The Sheik Retold(12)

Good God! He threatened to shoot my horse! Did he mean it? I swayed a little in the saddle, clutching the bay's neck to steady myself, but I still did not falter. I would not stop; nothing on earth could make me stop. I kicked my feet free of the stirrups lest I get hung up. He said he would shoot, and I knew he would shoot. My only hope was that he would miss. Yet if the bay shied or swerved even a hair's breadth, I might take the bullet instead. He obviously wanted me alive, but perhaps death would be better for me, surely more merciful than what I would suffer at this brigand's hands.

Even before I heard the report, my horse bounded in the air and fell with a crash, flinging me far forward to land on the sand. I was stunned and winded by the fall but crawled over the hot ground to the prostrate animal. She was lashing out wildly with her heels, making desperate efforts to rise. As I reached her, the Arab dashed up alongside. His chestnut horse reared straight up and then the Arab leaped to the ground where my wounded mount lay. I shut my eyes on the second report, thankful he had the decency to put my horse out of its misery.

I knew my flight had been madness from the first. I should have known I could never succeed. Every nerve in my body quivered, yet every faculty was suspended, swallowed up in the one dominating force—the dread of his voice and the dread of his hands. He came up beside me, and I turned away, refusing to look up at his savage face.

He made no comment, and I made no resistance when he tossed me roughly into the saddle and swung up behind me, spurring his horse into a headlong gallop. I could not look at the body of the mare as we passed. I looked at nothing, but clung to the front of the saddle, and stared ahead unseeingly. I was stunned and choking with fury at the sheer ignominy of my situation.

I had been out-ridden and out-maneuvered. I had been a fool to imagine I could ever win. My stubborn pride and willful arrogance had become my downfall.





CHAPTER FOUR


When my senses returned, I fought him, struggling wildly. I was filled with rage—blind, passionate rage—against the man who had dared to lay his hands on me. My struggles against him were futile. He stifled my head in the thick folds of his woolen burnous, holding me in a suffocating grip. His hard, muscular arm was locked tightly around me, crushing my ribs and making it nearly impossible to breathe. Fear bloomed inside me as its insidious petals unfurled. Abject fear had come to me for the first time in my life—and was gaining on me with a force that made my head reel.

He checked his horse, and the chestnut wheeled, spinning high on his hind legs before bounding forward again, but with my face hidden, I had no sense of direction. I only knew that we galloped swiftly, and the man seemed in no way disturbed. He swayed easily in the saddle, and even the wildest leaps did not cause any slackening of his arm around me.

I eventually lay still, almost in shock, during which time the pressure on my body was relieved by degrees, allowing me to turn my head a little, but still not enough to allow me to see. I sucked in cool air, and it seemed to fan what little courage remained in me. I waited, collecting all my strength, and then made a sudden desperate spring. The Arab snatched me back into his hold with a quick sweep of his long arm, but as I fought him, my spurred heels tore into the chestnut's flank, causing him to rear.

"Doucement, doucement." My captor's voice was soft and deep, but I couldn't discern whether the calming words were intended for me or for the horse.

As I persisted in my struggle, he maintained total control over both me and the maddened, snorting horse, the latter with only the pressure of his legs. "Lie still, you little fool!" he snarled at me. "Better me than my men."

His threat stunned me back into submission. I was already spent and gasping for breath and knew any further resistance would result in only pain and injury. He turned his attention back to his horse, speaking only when the chestnut shied and he muttered something under his breath.

In about half an hour, a clear tenor voice called out to my captor. He answered curtly, and the men of his troop fell in. I lost all sense of time, just as I had already lost any sense of direction. I wondered what had happened to my guide and his men. Had they been butchered and left where they fell, or were they, too, being taken into some obscure region of the desert? My sense of terror grew until I trembled and great drops of moisture ran down my forehead.

The Arab shifted, jerking me roughly, but the movement at least freed my head from the stifling folds of his cloak. Soon afterward, the galloping horse halted on his haunches. We had arrived. The Arab dismounted first and threw me unceremoniously over his shoulder like a sack of grain. I could still see nothing for the darkness and my upside down position. There was a cacophony of voices—confused, unintelligible; then they died away.

He carried me a few paces and then set me down inside a large and lofty tent, brightly lit by two hanging lamps. I looked wildly about, blinking against the light that shone in dazzling contrast to the darkness that had gone before, but I took little heed of my surroundings—I was fixed instead on the man.

He had flung aside the dark cloak that enveloped him and stood before me, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in white flowing robes, a waistcloth embroidered in black and silver wound several times about him. He was also armed. My gaze darted with panic to the dagger thrust into the folds, but I reassured myself in the same breath that had murder been on his mind, he would have carried it out already.

My eyes tracked upward to rest on his sun-bronzed and lightly bearded face. Harsh and angular in the lamplight, it was at once the handsomest and cruelest face I had ever seen. He regarded me fiercely with scornful eyes. Those eyes! Surely I had seen them before.