The Sheik Retold(62)

For a few moments longer Gaston moved about the outer room. Then he asked, "Monseigneur desir d'autre chose?"

The sheik must have signed in the negative. "Bon soir, Gaston," he dismissed his valet, and I drew a quick breath.

While Gaston was still in the adjoining room, the moment for which I had been waiting seemed interminable, but now I wished he had not gone. For the first time since Raoul's arrival, I was alone with him. There was no buffer between us anymore. Only a curtain separated us, a curtain I could not yet bring myself to pass. I longed to go to him but still did not dare. I was torn between love and fear, and for the moment fear was in ascendance.

I recalled another night when he had ridden in late, a night that was fast becoming a wonderful dream. After Gaston left, I had gone to him, flushed and bleary-eyed with sleep. He had smiled and pulled me down onto his knee, where he held me in his arms with my head on his shoulder. He had then told me all the incidents of the day's visit to one of the other camps, speaking of his men and his horses, until drifting almost insensibly into plans for the future. It had seemed the intimate confidences of a husband to a wife, and the mingled pain and pleasure of it made me shiver.

When I declared I was cold, he had carried me inside where he proceeded to warm me in every possible way. I wanted so badly to lie in his arms again with my cheek against his heart. I was starving for his kiss and the touch of his hands—but that man was not the one who waited in the next room. No, he was the cold stranger who had come to me last night seeking his own pleasure and nothing else—the one who tormented me afterward with his cruel words.

There was silence except for the strike of a match that came with monotonous regularity followed by the familiar scent of his smoke drifting through the heavy curtains. The pungent perfume of Turkish tobacco alone forced a hundred recollections.

Why didn't he come to me? Did he know how he was torturing me? Was he so utterly indifferent that he did not care?

I choked down the sobs that rose to my throat, pressing closer into the silken coverings. A while later I raised my head to look at the traveling clock beside the reading lamp. It was an hour since Gaston had left him. Another hour of waiting would drive me mad. I had reached the limit of my endurance.

I struggled to my feet, drawing the thin wrap closer around me, but even then I stood irresolute with my eyes fixed on the clock, watching the hands drag slowly around the dial. Another quarter of an hour crept past. It seemed the quarter of a lifetime. I stole a breath and brushed my hand across my eyes to clear away the dazzling reflection of the white china face with its long black minute hand. No sound of any kind came from the other room. The silence was driving me frantic, but anything seemed better than my perpetual state of perdition.

Finally, I pushed the curtain aside. I did not go far, however, but stood in the doorway waiting, forcing him to acknowledge me. His gaze met mine, hard and uncompromising.

"Did you think that by running away from me, you would make me want you less? Well?" he demanded.

I opened my mouth but dared not speak for the terrible scowl that darkened his visage.

"By Allah!" he cursed. "I would have found you if you had got as far as France. What I have, I keep, until I tire of it—and I have not tired of you yet."

His gaze slid from me, and he resumed his restless pacing, smoking cigarette after cigarette in endless succession. The monotonous tramp to and fro worked on my nerves until I winced each time he passed me. I went to the divan where I huddled, fascinated and fearful. My hands grew clammy, and I wrenched at the collar of my robe with a feeling of suffocation.

He never looked at me again. If he would only speak! His silence was worse than anything he could say. "I cannot bear this any longer, Ahmed." My voice was unsteady and barely above a whisper, but I refused to be cowed or to drop my gaze from his. "Whatever you are going to do, for God's sake, just do it!"

He ventured to the door and looked out upon the desert sky. "You broke your word to me." His tone was alarmingly calm and dispassionate. "You gave no care to anyone but yourself. You placed my most-valued servant in grave peril and are responsible for the loss of a dozen lives. You betrayed my trust, and twelve men died! Not to mention one of my very best horses."

I choked back a sob. "I'm more sorry than I can ever express, but what did you expect when you took me against my will? Did you think me such a spiritless coward that I would do nothing to gain my freedom once I got half a chance?"

"And should I give you the chance again? What then?" he demanded.

I evaded the question. "You say you haven't tired of me, but we both know that isn't true, so why don't you just let me go?"

"You know nothing!" he growled back at me and began walking again. My gaze tracked his tall figure up and down the tent, moving with the long, graceful stride that always reminded me of a wild animal.

I flung out my hands and whispered through dry lips, "Please! What are you going to do with me?"

He halted and gazed at me for a while without answering, and then a mocking look crept into his eyes. "That depends on Gaston."

"Gaston?" I repeated stupidly. "What has he to do with this?"

"Everything," he said sternly. "In your little adventure, you do not seem to have given a thought as to what might happen to him."

It was true. I had precipitated a blood feud between the tribes, and now a dozen men were dead. I had left Gaston far from camp without any thought beyond my escape. I had not considered him at all when I had stampeded his horse and left him on foot. At the time I had only looked upon him as a jailer, his master's deputy. I had not understood the danger to either of us. I had paid no heed to the sheik's warning to stay close to camp, even though I had seen with my own eyes all of the activity that had prevailed amongst the sheik's followers.