Jane Porter - The Sheikh's Disobedient Bride

“We’ll try this one more time,” he said slowly, quietly, “and I warn you, I’m not a patient man but I’m trying. So don’t test me. Understand?”

She nodded, because she did understand, and she also understood that things weren’t going well and if they didn’t come to some kind of agreement relatively soon, she would be in even greater danger. “Yes.”

“Now tell me about the men you were traveling with.”

“I know very little about them. They were quiet. They kept to themselves quite a bit. I thought they were good men.”

“You’ve been with them two weeks and this is all you can tell me?”

How did he know she’d been traveling for two weeks with the men? He’d either been told, or he’d been watching her. Either way she’d been followed. “I’m sorry,” she said, picking her words with care. If ever there was a time for diplomacy, this was it. “We didn’t speak much. They’re men. I was a foreign woman. There were cultural differences.”

“Cultural differences.”

She flushed, locked her fingers together. “I wish I could tell you more. I hadn’t thought I was doing anything wrong. I’ve always wanted to visit Baraka—”

“But you’re not in Baraka anymore. This is Ouaha. An independent territory, and this is my country, and these are my people and you entered my country with Barakan rebels. Men who have brought violence and destruction to my people.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I arrived in Atiq, hired these men as escorts, and yes, I have been traveling with them but that’s because I’m a tourist, and traveling alone. I needed local guides and they came highly recommended.”

“What about your pictures?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

She paled. “What about them?”

“You were taking pictures for them, weren’t you?”

“No. They were for me. I didn’t work for those men. Those men worked for me. The pictures are for me.”

“Why do you want photographs of a nation so far from your own?”

For a moment Tally didn’t know how to answer. His question had rendered her speechless. Why would she be interested in something so far from her home? Had he no desire to see the world, know something of places foreign to him? Finally she found her voice. “Because I’m curious.”

“Curious about what?”

“Everything. Food, culture, language, lifestyle. I’m fascinated by people, by the differences among us, as well as what we have in common, too.”

He snorted, a deep, rough sound of contempt. “We’ve nothing in common.”

She couldn’t hide her own flash of disdain, her jaw tightening, temper flaring. This is one of the reasons she traveled, as well as one of the reasons she’d left home. She’d abhorred ignorance and control. “Perhaps not. But instead of me staying home and sitting in my living room twiddling my thumbs, I’ve decided to go out and discover the truth for myself.”

“Women belong at home.”

“Maybe in your opinion—”

“Yes. In my culture women have a vital role taking care of the children, watching over the family, making sure her husband is fed and rested. Comfortable.”

“And when does she get to be fed and rested? When is she comfortable?”

“She is comfortable when her family is healthy and at peace.”

“Huh!” Tally scoffed scornfully. “Why do I get the feeling that never happens?”

He swore something in Arabic she couldn’t catch but from his tone she knew it wasn’t kind. She’d angered him. She felt his hostility rolling off him in waves. She also felt his ambivalence. He couldn’t decided what to do with her and Tally bit her lip, knowing she’d pushed him too hard, said too much. She’d never been a big talker but she’d certainly said quite a bit since arriving here.

“I’m sorry,” she said, struggling to be conciliatory. “I’m just a curious person by nature, and I’m here in Baraka—”

“Ouaha.”

“Ouaha,” she amended, not really knowing anything about the territory but anxious to move on, “because I’m curious about your part of the world. I don’t want to be ignorant.”

“So you’re just a tourist.”

He was testing her, she thought, probing for the truth and her insides knotted, twisting with apprehension. No, she wasn’t just a tourist. She was a professional photographer but right now she didn’t think that would go over real well. He already mistrusted her. Would his opinion change when she told him she was in his country taking pictures for a book on children? “Yes, a tourist,” she echoed.

“And that’s the truth?”

She regarded him steadily even as she scrambled to consider all the angles. It wasn’t a complete lie. She was a tourist, and she did love travel and discovering faraway places. Why did he have to know about her work? Why couldn’t she just be a traveler with a camera?

Tally held his gaze. “Yes,” she said, proud that her voice didn’t wobble in the slightest.

“We’ll see, won’t we?” he answered even as a voice sounded from outside the tent.

Her bandit shouted back and the tent flap suddenly lifted and a man entered carrying her camera. The man handed her camera to Tair and then left without once ever looking at her.

As the bandit handled her camera, pulling it from the leather case and turning it over, Tally’s legs went weak. She had a sudden desire to sit. But she didn’t dare move and instead she watched as he pushed buttons, turned the camera on and off, zoomed the telephoto lens out before bringing it back.

It made her nervous, watching him play with her camera. It was a good camera but not the most expensive on the market. However the pictures were important and the memory disk was full. She’d planned on putting in a new disk today, after she left the market.

“Tell me what you’re looking for,” she said now, careful to keep her voice calm, “and I’ll show you.”

He ignored her. Instead he opened the cover and then slid open the memory card slot. She watched as he tapped the small blue memory card, popping it out. Tally dug her nails into her hands. The card was tiny, looked like nothing, and yet it was everything to her. Her work, her life, her future.

“That’s more or less the film,” she said. “It’s a digital camera which means it uses a memory card instead of 35 millimeter film.”

He held the blue card up, twisting it one way and then the other.

Her heart was in her throat. It was as if he held her whole life in his hands. “I know it’s very small, but it holds hundreds of photos.”

“Are there hundreds of photos here?”

Reluctantly she nodded.

“Do you have other cards?” he asked.

Tally chewed on the inside of her cheek. She didn’t want to tell him that she had months of work on the memory cards, hundreds and hundreds of photos she hadn’t managed to download to her editors in New York or save to CD-ROM yet. Everything she’d done since April was on the memory cards in the camera bag and her hotel room. “Yes.”

“Where are they?”

Oh God. He wasn’t going to take them from her, was he? He wasn’t going to destroy her work? “Why?”

He shrugged. “They’re just pictures. You don’t need them. It’s not why you’re here. You’re a tourist. You’re here for the experience, not photographs.”

She exhaled so hard and sharp it hurt. Her eyes burned. She fought to remain calm. “But the photos are important. They help me remember where I’ve been and what I’ve seen.”

“You seem anxious,” he said, slipping the memory card back into the camera and clicking the card-slot door closed.

She was anxious. She was trembling. “Can I please have my camera back?”