Sarah Holland - Desert Destiny

THE jingle of the harness soothed Bethsheba, the swaying motion of the Sheikh’s horse lulling her continually back into sleep. Occasionally, she opened her eyes, felt the stabs of agony in her head, and slipped back into unconsciousness, unable or unwilling to face what was happening.

The sheikh’s chest was strong and warm and comforting. Her face rested against it, her nostrils breathing in the scent of his flesh, and sometimes when her lids flickered open she looked drowsily at that tanned skin and the dark hairs that grew on it and thought of Arabia as though it were a dream; a colourful vivid dream of gold and silk and all the perfumes. The air grew steadily cooler. The sands, once gold, were now cool pink as the sun began to set, and the next time her eyes flickered open she saw the desert was lilac, then purple, then, finally, black.

Suddenly she heard voices and the crackle of wood fires, and when the horse came to a standstill she knew they had reached the douar.

‘Awake, Sheba.’ Suliman’s deep voice echoed in his chest. ‘Awake and behold your dream.’

Opening her eyes, she looked up into his hard, handsome face, and for a moment saw only his features; the heavy-lidded eyes, the strong arrogant nose and the firm sensual mouth below.

Then she saw beyond and knew it was night. Camp-fires flickered and spat in the darkness. Hair tents were dotted around the encampment, horses tethered beneath a tree, and the cool waters of the oasis gleamed with starlight from above. Men and the shadows of men were all about. They wore turbans and jellabas, some carried guns, some stood guard and some sat by the fires, eating.

‘Is it to your taste, Sheba?’ Suliman asked with a hard smile. ‘The douar of your fantasies?’

‘No!’ The fierce cry was weak, but her eyes flashed gold fire. ‘You must take me back at once.’

He laughed, and suddenly dismounted, catching Bethsheba before she unbalanced. His strong arms were around her, holding her as he strode in dark red boots and white robes towards the royal tent.

A servant leapt to sweep the tent flap aside. Suliman carried Bethsheba in as though she were a gazelle, and her startled eyes took in the luxurious surroundings; the royal blue cloth walls of the tent, the embroidered rugs, low brass trestle-table covered in Arabesque script, and the central bed of silk cushions.

The sheikh laid her on the bed of cushions. ‘How is your head, Sheba?’ he asked, sprawling beside her, his dark face above hers as he studied her. ‘You fell on the slope of a dune and your fall was softened. But still you lost consciousness…’

‘It throbs a little,’ she admitted, gold eyes wary. ‘But you must take me back, Suliman! You cannot keep me——’

‘You are my prisoner now, bint! ’ he said softly, and his dark eyes mocked her as he flicked a cool, proprietorial gaze to her mouth. ‘And you will do my bidding!’

‘You’re out of your mind,’ she whispered, but her head was thudding like a drum and she could not take her eyes off that firm, sensual mouth. ‘You must know that what you’ve done is against the law.’

‘I am master here,’ he said under his breath, ‘and here—I am the law!’

‘No…!’ Her heart stopped and she tried to sit up.

‘Lie back, bint!’ he said, pushing her down again into the cushions. ‘And accept your fate!’

‘I will not!’ she said heatedly, ‘I won’t stay here a——’ The tent flap was swept aside, silencing her protest.

A servant entered in white jellaba and turban. He carried an ornate carved brass tray. On it, a coffee-pot gleamed, two brass filigree cups and a brass plate holding squares of halva, Turkish delight and spicy biscuits. He bowed low, placed the tray on a side-table, and said something respectful to his master.

‘What did he say?’ Bethsheba asked as the servant left. ‘That he disapproves of your kidnapping an English girl?’

The sheikh laughed under his breath. ‘He would not dare, bint!’

‘And I suppose you think I shouldn’t dare either.’ Rebellion flashed in her eyes.

‘You are brave and spirited, and I know you will fight me,’ he drawled coolly, one strong hand firm on her hip as he held her captive, ‘but it is part of our…shared fantasy, is it not, bint? That you will fight and I will conquer?’

Her breath caught and she said shakily, ‘You will not conquer me!’

Suliman smiled slowly and flicked his gaze from her to the table beside them. ‘Come. You need to rest and eat. Have some coffee and sweetmeats. They are prepared specially for you by one of my handmaidens in the——’

‘I don’t want any sweetmeats!’ she said, heart thumping at the nearness of his hard body and the sexual threat implicit in that soft, dark voice. ‘I want to go home right now!’

‘You do not listen, bint,’ Suliman said flatly, mouth hardening as he looked back at her. ‘And you do not learn. You are my captive: I am your master. And eventually, bint, you will admit your own silent approval of this shared fantasy.’

She stared, breathless, heart thudding. ‘My approval! What do you mean—my approval?’

‘We discussed it in great detail last night,’ he said softly, and the long fingers selected a sweetmeat for her, sliding it on to her lips and watching her with a slow, lazy smile.

‘We did not!’ She pushed the sweetmeat away from her mouth with a shaking hand.

‘I made myself more than clear,’ the sheikh told her, and allowed his gaze to move insolently, possessively over her body, resting on the full breasts beneath her white blouse. ‘And you, Sheba, responded in kind.’

‘No…’ She knew his gaze was provoking her to remember the way her breasts had swollen under his gaze then, as they did now, and the erection of her pink nipples only served to humiliate her further as she felt the excitement shiver through her.

‘Yes.’ His strong hand moved slowly to the buttons on her blouse and slid one open while she stared, trembling, hypnotised by those eyes. ‘You welcome your destiny, and your ultimate surrender.’

‘I don’t!’ she protested, then gasped, face flushing scarlet with hot arousal as Suliman’s strong fingers slid over her breast and they both felt her taut nipples burn in electric response to his touch.

‘Your body betrays you,’ he said softly, and as his head lowered to block out the light Bethsheba heard herself give a faint moan, eyes closing helplessly as that hard mouth took possession of hers.

She struggled, but he pinned her arms to the splay of cushions. She cried out but he silenced her with his mouth, and as she lay helpless beneath him the blood raced through her body with a wild throb of excitement that made her moan as his kiss took fire, pulling her down into a sudden dark flare of hot desire that made her gasp against his mouth.

‘So.’ Suliman raised his dark head, breathing roughly, his face flushed as he watched her, and the soft sound of desert sands blowing in the night air came from outside the tent. ‘Let us have no more protests or denials, bint!’

He got to his feet and reached for the brass coffee-pot, pouring hot spicy coffee into the two cups.

Bethsheba watched him, intolerably aroused, intolerably confused, and unbelievably angry with him for kissing her like that. How dared he? How dared he bring her here against her will, kidnap her and put her in his desert encampment specifically to play some vile game with her that would end in her complete physical surrender to him…?

She hated him! Her eyes moved over his strong back, his arrogant head, and she said hoarsely, ‘You think you can get away with this, but you’re wrong! Chris will be frantic when I don’t come back! He’ll look for me, and——’