The Sheik Retold(44)

I then returned to the cushions and dropped down onto them with shaking legs. How long had I been here? I had no way of knowing, nor could I even determine the hour from inside the tent. I guessed it must be late afternoon or possibly early evening, as it was not completely dark. I guessed that Ibraheim Omair must be absent from his camp. I could think of no other reason why he would not wish to inspect his captive, unless of course, the delay was simply to prolong my mental torture. If only his return could be delayed until Ahmed came.

Ahmed.

The irony of the role reversal—that my former abductor had become my savior—brought a quivering smile to my lips. The same man I had loathed for his brutal abduction now represented safety and salvation, and I prayed for his advent with the desperation of despair.

I knew he would come for me—maybe not out of love, but most certainly out of pride. He was enormously jealous of his possessions. I had proven as much when I'd taunted him the other night regarding the Vicomte de Saint Hubert. No, he might discard me at his own pleasure, but no one would ever take me from him with impunity—especially his dire enemy.

Soon our absence from our own camp would be known, but it would be three or four days before he even became aware that I was missing. He would know the peril, and he would come. Yes, he would come, if for no other reason than the jealousy which held him in its inexorable grip. He would come! He would come! I whispered it over and over, as if the chant alone would bolster my courage. He would not let anything happen to me. My head throbbed again, and I was overcome with dizziness. I slumped onto the cushions, slipping back into unconsciousness.

***

When I awoke again there were men in the adjoining room. A sharp, guttural voice predominated over all the others, a voice of authority. Ibraheim Omair! The realization that he had come before Ahmed made my stomach drop and sent me surging to my feet. I stood rigid, one foot beating nervously into the soft rug.

Noting my agitation, the Arab woman turned to me with a sneer.

The voices continued, and the suspense only increased my trepidation. At last, the curtain slid aside and the same huge Nubian entered. He came toward me, but the Arab woman intercepted, blocking his path with wild eyes, passionate gestures, and an outpouring of low, frenzied words. He ignored her protests and thrust her out of his way to step toward me, extending his hand as if to grasp my arm. I retreated from him with a glare and a gesture that made it clear to him I would not permit his touch. My air of imperious hauteur was my shield, my only protection.

My heart was hammering against my breastbone. I buried my shaking hands deep in my breeches' pockets to hide them and set my teeth with a long, shuddering breath. Thus braced, I ventured to the curtain, nodding to the Nubian to draw it aside. The adjacent room was only marginally larger than the one I had left and almost as bare. I entered with my attention focused on the central figure that commanded it —Ibraheim Omair, the robber sheik, lolling his great bulk on a pile of cushions.

His was the image I had conjured previously when I had thought of desert sheiks—the fat and slothful ones who smoked the hookah and indolently watched their slaves beaten for pleasure. He was the Arab of my imaginings; this gross, unwieldy figure lying among the tawdry cushions; his swollen, ferocious visage seamed and lined with every mark of vice. His appearance was slovenly; his robes, originally rich, were stained. There was a little inlaid stool with coffee beside him, and behind him stood two other blackamoors like the one who had summoned me. Large and stoic, they all appeared to be statues cast from one mold.

I threw my head back and swaggered across the thick rugs at my leisure to halt in front of the chief. His heavy face lit up with a malicious gleam as I came toward him, his puffy lips parting in a wicked smile that displayed broken, blackened teeth. He leaned forward a little, weighing heavily on the fat hands that rested on his knees, hands engrained with dirt, showing even against his dark skin. His deep-set bloodshot eyes roved slowly over me to finally rest back on my face.

His entire demeanor evoked such bestial evil that I was soon bathed in perspiration. I longed to scream and dash for the opening, to take my chance in the darkness outside, but if I ever reached the open air, I would never be allowed to get more than a few steps from the tent. My only course lay in the bravado that kept me from collapse, to convey the impression of fearlessness, though cold terror was knocking at my heart. The hold I exercised over myself was tremendous, with every instinct rebelling against this pretense of calm. My body was rigid with the effort, and my hands clenched inside my pockets until my nails bit into my palms. I hid my fear, surveying him with my haughtiest demeanor—with curling lips and insolent, half-closed eyes.

"So! The English woman of my brother Ahmed Ben Hassan," he spoke in heavily accented French, snarling his enemy's name. "Ahmed Ben Hassan! May Allah burn his soul in hell!" He spat and leaned back on the cushions with a grunt to drink some coffee.

I kept my silence with my eyes fixed on him. He seemed uneasy, with one hand ceaselessly caressing the curved hilt of a knife stuck in his belt. I recognized it as my own sheik's jambiya. They must have taken it from my jacket pocket. He hitched himself forward once more and beckoned me to come nearer. I hesitated. There was a flutter of draperies from behind, and the Arab woman entered to fling herself at his feet. In a flash I understood the hatred that had gleamed in her eyes. She had perceived me as a rival. With a low, wailing cry, she clung to his knees, but the idea of even touching this man struck me with a wave of abject disgust.