The Sheik Retold(45)

Crouched at the old Arab's feet, the woman continued her appeal, imploring and distraught. Omair looked down on her with a narrowed gaze and lips drawn back from his blackened teeth. He shook her off with a swift blow in the mouth, but the woman still clung with an upturned, desperate face, a thin trickle of blood oozing from her lips.

With a hoarse growl like the roar of a savage beast, the chief caught her by the throat. Her eyes grew wide and terror-stricken, yet her frantic, clutching hands were powerless against his grasp. He drew the deadly knife from the folds of his waistcloth and slowly drove it home into the strangling woman's breast. In seconds her body gave a sudden jerk and then slumped, lifeless, in his grasp. With a cold callousness I never could have imagined, he wiped the blood-stained knife on her clothing before flinging the dead body from him. I watched in horror as it rolled over the rug to rest midway between us.

I became conscious of a muffled, rhythmical beat, like the ticking of a great clock, and realized with dull wonder that it was my own heart. My eyes were glued to the still figure on the rug with the gaping wound in the breast. Her blood was welling, staining her clothes, and pooling out onto the rug on which her body lay.

Odd thoughts flitted through my mind. It was a pity that the blood should spoil the rug. It was a lovely rug. I wondered what it would have cost in Biskra—less, probably, than it would in London. I forgot the rug as my gaze traveled upward to the woman's face. Her mouth was open and the streak of blood was already drying, but it was her eyes, protruding, agonized, that brought me back to myself. I felt physically sick, but fought it down. My curls were clinging, drenched on my forehead, and I wondered if my clenched hands would ever open again. I must make no sign of fear. I must not scream or faint. I must keep my nerve until Ahmed came. Oh, dear God, send him quickly!

Very slowly I raised my head, my gaze tracking across the dead woman's body to look Omair full in the face. Then I threw back my head with a laugh! It was long, loud, and hysterical, lasting until I managed to drag my eyes away from the horrible sight and catch my lip between my teeth.

My fingers were clenching and unclenching again. They wrapped around the cigarette case in my pocket. I took it out, chose and lit a cigarette, taking care to control my trembling. With an affectation of carelessness, I flicked the still-burning match onto the carpet between the feet of the Nubian slave who stood nearby. He had not moved since the woman's entrance, and the two servants stationed behind the pile of cushions stood equally motionless. Finally, the chief nodded for them to carry the body away. The one who did returned a moment later with fresh coffee and then vanished again.

Omair leaned forward and beckoned to me, patting the cushions beside him. Mastering my loathing, I sat down with all the indifference I could assume, but his proximity nauseated me. He reeked of sweat, grease, and ill-kept horses. My thoughts went back to Ahmed and the fastidious care he took of himself, the frequent bathing, the spotless robes, the wholesomeness that clung about him, the faint, clean smell of shaving soap mingling with perfumed oil and the scent of Turkish tobacco. The contrast was hideous.

I refused the coffee he offered with a shake of my head, paying no attention to his growl of protest. When I laid down the end of the cigarette that had kept my lips from trembling, his fat hand closed about my wrist. He jerked me toward him. "How many rifles does the Frenchman bring to that son of darkness?"

The question surprised me. Rifles? Frenchman? Did he mean Raoul?

"I do not know anything about rifles," I replied. "Why have you taken me?"

"For the reward, of course. They are offering one thousand francs for you."

A reward? Now I knew why this sheik had not killed me. He opened a drawer in the little table beside him and retrieved a clipping from a French newspaper and handed it to me. There were two large full-length photographs, one of me in evening dress and the other in my riding breeches and short jacket, with hat and whip lying at my feet and the bridle of my horse over my arm. Under the photographs was written:

Miss Diana Mayo, a well-known heiress and sportswoman whose protracted journey in the desert is causing anxiety to a large circle of friends. Miss Mayo left Biskra under the guidance of a reputable caravan-leader two months ago, with the intention of journeying for four weeks in the desert and returning to Oran. Since the first camp, nothing has been heard of Miss Mayo or her caravan. Further anxiety is occasioned by the fact that considerable unrest is reported amongst the tribes in the locality towards which Miss Mayo was traveling. Her brother, Sir Aubrey Mayo, is offering a reward of one thousand francs for her safe return.

Aubrey offered a reward? I almost laughed at the irony. It was of course only for form's sake that he had done so, but this news reassured me that Omair would not kill me. I could see the overwhelming force of avarice in him. I would be worth nothing to him dead— but then again, there were things he could do to me that were worse than death.

"Yes." He read my thoughts. "I shall collect the one thousand francs—when I am finished with you, of course." It was clear he intended to violate me, and there was no one to stop him. He snatched the paper out of my hands. His fingers tightened on my arm. "Now you shall enlighten me. How many men are in the camp where that son of a dog Ben Hassan kept you?"

"I do not know."

"I do not know! I do not know!" he echoed with a sudden savage laugh. "You will know when I have done with you." He crushed my wrist until I winced with pain. Question after question relating to the sheik and his tribe followed in rapid succession, but to all of them I remained silent, with averted head and compressed lips.