The Sheik Retold(39)

Part of me still hated him for what he had done, but that hate was tempered with a miasma of other feelings that I dared not even think about. I marveled that he would have left the knife behind. It seemed such a thoughtless act for a man who had professed to leaving nothing to chance. Nevertheless, I hid it away in the drawer lest it be found by Zilah or Gaston.

The remainder of the day I was mindful of planning my escape, yet I was equally overcome by curiosity, tinged with a bit of jealousy, about my sheik's dear friend, Raoul.

"Tell me of this Vicomte de Saint Hubert who is coming. You know him, I suppose, as you have been so long with Monseigneur?"

Gaston's face lit up with genuine pleasure at the mention of the vicomte's name. "I knew him before Monseigneur did. I was born on the estate of Monsieur le Comte de Saint Hubert, the father of Monsieur le Vicomte. I and my twin brother Henri. We both went into Monsieur le Comte's training stables, and then after our time in the Cavalry, Henri became valet to Monsieur le Vicomte, and I came to Monseigneur."

Fifteen years ago? Ahmed must have been only about twenty. Why should an Arab chief of that age, or any age, indulge in such an anomaly as a French valet, or for that matter why should a French valet attach himself to an Arab sheik and exile himself in the wilds of the desert? I could make little sense of it. The more I probed, it seemed the mysteries of my sheik only deepened.

"The family of Saint Hubert, are they of the old or the new noblesse?"

"Of the old, madam," replied Gaston quickly.

It was as I had thought. The vicomte was a man who moved about in my world. His family was wealthy enough to run a racing stable as a hobby, and he was a member of the dwindling class of ancienne noblesse. Gaston's answers had confirmed all my fears and cemented my resolve to leave before the vicomte arrived.

I decided against any more questions about Raoul. Gaston would naturally be as hopelessly biased toward the vicomte as he was toward his own master.

I was pleased when Gaston changed the subject. "At what hour does madam wish to ride tomorrow?"

"Later in the morning, following le petite dejeuner," I replied. "After we have seen Monseigneur off."

I knew I must be patient and wait at least a few hours after Ahmed's departure, but I had little fear of running into him. I already knew he was headed in a different direction, as he had said he was not traveling to Biskrah. Moreover, my sheik always rode like a madman. He would be thirty miles ahead of me before I even departed. I was certain that given the right direction, I could achieve Biskrah in two or three days. Now all I wanted for my escape was sufficient food, water, and a compass.

I pled a headache to Gaston and took lunch in my room. The punctilious Gaston prepared a tray for me, but rather than sitting down to my lunch, I wrapped it in napkins to secrete in my pockets later. It wasn't much, but I would not perish in a day without food. Water was another matter. We always carried a water skin or flask even on the shortest of rides. I just wasn't certain how I would manage to take an extra one undetected, but surely I would think of something.

Lastly, I made a desperate search of the rooms for my compass. It was the one thing I still lacked, but I had not seen it since the night of my arrival. I knew Ahmed had taken it from me but hoped he had become as careless with it as he had been with the jambiya. I was not so lucky.

Nevertheless, I vowed to execute my plan. If I could judge direction by no other means, I would simply use the stars to guide me. I knew I had traveled southward when I departed from Biskrah, so I only needed to make my way north. If I overshot my destination, I would simply continue northward until I perished or made it to the coast. I even had vague hopes of falling in with friendly natives who might escort me safely for a promised reward. Most of them could speak a little French, and for the rest, my small stock of Arabic must do.

***

I rose early the next morning to watch him depart. I was standing in the doorway of our tent, when I noticed not only Shaitan of the ugly temper biting and fidgeting in the hands of the grooms, but also a detachment of the sheik’s men. Ahmed was preparing to mount when he turned to me and held out his revolver.

"Take this," he said. "The men of Ibraheim Omair, my deadly enemy, have been seen about. You will carry it always when you ride, and you will not venture more than one hour from camp. You understand?"

I acknowledged him with a nod and stared at the weapon in total disbelief. Not long past he had left the same revolver out to clean it, and the temptation had been too great for me to resist, but as my fingers closed on the butt, his muscular hand closed over mine. He took the weapon from me and jerked it open to show me the empty magazine. "Do you think that I am quite a fool?" he had asked. Now cleaned, polished, and loaded, the same gleaming little gun suddenly dangled from my hand. I looked to him in bewilderment.

He returned a slow smile and said, "I trust you."

I trust you. Did he not realize that I could shoot him in the back as he rode off? Of course, I would never leave the camp alive, but he would be dead nonetheless. His amused smile said he knew my thoughts and that I would never carry them out. He stooped to give me a light parting kiss, and then I watched him mount and ride away.

Moments later I went back into the tent and slipped the weapon into the holster he had left lying on a stool. I was still amazed that he had given me the gun. I thought of the parting promise I had given my sheik with a brief pang of guilt, but I did not hold myself accountable for any vow given while I was held against my will. Still, long after his departure, his final words echoed in my brain. I trust you.