Erin Yorke - Desert Rogue

Straining her ears for unusual noise, the slender blonde was disappointed to hear only the rustle of rushes against the boat and the soft scraping of the sand as its hull touched bottom.

A heavy splash sounded suddenly, accompanied by a violent rocking. Someone jumping overboard to pull the boat in, she supposed, hopefully the tall, foul-smelling fellow.

Then the movement stopped altogether and the pudgy Arab loomed over her, reached down and grabbed her arm, pulling her awkwardly to her feet.

Unable to voice her disgust at being manhandled, Victoria shrank away from the man, her muscles stiff from being in one position for so long.

“Soft lady,” muttered her captor, supporting her weight against him as he ran his callused hand over her hair, bringing coarse fingers up to stroke her cheek.

Had Victoria been able to, she would have spit in his face. Who did he think he was to touch her so freely? No one, not even Hayden, touched her without permission, and that was something she did not often give.

“I wager the rest of her is just as sweet,” said the odorous one, stepping forward to pull open her blouse. He’d been too long without a woman and here was this one, available, if not willing. “Let’s have a look at her.”

Unwilling to tolerate his impudence, Victoria didn’t stop to think, but swiftly wrenched her body free of the first man’s grasp with such force that she lost her balance, falling sideways against the hull and banging her head in the process.

“What are you ignorant dung-eaters doing?” bellowed a voice from outside the falucca. All at once the boat shook as their leader regained the deck, coming to stand between his men, scowling at the fallen Victoria. Even in a fit of temper, he spoke in English for the captive’s benefit. It was time she knew her destiny. “We have strict instructions. She is not to be touched or you will pay with your lives.”

“And you as well, Muhammed, not that you haven’t been wearing out your eyes staring at her curves.”

“But I am not jackal enough to use the merchandise before it is sold. English or not, unless she is pure, the slave market at Khartoum will not get top price, and our master Zobeir’s scheme will go awry. Remember, we will share the profit yielded by his cleverness. No bothering her!”

At the others’ reluctant nods, he relaxed his hold on the fearsome knife at his waist and motioned toward Victoria.

“Lift her carefully and bring her ashore to relieve herself. Farouk, fill the water jugs. Hurry so we can sail again.”

A short while later, when her gag was removed and Victoria was seated beside the apparent organizer of the group, she had prepared her arguments. Ignoring the goat cheese and dry bread he placed before her, Victoria chose to speak for freedom.

“See here, you said you were taking me to the slave marts at Khartoum. My family will pay you handsomely to take me home instead. You saw their lands. You must know they are wealthy,” she pressed. “A thousand pounds...two thousand. How much can a slave trader offer you?”

“Much more for a woman with blue eyes like yours, especially if she keeps her mouth shut,” he snarled, spitting out the pit of an olive. “Eat now or you will go hungry.”

“If you insist on selling me, you should know that you will never live to spend your fee,” said the blonde, refusing to consider the possibility of such an occurrence taking place. Hayden would come to rescue her long before they ever reached Khartoum. “Whoever your master is, he cannot possibly escape Queen Victoria’s forces.”

“The good Queen means nothing in Khartoum. It is outside her province,” chuckled the native, briefly tempted to take the woman’s money. Still, he would die more painfully and much more slowly if he disobeyed Zobeir, the slave trader. No, the female would be delivered as ordered. Rising to his feet, he looked down at the girl. “Money is the only power in that city, and you cannot pay what Zobeir will receive for your lovely white skin. Eat now. We leave in five minutes.”

Biting back her disappointment, Victoria took a sip of the wine he had provided. The fool had rejected the salvation she had offered, so there was nothing to do but wait for the British army to overtake them or at worst to invade Khartoum. It was regrettable an international incident could not be avoided, but she could do no more. There was absolutely no doubt Hayden would rescue her.

* * *

On the fourth day of their forced excursion out of Cairo, Ali could see no reason to celebrate. Instead of holding his head up proudly, running his shop and bringing honor to his family, he had been ignominiously linked to this rowdy foreigner until the ransom for the English girl was paid, an issue that never should have involved Ali Sharouk.

Where the American viewed this journey as merely another exciting chapter in his quixotic existence, Ali sorely missed his own bed, his loving wife, and even the tiresome chores associated with his livelihood. His only consolation was that since they had begun their pilgrimage, Kincaid had become a man whose only vice was dedication to his mission. Yet the foreigner’s very intensity made him as fearsome sober as he had been drunk.

Still, they had made excellent time on the Nile considering the current, one sleeping while the other maneuvered the craft. Now, however, the overland trek was about to begin.

“Enough sleep, American,” he announced abruptly, using his foot to nudge the dozing figure, successfully resisting the urge to kick more forcefully. “It is time we must go.”

“The only thing you must do is to quit telling me what to do,” snarled Jed, thoroughly aggravated by his unwanted companion. He wasn’t a native to the Egyptian desert, but Jed had spent enough time in it to learn the tricks of survival. Besides, being bred in the city of Cairo, Ali probably knew less than he did. “I’ve told you a dozen times already, go home and let me see to my business my way.”

“Our business, Kincaid, much to my misfortune.”

“But it was my idea to deliver the ransom. Hell, without me, you’d be rotting in jail—”

“Without you, I would have no reason to be in jail. You started this whole sorry mess by landing on my coffee set whose design took weeks to hammer—”

“We’ve already been through this—”

“And then you tried to escape responsibility—”

“All right. I’ve heard it all at least a hundred times—”

“And struck a police officer—”

“I’m going to beat the tar out of you if you don’t shut your mouth,” yelled Jed, jumping to his feet. To his amusement, the other man stood his ground. Giving the Egyptian a look of pure malice, Jed laughed and began gathering his gear. “Let’s get one thing straight, Sharouk. I am no happier to be stuck with you than you are with me. In fact, I’m a damned sight unhappier—”

“Impossible,” muttered Ali.

“I told you to go home and wait for my message, but you wouldn’t hear of it.”

“That is not the honorable thing to do.”

“But it’s a hell of a lot more practical! Without you, I could have been halfway to the oasis already, but you insisted on wasting extra hours packing supplies—”

“It is only prudent to be prepared. It makes a long journey safer,” retorted Ali, folding the canvas shelter he had erected against the sun.

“It makes a long journey longer,” snorted the dark-haired American, running a hand across his ever-increasing beard. Ali was a novice at this, Jed reflected, mounting the larger of the horses Ali had hired near where they had traded the falucca.

“Enough talk. Let’s ride,” Jed ordered, determined to reach the oasis as quickly as possible now. The thought of surrendering five thousand pounds to unknown villains with no guarantee of the girl’s safety still irked him, but perhaps another option would evolve. It would depend on the situation south of the wadi. If the girl was there, well... No man would say Jed Kincaid couldn’t accomplish what he set out to do, regardless of the wishes of the authorities or puppets like Hayden Reed.