The Sheikh's Jewel (6 page)

Amber was his wife. He owed her his first loyalty, not Buhjah and Naima, much as he cared for both of them. He owed Amber a lot more than the public presence he gave her. And—what if all her roundabout talking, her probing and proud demands for more than the child she’d asked him for a year ago were supposed to help him to work out that she wanted more? That she wanted him?

He stalked back through the door before he could change his mind. ‘Amber, I’m not going anywhere—’

Then he jerked to a standstill, staring at the sliding door of the secret passage that joined the back of their bedrooms—the one that was never watched, at his strict order. It led to freedom through a tunnel below the palace, created during the seventeenth century, when many brides were taken by abduction. Amber’s feet were all he saw as the door began to slide closed again, but they were sliding backwards.

Someone had her! If it was the el-Shabbats…or worse, the more virulent of the el-Kanar supportive factions who’d kept sending him messages to rid himself of her, that she was bad luck—dear God, the return of Alim might have spurred them to action. The faction of reactionary, old-fashioned autocrats hated Alim for his western ways, and wanted to keep Harun as Sheikh. If they’d taken Amber, they’d use her as leverage to make Alim disappear for good—and then they’d kill her to leave Harun free to wed a more fertile bride.

No!

‘Amber!’ he yelled, bolting for the door. He reached it before it slid shut, yanked it open and shouldered his way through.

Turning left, he ran down the passage—then a cloying scent filled his senses and mind; the world spun too fast, and he knew no more.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HE
screaming headache and general feeling of grogginess were the first indications that life wasn’t normal when Harun opened his eyes…because when he tried to open them they were filled with sticky sand, and he had to blink and push his lids wide before they opened.

The second indication was when he saw the room he was in. Lying on a bed that—well, it
sagged,
he could feel his hip aching from the divot his body had made—he knew this was a room he’d never been in before. It wasn’t quite filthy, but for a man who’d spent every day of his life in apartments in flawless condition, he could smell the dust, breathe it in.

The furnishings were strange. After a few moments of blinking and staring hard, he thought he hadn’t been in a room so sparse since his tent during the war. The one cupboard looked as though it had been sanded with steel wool, the gouges were so messy, and it was old. Not antique, but worn out, like something sold at a bazaar in the poor quarter of the city. The one carpet on the wide-boarded wooden floor looked like an original eighteenth-century weave, but with moth-holes and ragged ends. The dining table and chairs had been hand-carved in a beautiful dark wood, but looked as if they hadn’t been polished in years. The chairs by the windows were covered in tapestry that had long lost its plushness.

Thin, almost transparent curtains hung over the wide, ornately carved windows and around the bed, giving an illusion of privacy; but in a life filled with servants and politicians, foreign dignitaries and visiting relatives, he barely understood what the word meant.

He moved to rub his eyes, but both hands came together. His hands were tied with a double-stranded silken string. Could he break it if he struggled hard enough—?

The silk was stronger than it appeared. The bonds didn’t budge, no matter how he struggled, and he swore.

A little murmur of protest behind him made him freeze halfway through pulling his wrists apart. A soft sigh followed, and then the soft breathing of a woman in deep sleep.

He flipped his body around to the other direction, his head screaming in protest at the movement, and looked at his companion. Pale-faced, deeply asleep, Amber was in bed with him for the first time, wearing only a peignoir of almost the same shimmering honey-gold as her skin.

For that matter, he wore only a pair of boxers in silk as thin as Amber’s peignoir.

A memory as blurry as a photo of his grandparents’ youth came to him—a vision of Amber’s feet being dragged backwards down the secret passage. But, try as he might, nothing more came to him.

They’d obviously been kidnapped, but why? For money, or political clout? Why would anyone want to take them now, when it was too late? It made no sense, with Alim back and able to take his rightful place as Sheikh—

Unless…could this be part of an elaborate el-Shabbat plot to reduce the el-Kanar power base in Abbas al-Din? He’d just paid one hundred million US dollars for Alim’s safe release. If Alim paid the same for his and Amber’s safe return, it wouldn’t bankrupt the nation, but it would be enough to create a negative media backlash against the family.
Why do these people keep getting kidnapped?
Once was forgivable, but twice would be seen as a family weakness. If they’d taken Alim as well, it might destroy the—

An icy chill ran down his back. If it was the el-Shabbats,
it would mean their deaths, all of them. Alim had just been taken hostage, beaten badly, and released only by ransom. How could he stand it again so soon? If Alim was taken or, God forbid, dead—his only brother, the only one he had left in the world—

He had to get out of here! When a guard came in, he’d be ready. He jerked to a sitting position, looking around the room for something, anything that could be used as a weapon.

Amber’s tiny murmur of protest let him know he’d disturbed her. He dragged in a slow breath, taking a few moments to reorient himself. If anything had happened to Alim, right now he couldn’t do a thing about it. Getting Amber out safely had to be his first priority—but even if they managed to escape, how could they reach home, almost completely undressed?

He’d wondered what kind of kidnapper would put him on a bed dressed in almost nothing, lying beside his scantily clad wife, but now he saw the point all too well. Without clothes, with no dignity, what could he do?

Find some clothes—and I will find a way out of here.

Slowly, gently, he got to his feet, making a face at the swishing slide of the shorts against his skin. He wore silk clothes only for ceremonial occasions, preferring cotton. Jeans and T-shirts had been his favoured fashion in his private time, until it had been made clear to him that, as replacement sheikh, he had to be seen to be the perfect Arabic man at all times.

With only two rooms, searching their cage didn’t take long. Besides the bed, the dining set, the chairs by the windows, and the cupboard, there was only a prayer mat. He realised that was what had woken him, the call to prayer being made somewhere behind the building.

But even with his hands tied, he could look around.

The massive double door was locked. The only other doors, to the bathroom and the balcony, showed no chance of escape. The room they were in was five storeys up, without convenient roofs nearby to leap onto. Even if there were, he couldn’t ask Amber to leap from one roof to another, and he couldn’t leave her alone to face the consequences of his escape.

On the bedside tables were water glasses, and paper tissues. In the drawer on Amber’s side there were about twenty hairpins.

They even knew how she preferred to do her hair, he thought grimly.

He crawled awkwardly under the bed, finding only dust. Using both hands together, he opened the cupboard—nothing at all but the hanging rail.

That had possibilities, if only he could get it out. But pulling and tugging at the rail made his head spin.

He checked through the bathroom, including the two small cupboards there. Even the most basic of bathroom goods could be used together to create something to help them escape.

‘No floss, not even toilet paper in here,’ he muttered moments later, resisting the urge to slam a cupboard, or throw one of the little bottles of oil at the wall. ‘What kind of crazy kidnappers give their captives scented oils for their bath?’

Then his mind began racing. With the right oils, combined with the toothpaste and some water—he assumed they’d be fed and given water, at least—he might be able to make something…perhaps one of Alim’s infamous stink-bombs from childhood, or some kind of fluid to throw in their kidnappers’ eyes.

How he wished he’d paid more attention to Alim’s scientific pranks when they were kids!

The bathroom held no more secrets. The bath was old and large, scrubbed clean. The toilet had a hose beside it. The towels were close to threadbare, useless for anything but basic drying. Their abductors weren’t taking any chances.

He’d run out of options for now. With a clenched jaw, Harun let the pounding of his head and eyes dictate to him. He fell back on the bed, closed his eyes and breathed in the scent she wore. Intoxicating as an unfurled desert bud, soft and tender as a mid-spring night—was it perfume or the essence of Amber herself? He wished he knew. Drinking it in with each breath, savouring an intimacy so new and yet somehow familiar because of so many dreams, he returned to sleep.

* * *

Amber couldn’t remember waking so peacefully since she was a child. In fact, had she ever woken feeling this warm and snuggly, secure and happy?

There was a sound beside her, a slow, rhythmic cadence she couldn’t recognise. There was a scent she couldn’t define, filling every breath she took. Where was she?

Opening her eyes, she saw the light sprinkling of dark hair scattered across an unclad male chest lying right before her eyes. She took in a slow, deep breath, and it came again, the scent of belonging, as if she’d come home at last.

She barely dared lift her gaze—but she knew the scent, the feeling it gave her. She’d known it for so long from so far away. It was him. The perfectly sculpted statue of ice had become all warm, solid male. Her untouchable husband was within her reach at last.

They had so many problems to overcome. Their hopes and fears and most of their lives were unknown to each other—but at this moment, she didn’t care. He was here. She was gripped by a long-familiar urge.

Could she do it?

It had started on their wedding night when he’d come to her, dressed as a groom ready to love his bride. It had persisted even after she’d emerged from the bathroom that night, clad only in a towel. With a glance, he’d gathered his blasted paperwork and bowed to her, the movement fairly dripping with irony, and, with a twist to his lips, he’d left the room without a word. She hadn’t slept in weeks after that—and she’d endured three hundred and forty-four restless, hungry, angry nights after he’d refused her bed last year. Sometimes she thought she’d give anything to have this farce come to an end, and she could find a man who would actually desire her. But he didn’t, and he wouldn’t let her go, either.

The
thunk
came again, a sickening hit in the stomach at the remembered rejection. So why did the aching need to taste him with her lips and tongue still fill every pore of her? Why did she want him so badly when he was so cold and uncaring? She could never seem to break this stupid desire for the husband who despised her. The need to touch him was like the heat of a gold-refiner’s furnace. There was no point in ignoring facts when just by her looking at him now, by her lying so close to him, her pulse was pounding so hard she wondered if it would wake him. Wondered and hungered, as she danced on a fine blade-point of need and pride and the soul-destroying fear of another rejection.

Do it. Just kiss him once,
a little voice in her head whispered, soft and insistent.
Maybe it will cure you of all this wondering. Maybe it won’t be as good as you think.

Was she leaning into him, or was she dreaming again? His lips, parted in dreams were so close, closer than they’d ever been—

His eyes opened, looking right into hers.

Her breath caught, and she danced that razor-fine point again, aching and fearful as she scrambled to find her pride, the coldness that had been her salvation in all her dealings with him. Was the returning hunger she saw in his eyes merely a product of her overwrought imagination? If only she knew him well enough to find the courage, to ask.

If only every chance she’d ever taken hadn’t left her alone with her humiliation.

Harun’s gaze drifted lower. Torn between slight indignation and the spark heating her blood at the slow flame in his eyes, familiar pride rushed back to save her, won over the need for the unknown. She lifted a hand to tug at the neckline of her negligée, but the other hand jerked up with it. Looking down, she saw she was tied in silken bonds, as soft as the silken negligee that barely covered her nudity beneath.

As if she had never seen him before, Amber turned back to Harun. She let her gaze take him all in. He was almost naked…and he was fully aroused.

Blushing so hard it felt like fire on her cheeks, she saw his knowing, gentle smile. He knew she wanted him, and still he didn’t say a word, didn’t touch her. Wouldn’t give her the one thing she craved, a child of her own. Someone all her own to love.

A beautiful, almost poetic revenge for my stupid words—isn’t it, Harun?—always leaving me alone? When will you stop torturing me for the past?

Taking refuge in imperiousness, she demanded, ‘Who dressed me this way? Who
undressed
me? Where are we?’

His gaze lifted to hers. For a moment she saw a flash of reluctance and regret; then it vanished, leaving that unreadable look she’d come to hate. ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer any of those questions. I can only tell you that I didn’t undress you.’ He lifted his hands, tied together in front of him, with silky white bonds that would only hurt if he struggled to free himself.

Her hands were tied with the same material—and she hated that some small part of her had been hoping that he’d been the one to undress her, see her naked, touch her skin. Foolish, pathetic woman, would she never stop these ridiculous hopes and dreams? She’d always be alone. The lesson had been hammered into her skull years ago, and still she kept aiming her darts at the moon.

Feeling her blush grow hotter, she retorted, ‘Well, I think I can take it for granted that you wouldn’t undress me after all these years.’

His gaze roamed her body, so slow she almost felt him touch her—tender, invisible fingers exploring her skin as she’d hoped only moments before, and she had to hold in the soft sound of imagined delight. It felt so
real.

In a deep growling voice that heated her blood, he murmured, ‘I don’t think you should take that for granted at all.’ After another slow perusal, her body felt gripped by fever. ‘We don’t have the luxury of taking anything for granted in our situation.’

Even spoken with a gentle huskiness, the final words doused the edge of her anger and her desire, leaving her soul flooding with questions. ‘What’s going on here, Harun? Why would anyone—anyone…just leave us here, dressed like this?’

Say it, you coward. You’ve been abducted!
But just thinking the word left her sick and shaking with impotent terror.
So much for being like Great-grandmother…

‘I don’t pretend to know.’ His gaze met hers, direct. ‘We just paid one hundred million dollars for Alim’s safe return. How much do you think Alim and your father between them can afford to pay for our ransom now?’

‘I don’t know about Abbas al-Din’s treasury, but the recent troubles in the Gulf have drained Father’s resources, paying the security forces.’ Amber bit her lip. ‘Do you think the el-Shabbats are behind this?’

‘I certainly wouldn’t rule them out, but this could be any of a dozen high-ranking families, not just the el-Shabbats. There are many families eager to take over rulership of our countries if they only had the funds,’ he said quietly. ‘Your father and Alim would have to take that into consideration before making any decision.’