Donna Young - Captive of the Desert King

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Cover

Title Page Captive of the Desert King Donna Young www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author About the Author DONNA YOUNG, an incurable romantic, lives in beautiful Northern California with her husband and two children.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Copyright

DONNA YOUNG,an incurable romantic, lives in beautiful Northern California with her husband and two children.

They rose from the sand. Crimson vipers ready to strike.

They called themselves the Al Asheera. The Tribe.

Blood-red scarves covered their treacherous features. Machine guns filled their fists, missile launchers lay at their feet.

They were the enemies of Taer. And the time had come for the resurrection of their traitorous souls.

King Jarek Al Asadi focused his all-terrain binoculars on the army of revolutionaries clustered between the slopes of sand dunes.

They’d been bred among the brush and rock. Weaned on the grit of the earth and the blood of their enemies. Their prized possession? Not life. Nor faith. Not even family.

They valued only the land beneath their feet and the swords—honed from generations of butchery—strapped to their backs.

They believed Taer was their territory, their hunting ground.

That was their first mistake.

The Al Asheera armed the missile launchers, their movements clipped with military precision. It had been five years since they’d last surfaced. Five years since they killed Jarek’s parents, kidnapped his son.

That had been their second mistake.

Fury exploded in Jarek’s chest, burned the back of his throat until he nearly choked.

He shifted on his belly, burying himself deeper behind the ridge. Grimly, he scanned his enemies’ horses corralled by rocks a few yards from their masters. No added supplies hung from the saddles. Only water.

Once bloated, the goatskin bags lay nearly depleted against their horses’ haunches. That meant the bastards hadn’t traveled far. And they weren’t worried about drying out.

It also meant their prey was in the vicinity.

The palace and city lay south behind Jarek less than a half day’s ride. The nearest village lay more than forty miles east. He followed the horizon just past the Al Asheera, searching for an outlining camp.

Nothing.

But he was a patient man.

The wind gusted, kicking up sand and dust. Jarek ignored the slight irritation.

He was a man born from the Sahara, carved from the wind, sand and heat—taught at a young age to endure.

The blood of kings ran hot in his veins, set the steel in his broad shoulders, the granite in his dark, chiseled features. Tradition, integrity and responsibility were his companions long before he’d understood his destiny.

Long before he understood the pain of betrayal.

Without warning, three gunshots burst from the western ridge.

Below, the signal brought the Al Asheera camp to life, their movements now more animated than precise.

The drone of an engine drifted over the wind.

Jarek followed the sound, then swore.

A four-seater plane came into view. The white, sleek bird rode low against a clear, blue sky. He didn’t have to focus the binoculars to know the Royal Crest, his family’s crest, was imprinted like a target on its belly.

Sarah.

Two missiles exploded from the Al Asheera encampment. On their heels came another burst of gunfire. Frustration and helplessness edged the fury, forced Jarek to draw deep, harsh breaths.

“Come on, Ramon,” he whispered, silently encouraging his pilot to evade the attack.

As if hearing him, the plane banked, drawing up hard. A second later, the Al Asheera missiles rushed past its right wing, harmless.

But the maneuver cost the pilot distance. The plane faltered, then dipped over the camp, exposing its underbelly to the revolutionaries below.

A small cry of surprise exploded from behind Jarek. He swung around on his knee, his rifle leveled.

“Papa?” A boy, nearly six years in age, tugged a gray mare’s reins—almost three times the boy’s height—urging the animal forward.

“Rashid.” Jarek swore and lowered the rifle. Trepidation raked his gut, cutting clean through to the anger, then deeper to the fear. “What are you doing here?”

A sudden burst of gunfire ripped through the stomach of the plane. A cheer rose over the wind as the engine smoked and shuddered, the aircraft struggled to maintain its altitude.

Almost instantly, the plane changed direction, heading away from the Al Asheera and toward Jarek. This time a cry of alarm rose from the camp. In mass, the revolutionaries scrambled toward their horses.

But Jarek barely noticed. The plane lost its struggle and tilted into a nosedive. His gaze followed the white blur until it crashed beyond the horizon.

“Stay, Ping.” The boy dropped the reins—confident his horse would stand near his father’s.

The small prince scrambled up next to Jarek.

Rashid Al Asadi stopped less than a foot from his father. Jarek noted the black eyes—intense, sharp like a well-polished, well-cut onyx.

His wife, Saree’s, eyes.

The rest was Al Asadi. Beneath the soft, round face lay the promise of Jarek’s square jaw and high cheekbones. And if one looked closely enough, the suggestion of a high forehead and the sharp features of Jarek’s father, Makrad Al Asadi.

Jarek glanced away, unwilling to look that close.

The boy had been born with an old soul and a clever mind, Jarek’s cousin, Quamar, had stated years before. A combination that equaled nothing less than an insatiable curiosity.