bedsheet tangled around her trembling body and stared at Sharif’s muscular bare legs as he stood beside the bed and hurriedly donned his discarded black trousers. Not bothering with shoes or shirt, he rushed out of the darkened room, and within seconds Temple could hear him outside, issuing orders to his men.

She squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth as the frightening melee just beyond the tent walls became a deafening din of whizzing bullets and screams of men who’d been hit and the hysterical neighing of terrified horses.

Outside, the Sheik stepped over the body of the fallen night sentinel and swiftly rallied his forces against the mounted intruders, whom he recognized instantly.

The hated Turks.

The main thrust of the attack was clearly centered on his tent, and the thought immediately flashed through his mind that Mustafa had somehow learned of Temple’s presence.

Dodging bullets and shouting commands, Sharif fearlessly charged into the thick of the battle, enraged that the evil Turkish emir dared attack his peaceful sovereign desert city.

Wrath sending great rushes of adrenaline coursing through his body, Sharif rushed forward to meet the charging mounted raiders. Possessed of superior strength produced by fury and fear, he ripped rifles from the hands of his enemies as they took aim to fire. He dragged shouting black-robed men off their horses. He slashed throats with one clean slice of his Saracen scimitar and raised his muscular arm high to drive the long curved blade directly into beating hearts.

Blood flew.

Men screamed.

Dying Turks gurgled their last strangled breaths at his feet.

A bullet struck the Sheik’s left shoulder, ripping away flesh, drawing blood. Another stung his right cheek. He never flinched. He hardly noticed. Black eyes ablaze with hatred and rage, he fought as if possessed by demons, determined to vanquish the hated Turks before they got the opportunity to harm one golden hair on the head of the woman inside his tent.

Less than fifteen minutes after it had begun, the bloody battle had ended. Half a dozen of the Sheik’s men lay dead in the shadowy moonlight. Of the thirty Turkish bandits who had viciously sprung the surprise nighttime attack, only one remained alive.

The Sheik had spared him purposely.

While the smoke from the gunfire still hung heavy in the night air, Sharif, splattered with the blood of his conquered enemy, stood directly before the quaking Turkish wretch.

“I am,” said the Sheik, calmly, slowly, his hand still gripping the jeweled hilt of his bloodstained scimitar, “sparing your life for a reason.”

Eyes round with fright, the grateful Turk fell to his knees before the Sheik, his hands raised in supplication, murmuring hysterically,
“Al handu illah
. Allah be praised.
Al handu
—”

“Be quiet!” said the Sheik, his black eyes narrowed. Then: “Stand up.” Bobbing his head, the sobbing Turk rose before the tall, coldly furious Sheik.

Sharif questioned the trembling Turk. Anxiously the terrified man confirmed that his master, Mustafa Ibn Agha Hussain, had sent him and the others on this nighttime raid, but he honestly didn’t know the raid’s purpose. He had not been told. Only the top lieutenants were taken into the master’s confidence. He himself had been given his orders with no explanation. There was talk that they had been sent here to get something or someone, but what or who he knew not.

Though the Sheik showed absolutely no emotion, he felt his stomach muscles clench. Was the something or someone they’d been sent here to seize Temple DuPlessis Longworth?

He sent the Turk back to Mustafa with a message: Come anywhere near this desert camp again and he,
El Siif
, Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid, would invade the Turk’s seaside stronghold and personally kill him.