The Sheik Retold(40)

CHAPTER NINE


Several hours after my sheik's departure, I dragged on my boots and donned a light riding coat with capacious pockets. Although it would be hot, it would allow me to carry a bit of food and an extra flask of water. I also pocketed the jambiya and then buckled the revolver the sheik had given me around my waist. With every passing second and each new act of defiance, I felt the old Diana returning.

I turned to the door but then paused to look around the room. My gaze traveled once more over the luxurious appointments and different objects that had become so curiously familiar in the last weeks—the medley of our personal belongings—my ivory toilet appointments jostling indiscriminately among his brushes and razors on the dressing table. My gaze lingered longest on the pillow where my lover's head had rested, and I was suddenly beset by a sense of melancholy and a strong pang of remorse.

When he entered this room and saw the same things, I wondered how he would react. Would he suffer the same regret? Would he rage at my escape? Would he feel anything at all?

I shook myself out of these thoughts with an impatient jerk of the head, drew a long breath, and ventured out of the tent and into the sunshine. Gaston stood with our horses and greeted me with a broad smile. He stood by my stirrup as I fondled the beautiful grey horse's soft nose and patted his satiny neck with a hand that trembled a little with my racing pulse.

Did I truly dare to make the attempt of escape? I already wondered how I would shake off Gaston. It would be no easy feat to elude his vigilance. Yet my stubborn pride compelled me to do or die.

Silver Star responded to my caresses with a slobbering mouth and soft whinny. I loved the horse, and today he would be the means of my salvation. I pulled on my riding gloves and cast one long, lingering gaze over the big double tent and then the rest of the camp. I then mounted and rode off without another backward glance.

I urged my horse forward into a slow, swinging canter while plan after plan passed through my brain only to be rejected as impracticable. Silver Star fretted at the moderate pace, tossing his head and catching at his bit. The horse was fresh and undoubtedly sensed my agitation, yet I knew I must be patient, that I must exercise a rigid control over myself.

To mask my nervousness, I tried to make conversation. I thought again of the revolver strapped to my waist and asked, "Gaston, what is the nature of Monseigneur's quarrel with—" The rival sheik's name escaped me.

"With Ibraheim Omair, madam?"

"Yes. Why are they such deadly enemies?"

Gaston was thoughtful. "I do not know precisely, madam, but Omair is a brigand in the blackest sense. He is a known raider, thief, and cold-blooded murderer. Monseigneur has been trained from boyhood to hate him as a deadly enemy. It has become an inherited blood feud that has lasted forty years. As to why? It may have begun as a rivalry based on land disputes and water rights. As you know, water is gold to these people.

"As long as Ibraheim Omair remains strictly within his own territory, there will be peace, but once Omair steps an inch over the border, there will be war until one or both of the chiefs are dead—in which case, the French government would take over. It is no secret that they would like nothing better, as they have never been able to control the nomadic tribes. No," he shook his head, "the governor would not discourage such a war. One even suspects he might encourage it. Thus, Monseigneur is ever vigilant, madam." He nodded to my revolver.

"Is this why Monseigneur is so frequently gone? He prepares for war?"

Gaston flushed. "I think perhaps I have already said too much about my master's affairs."

He was silent after that and so was I. My mind was already racing with thoughts of escape. Several times I had to tamp down the urge to put my horse into a hard gallop, but we were too near the camp. Should I act too early, I would only bring the whole horde in a wild chase at my heels.

At the beginning of the ride we had passed several vedettes sitting motionless on their impatient horses. They had swung their rifles high in the air in salute as I passed. After Gaston's illumination on the feud, I understood their presence.

It was a long ride, and once or twice Gaston shouted a question as he galloped after me, but I pretended not to hear him. He ranged alongside me with a murmured apology, Seeming very much alive to the hour. "Will madam please turn?" he said respectfully. "It is late, and it is not safe riding amongst these slopes. One cannot see what is coming, and I am afraid."

For the last few miles we had seen nothing and no one. The desert was undulating here, rising and falling in short, sharp declivities that made a wide outlook impossible.

"Afraid, Gaston?" I rallied with a laugh.

"For you, madam," he answered with a worried look. "We have ridden far past what is safe, well beyond what Monseigneur would permit. And it grows late." He submitted his trench watch for my inspection.

I pulled up and mopped my forehead, frowning at my own wristlet that displayed quite a different hour. I don't know why I still wore it when it had stopped working days before. Suddenly an idea flashed into my mind, a perfect way to break from Gaston. If anything was to be done, it must be done now or not at all.

"But it is only four o'clock,” I argued, displaying my timepiece to him.

"No, madam, I am certain that is not correct. The sun, you see." He indicated the sinking ball of fire.