Suliman reined in his horse, a quick look over one shoulder making his eyes narrow as he turned, cantering back to her, his dark, handsome face sheened with sweat.
‘What is it?’ he called harshly. ‘Do you need water?’
‘Why didn’t you stop earlier?’ she demanded angrily. ‘You heard me calling!’
‘We have only two hours before sunset,’ he said, black brows meeting like scimitars above his arrogant eyes. ‘We must reach the douar before dark.’
Her breath caught. ‘The douar!’ She knew what that meant! It conjured up a world of long ago, a world she had almost forgotten: of tents and gold sands and elegant men and women drinking hot mint tea at trestle-tables in the sun.
‘Come!’ Suliman waited, stallion dancing beneath his powerful thighs. ‘Let us waste no more time!’
‘I can’t go there with you!’ Bethsheba cried hoarsely. ‘Not there!’
‘But you must!’ The dark eyes flashed. ‘It is written.’
‘It is not written!’ she cried fiercely. ‘It is not written and I won’t go there with you!’ Turning her horse, she tried to kick it back the way they had come, but it whinnied, worried and unsettled.
‘You cannot go back!’ Suliman shouted. ‘Not without me!’
‘I can and I will!’ Fear made her whip the horse sharply on its flanks as it danced out of control.
The horse rose up in angry protest, and Bethsheba cried out in shock as she was flung backwards into the air. The last thing she saw was a blur of white Arab robes and white horse thundered towards her as the sand slammed into her and blackness claimed her.
THE jingle of the harness soothed Bethsheba, the swaying motion of the Sheikh’s horse lulling her continually back into sleep. Occasionally, she opened her eyes, felt the stabs of agony in her head, and slipped back into unconsciousness, unable or unwilling to face what was happening.
The sheikh’s chest was strong and warm and comforting. Her face rested against it, her nostrils breathing in the scent of his flesh, and sometimes when her lids flickered open she looked drowsily at that tanned skin and the dark hairs that grew on it and thought of Arabia as though it were a dream; a colourful vivid dream of gold and silk and all the perfumes. The air grew steadily cooler. The sands, once gold, were now cool pink as the sun began to set, and the next time her eyes flickered open she saw the desert was lilac, then purple, then, finally, black.
Suddenly she heard voices and the crackle of wood fires, and when the horse came to a standstill she knew they had reached the douar.
‘Awake, Sheba.’ Suliman’s deep voice echoed in his chest. ‘Awake and behold your dream.’
Opening her eyes, she looked up into his hard, handsome face, and for a moment saw only his features; the heavy-lidded eyes, the strong arrogant nose and the firm sensual mouth below.
Then she saw beyond and knew it was night. Camp-fires flickered and spat in the darkness. Hair tents were dotted around the encampment, horses tethered beneath a tree, and the cool waters of the oasis gleamed with starlight from above. Men and the shadows of men were all about. They wore turbans and jellabas, some carried guns, some stood guard and some sat by the fires, eating.
‘Is it to your taste, Sheba?’ Suliman asked with a hard smile. ‘The douar of your fantasies?’
‘No!’ The fierce cry was weak, but her eyes flashed gold fire. ‘You must take me back at once.’
He laughed, and suddenly dismounted, catching Bethsheba before she unbalanced. His strong arms were around her, holding her as he strode in dark red boots and white robes towards the royal tent.
A servant leapt to sweep the tent flap aside. Suliman carried Bethsheba in as though she were a gazelle, and her startled eyes took in the luxurious surroundings; the royal blue cloth walls of the tent, the embroidered rugs, low brass trestle-table covered in Arabesque script, and the central bed of silk cushions.
The sheikh laid her on the bed of cushions. ‘How is your head, Sheba?’ he asked, sprawling beside her, his dark face above hers as he studied her. ‘You fell on the slope of a dune and your fall was softened. But still you lost consciousness…’
‘It throbs a little,’ she admitted, gold eyes wary. ‘But you must take me back, Suliman! You cannot keep me——’
‘You are my prisoner now, bint!’ he said softly, and his dark eyes mocked her as he flicked a cool, proprietorial gaze to her mouth. ‘And you will do my bidding!’
‘You’re out of your mind,’ she whispered, but her head was thudding like a drum and she could not take her eyes off that firm, sensual mouth. ‘You must know that what you’ve done is against the law.’
‘I am master here,’ he said under his breath, ‘and here—I am the law!’
‘No…!’ Her heart stopped and she tried to sit up.
‘Lie back, bint!’ he said, pushing her down again into the cushions. ‘And accept your fate!’
‘I will not!’ she said heatedly, ‘I won’t stay here a——’ The tent flap was swept aside, silencing her protest.
A servant entered in white jellaba and turban. He carried an ornate carved brass tray. On it, a coffee-pot gleamed, two brass filigree cups and a brass plate holding squares of halva, Turkish delight and spicy biscuits. He bowed low, placed the tray on a side-table, and said something respectful to his master.
‘What did he say?’ Bethsheba asked as the servant left. ‘That he disapproves of your kidnapping an English girl?’
The sheikh laughed under his breath. ‘He would not dare, bint!’
‘And I suppose you think I shouldn’t dare either.’ Rebellion flashed in her eyes.
‘You are brave and spirited, and I know you will fight me,’ he drawled coolly, one strong hand firm on her hip as he held her captive, ‘but it is part of our…shared fantasy, is it not, bint? That you will fight and I will conquer?’
Her breath caught and she said shakily, ‘You will not conquer me!’
Suliman smiled slowly and flicked his gaze from her to the table beside them. ‘Come. You need to rest and eat. Have some coffee and sweetmeats. They are prepared specially for you by one of my handmaidens in the——’
‘I don’t want any sweetmeats!’ she said, heart thumping at the nearness of his hard body and the sexual threat implicit in that soft, dark voice. ‘I want to go home right now!’
‘You do not listen, bint,’ Suliman said flatly, mouth hardening as he looked back at her. ‘And you do not learn. You are my captive: I am your master. And eventually, bint, you will admit your own silent approval of this shared fantasy.’
She stared, breathless, heart thudding. ‘My approval! What do you mean—my approval?’
‘We discussed it in great detail last night,’ he said softly, and the long fingers selected a sweetmeat for her, sliding it on to her lips and watching her with a slow, lazy smile.
‘We did not!’ She pushed the sweetmeat away from her mouth with a shaking hand.
‘I made myself more than clear,’ the sheikh told her, and allowed his gaze to move insolently, possessively over her body, resting on the full breasts beneath her white blouse.