ALEXANDRA SELLERS - Beloved Sheikh

Her accent was foreign, and so was her cool, haughty dignity, the faint air of challenge. The leader gazed speechlessly. She was lovely as a gazelle, the water drying on her skin as he watched, leaving it soft and glowing, her mouth the perfect bow of the ancient paintings that adorned his palace, her wet hair a wild mane of curls that the paintings also showed. Her breasts were high and rounded, her hips slim but very female. Her bathing suit was a soft colour that matched her lightly browned skin. Her legs were slender and curved, her bare feet sure on the smooth wet rock.

His brain stupidly told him that she was one of the Peri of the old tales. In a moment she would disappear.

Around him his men flicked him glances and waited for their lord to speak. Her dark eyes, too, were upon him. Her eyes had been drawn to him from the first, and she seemed to realize that he was their leader.

He gazed steadily at her. When the silence stretched too long he saw alarm kindle behind her gaze, and then, still speechless, he saw decision there and watched aghast as she turned and agilely began to climb the dangerous rock face beside the falling water. It was not a long way up to that other small pool above. In a moment, just as in the tales of Peris, she had indeed disappeared.

Around him, his men began to talk and exclaim. The leader shook himself as if from a dream. He realized that, from the moment of their entering the place, no more than a minute or two had passed. In so short a space of time, his world had changed.

“What the heck is happening out there?” Gordon asked. Most of the team were already sitting around the long lunch table by the time he arrived, stepping under the long green canvas roof with relief and pulling off the hat that was an absolute necessity for anyone working under the blazing sun.

“Haven’t you heard?” squealed Lena, delighted to have someone to pass the news on to, since she herself had been one of the last to hear. “That’s the tent of the sultan himself going up.”

Gordon blinked, but whether it was from his eyes’ difficulty in acclimatizing to the shadow or from astonishment was impossible to say.

“We’ve all been invited to dinner tonight, the whole team,” Ryan, the site director, informed him. “Those are his minions out there preparing for the feast.”

Gordon strode to the edge of the canvas shelter and gazed out over the desert to where the circular red-and-blue tent was going up. “It looks the size of a football stadium,” he observed mildly. “How many of us does he think there are?”

Gordon was English and it was a point of honour with him never to show excitement. Zara had seen the facade crack only once—when the first clear evidence was found that they really were at the site of ancient Iskandiyar, that all his educated guesswork had paid off at last. This would be the crown of his long career as an archaeologist They had all stood around cheering and jumping for joy then, and Gordon had joined in. No mere feast laid on by the Prince of East Barakat would evoke such a response in him, though.

“He asked for exact numbers,” Zara said now, “but who knows how many of his own court will be in attendance?”

Someone said, “What’s the point of it all? Why is he doing it?”

“To welcome us to his country, according to his messenger.”

“We’ve been in his country for three months.”

“The wheels of princes grind slowly.”

“I suppose it’s possible that someone finally gave him the message I sent telling him that we had found the gates that confirm that this is ancient Iskandiyar,” said Gordon.

“Maybe he figures it’s time to check up on us in case we’re about to find treasure.”

“He’s as rich as a sheikh already,” said Warren.

“He is a sheikh,” Lena pointed out in her scratchy, breathless voice. “He’s not married, either,” she went on. She was completely unaware of the non sequitur, and when the shout of laughter went up she looked around.

“Why are you all laughing? He really isn’t, I heard it on the radio. Don’t you remember when that woman was kidnapped by the sheikh of West Barakat awhile ago when that guy stole something from him?” Of course they all remembered, they had talked of nothing else for days. “Then she ended up engaged to him. They said then that his two brothers weren’t married.”

Lena sighed, making them all laugh again. She blinked at the grinning faces around her and shrugged goodhumouredly. “All right, what did I say this time?”

“Nothing, Lena, it’s just that you’re so obviously hoping that this one will kidnap you,” Zara told her kindly.

“Oh, am I that obvious? Well, a girl can dream, can’t she?”

Zara shuddered involuntarily. She still hadn’t told the others about her experience at the wadi. Partly because she knew she would get blamed: they had all been warned that there were bandits in the desert and they should never venture off the dig unaccompanied. But there was more to her reluctance to talk about the incident than that.

She had felt so exposed when the bandit chief—she supposed he must have been that—had stared at her. It was as if her whole being had stopped for a moment while he had entered like a conqueror and taken possession. Even now she wasn’t sure what had given her the strength to break out of the prison of his gaze and climb the rock face. Or why he had let her escape.

She had been terrified that when she got to the other side of the outcrop he and his men would be waiting there, and when he was not she had run, slipping and gasping, sobbing with exertion, all the way to the camp, not looking back, but with every cell of her body listening for the sound of hooves.

She knew that Lena was a fool to fantasize about being kidnapped—it must be a dreadful, hellish experience, and if that had been the bandit’s impulse she was glad he hadn’t acted on it. And yet there was a part of her that was sorry to think she would never see him again... sorry that...

“Listen, that reminds me,” she said now, still unwilling, but knowing it had to be confessed. “I think I ran into that bandit and his men.”

That got their attention. Some of them choked on their coffee, and everyone’s eyes were on her. “Where?” two or three demanded at once.

“I went to the wadi early a couple of days ago,” she said softly.

“By yourself?” said Gordon. “Zara, that was very unwise.”

“Yes, well, I won’t do it again. They galloped in while I was standing under the waterfall. I didn’t hear a thing. I opened my eyes and there they all were, on horseback, snorting and stamping.”

“The bandits were snorting and stamping?”

They laughed lightly, but this was serious and no one was pretending it wasn’t. “Did they see you? How did you get away?”

Zara swallowed. She was not sure why she was so reluctant to tell them the details. “I went up over the rocks and ran like hell.”

“If they’d seen you they could have caught up with you, on horseback,” someone said. “They must not have seen you.”

Zara said nothing, got up and wandered over to the fridge to get a cold drink, then leaned against it, drinking and staring out over the site, leaving the rest of the team to talk over this latest development.

She was amazingly lucky to be on this dig, which was now certain to make archaeological history. The fourth- and third-century B.C. city called Iskandiyar had been mentioned by several classical authors. Its whereabouts had puzzled modern archaeologists, though, because it was described as being on the banks of the river which now bore the name Sa’adat, Happiness. For more than a century travellers had searched in vain for some sign of it. Such an important city should have left extensive ruins.