The Sheikh's Disobedient Bride. Jane Porter

the worst.

      She gripped the pillow hard. But what if he never returned her to town? What if he just kept her here? What if he were serious about marrying her off?

      She shuddered, appalled.

      Her lack of communication with her world back in the States made her situation doubly frightening.

      The fact was, there was no one who’d even think to worry if she disappeared from the face of the earth.

      Raised in a tiny town at the base of the Cascade Mountains in Washington, Tally had lived at home far longer than she’d ever meant to stay but once she’d left North Bend, she’d gone far away.

      Her mother sometimes joked that the only time she heard from Tally was the annual Christmas cards Tally sent documenting her travels. One Christmas card was a misty hand-tinted shot of ancient Machu Picchu high in the mountains of Peru. Another year it was the sun rising in Antarctica. Last year’s card was a child born with AIDS in sub-Sahara Africa.

      Once Paolo was the one who would have cared. It was Paolo who taught her to rock climb and sail, Paolo who’d taught her to face her fears and not be afraid. But Paolo wasn’t around anymore and since losing him all those years ago Tally had never tried to replace him.

      Love hadn’t ever come easily for Tally and one broken heart was more than enough. And not that she would have married Paolo, but if she’d wanted a husband—and that was a huge if—it would have been him. And only him. But with him gone, marriage was out of the question.

      Tossing aside the pillow, Tally forced herself to eat even as she struggled to remember who she last spoke with, whom she’d written, and the last e-mails she’d sent from the Internet café in Atiq a month ago.

      Did anyone even know she was still in Northern Africa? Her editor might, but they hadn’t communicated in weeks.

      No, keeping in touch wasn’t her forte. While she loved taking pictures, she didn’t like writing and most of her e-mails were brief one-liners. In Israel, went diving in the Red Sea. Or, Arrived in Pakistan, took a bus through Harappa, have never been so hot in my entire life.

      Tally now stared glumly at the breakfast tray. She was going to pay for her laissez-faire attitude, wasn’t she?

      The older man was outside her tent again, calling to her, saying something she didn’t understand as he spoke with an accent or in a dialect she’d never heard before. But before she could answer, he’d entered the tent, carrying a relatively large copper tub. He placed the tub on the carpet, indicated that he’d go and return and when he returned he had help. Three men carried pitchers of water.

      A bath.

      So something she’d said to Tair had sunk in. Thrilled, Tally watched as the elderly man filled the tub with the pitchers of steaming water and left behind a soft soap and towel. The bath wasn’t particularly deep, and not exactly hot, but it was warm water and she had a bar of soap, a soap that reminded her of olive oil and citrus. She washed her hair, soaped up and down and by the time she rinsed off, the water was cold but she felt marvelous. Marvelous until she realized she had nothing but her dirty clothes to put back on.

      Regretfully Tally dressed in her clothes, combed her fingers through her hair, pulling the wet strands back from her face and then looked around the tent. She was sick of the tent. She’d been here for not even a day and she already hated it.

      So enough of the tent. She was heading out to explore the camp.

      From the moment she pushed the goatskin flap up and exited her tent, stepping into the startling bright sunlight, Tally became aware of the eyes of the men in camp on her. It was obvious they didn’t approve of her wandering around but no one made a move toward her. No one spoke to her and no one detained her. They pretty much let her do as she pleased.

      The camp was actually bigger than it first appeared. There were over a dozen tents, and several large open ones with scattered rugs and pillows and Tally guessed these were the places the men gathered to eat and socialize.

      A mangy three-legged dog hopped around after her and Tally considered discouraging the dog but then decided she liked the company. And it was her first friend.

      Crouching down, Tally scratched under the dog’s chin and then behind one ear. “If I had my camera working, I’d take a picture of you.” The dog wagged its tail that looked half gnawed. “Poor dog. You look just as bad as this camp does.”

      And the camp did look bad. She’d never seen anything like this place. It was poor. Stark. Depressing. And once again she thought she’d give anything to have one of the memory cards back because she’d love to photograph the camp. The stained tents with the backdrop of sand dunes and kneeling camels would make amazing pictures.

      Suddenly she heard a now familiar voice—the old Berber man—and he was running toward her with long cotton fabric draped over his arm.

      Tally didn’t know what he was saying but once he unfurled one of the strips of fabric and she saw it was a robe she knew he wanted her to cover up.

      “No, thank you,” she said, shaking her hands and head. “I’m fine.”

      But he insisted and the more he insisted the more adamant Tally was that she wouldn’t wear the black robe and head covering. “No,” she said more firmly, even as she began to wonder just where Tair was. She’d walked the circumference of the camp twice without spotting him once.

      “Tair,” she said to the old man. “Where is he?”

      The old man stared at her uncomprehendingly. Then he lifted the robe, shook it. She knew what he wanted but he didn’t understand what she did.

      “Tair,” Tally repeated and this time she stood on her toes, lifted her hand high above her head to indicate Tair’s immense height. “Tair.”

      The elderly man only looked more puzzled and Tally wanted to pull her hair out in mad chunks. This was a nightmare. A nightmare. She couldn’t stay here, couldn’t be left here, couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

      “Tair,” she said more loudly, firmly, extending her arms to show width, size.

      The old man just looked at her with absolute incomprehension.

      It was at that moment she spotted the horse. The horse was saddled, bridled and unattended.

      Unattended.

      She could just go.

      It wasn’t logical, nothing rational about her plan. She was just going to go and she didn’t know anything other than to go, just go, and let the chips fall where they may.

      She climbed up, onto the blanket that served as the saddle and taking the reins she kicked at the horse, urging him to go.

      The horse gave her a funny sideways glance before stretching out in an easy canter. They rode across the pale creamy sand at a quick clip, Tally’s heart racing at the same speed they were traveling.

      This was crazy, foolish, dangerous. But she didn’t turn back and didn’t slow. She felt as if she were running for her very life. Or make that, running from her very life.

      She wouldn’t be trapped again. She wouldn’t let others control her life or her destiny.