Dana Marton - Undercover Sheik

She couldn’t have run away, not yet. The desert was void of life around them as far as the eye could see. She couldn’t have passed out of sight in the short time since he’d last seen her. And somebody would have noticed her walking away if she’d tried. Not that he didn’t think she would attempt to escape. But she wasn’t stupid. She would wait for a better opportunity.

The first sounds of struggle reached him when he was a few meters from the tent. He broke into a run, threw the flap open when he reached it and saw the desperate struggle on the floor.

“Ahmed!” Rage flooded him as he lifted the hefty bastard off the woman, threw him aside and stepped between the two, willing the man to fight.

“You had no right to her.” Ahmed spat the words and charged, his face red with effort and fury.

Nasir was ready for him, his body braced. Ahmed had the advantage of weight, but the disadvantage of inexperience. Nasir ducked his blow.

Ahmed would be trouble over and over again until dealt with. Over the past weeks, he had developed a deep-seated hatred for Nasir. The man was way too hotheaded. Nasir relaxed his limbs and focused on the fight. He could not allow anyone to put his mission in jeopardy. He watched his opponent, noticing the way he shifted his weight and planned his next attack to come in low.

The only way to stop him for good was to kill him, but Ahmed was a distant relative of Umman, and Nasir couldn’t afford to turn the camp leader against him until he got what he had come for.

“Son of a whore.” Ahmed charged again.

Nasir turned, twisted so the man missed with the second punch and stumbled outside through the flap, pushed by his own momentum. Nasir stepped after him, waited for the next attack and dropped the bastard, nice and clean—with admirable restraint—in front of plenty of witnesses.

Without checking whether Ahmed was getting up or not—he wouldn’t be…not for a while—Nasir stepped into the tent, grabbed Sadie by the arm and dragged her outside, making a show of it.

He couldn’t find a single look of disapproval among the men who were gathering around. Good. They understood his actions and accepted it.

“Come.” He pulled Sadie behind him roughly. They would expect that, for him to assume her guilt in the matter without questioning. Punishing her now for being in a tent alone with another man was his responsibility, his right, even if he deemed the necessary punishment to be death.

He shoved her inside his tent with great show but a gentle hand, then closed the flap behind them. Plenty of light filtered through the thinly woven side panels to see, the tent having been made to allow for the circulation of air.

“How bad did he hurt you?”

Her eyes brimmed with mistrust and fear. She pulled away from him a little too abruptly and backed into one of the tent poles, causing her headscarf and attached veil that had loosened in her fight with Ahmed to slip down now, coming to rest around her neck.

He was stunned by her short blond hair, barely covering her ears.

He didn’t like it.

It seemed indecent—long hair was Allah’s adornment for women. Still, for all that, the exotic color and shape suited her face.

She scrambled to cover herself, her eyes cast down, her fingers trembling.

“Leave it,” he said. She belonged to him now, his tent was her home—an odd and uncomfortable thought. But it meant that even according to the strictest customs she was allowed to go unveiled as long as it was just the two of them.

She hesitated in midmotion, the fear and mistrust on her fair face undiminished.

It annoyed him. Bismillah, he’d never given her a reason to fear him. “I had to act firmly.” He realized that he’d begun to pace, and stopped. “Umman’s men would expect you to be punished.”

Beharrain was on the path of progress, but in the outlying areas many people lived according to the strict rules demanded by Wahhabism. Majid’s supporters, in particular, claimed themselves to be staunch conservatives, although their backward ideas had little to do with old customs or the words of the Prophet. Because of them, one could still hear news of women killed for tarnishing the honor of their families. They considered rape a woman’s fault.

The American doctor lowered her arms and her head with them. And for some reason that defied logic, her supplication annoyed him.

“They expected me to be mad,” he said, wondering if she could truly understand. And he was mad, although not at her. He would have gladly strangled Ahmed. “Are you hurt?” he asked again.

She nodded and said after a brief pause, “Minor bruises. Thank you for getting me out.” But still, she wouldn’t look at him.

From a woman of his own culture that would have been a sign of respect. From her, that she was still afraid of him felt like an affront.

What did it matter? Whether she feared or despised him had no significance. He could and would see her to safety all the same. They had no business beyond that.

“The dagger?” he asked.

She fumbled with her robe and produced it after a few moments. “Couldn’t get to it.”

He could see why and cursed himself for not thinking of it before. The task was cumbersome. She had to gather up the folds of her long abayah first. He fixed the problem by stepping up to her and grabbing the black material, ripping a four-inch hole in the side where her hand could fit through if she needed to access the dagger in a hurry.

“That should do.” He hadn’t anticipated Ahmed to go this far this fast. At least the humiliation of his public loss should keep him in check for a few days. Nasir stepped back and prayed to Allah he wouldn’t need any more time than that.

In another day or so, the convoy they were all waiting for would be coming. He would do whatever it took to get Majid’s whereabouts from them. There was a connection between Umman and Majid, he was sure of it.

“Stay clear of Ahmed. As much as you can, stay in this tent.” He could not look away from the golden hair that curled at her nape and around her ears. He’d seen western women before—he’d been abroad on occasion and didn’t much care for it—but she was in his tent. “If you must step outside—” She would have to, if nothing else than to relieve herself. “Cover up.”

“How long before we go?” she asked, everything about her hesitant.

But he’d had a few glimpses of another woman, one that he suspected was the true Dr. Kauffman.

She’d been different when he’d first arrived to camp. And when she’d fought her executioner this morning, she’d fought like a tigress.

“A few days,” he answered her question.

Her gaze was cast at her feet, thick, dark-blond lashes shading her eyes. Perhaps so he wouldn’t see in them that she had no intention of staying that long. He said nothing, knowing it would be pointless to warn her.

She would do what she thought was necessary.

Then he would do whatever needed to be done.

NASIR LAY IN THE DARK and stared at the ceiling of the tent. It had to be past midnight.

The American woman, Sadie, had been gone for about two hours.

He didn’t blame her—he would have done the same—but neither could he let her go to her death. What did she know about the open desert?

He would wait another hour or two before he went after her—enough time for her to realize the mistake she’d made. She was on foot. She would be exhausted by then and lost. She would know she had failed. He had to wait that out—he couldn’t afford to watch her every second of the day. For her own sake, she had to accept that staying with him was her best chance for survival.

In general, he believed that the fewer foreigners in the country, the better. Most of them came to his part of the world for gain, at the expense of his people. He trusted only one, Dara, his brother’s wife, another American. Dara would want him to look after Sadie, but it wasn’t his only reason for doing so. He was Bedu and he lived by the code of the Bedu, the sharaf, part of which was protecting women.