The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride

BELLE clasped her hands tight together and concentrated on not being scared.

The rough floor was hard beneath her weary body, making her wish she wore something more than a swimsuit. The un-forgiving rasp of iron around the chafed skin of her wrists and ankles was bearable if she didn’t move.

But she couldn’t dispel the acrid taste of fear on her tongue. Or the brutal images of violence that replayed in her mind.

Shivering, she looked down at Duncan. Her colleague was pale, but mercifully asleep on the narrow pallet. She’d splinted his leg as best she could, and the bleeding had stopped. There wasn’t anything more she could do for him.

Except pray.

She’d done little else for thirty hours. Since their kidnappers had dumped them here: not merely isolated in this ramshackle hut, but the only people on the whole blisteringly hot islet.

Yesterday she’d explored, scouring it for anything they could use to summon help or to escape. She couldn’t have missed anything.

She’d had to crawl on her hands and knees since the heavy shackles had kept tripping her up.

If she’d been able to walk properly she’d have circled the island in five minutes. A bare atoll: sand, a couple of palm trees and this ruined hut. No help. No supplies.

Unwillingly she let her gaze stray to the single large water bottle their captors had left behind. She hadn’t tasted water since sunrise, knowing Duncan needed it more. Now the bottle was perilously close to empty. Her tongue was thick and swollen from dehydration. Had they been left to die? Her empty stomach cramped savagely at the thought.

None of this made sense. Not the abduction from their dive-boat or their abandonment. She and Duncan weren’t typical kidnap victims. They weren’t rich or powerful. They hadn’t offended local sensibilities with their survey of a sunken first-century trading ship. Everyone in Q’aroum had been so friendly and helpful.

Belle chewed her lip, trying not to dwell on the possibility that two marine archaeologists might die of thirst before they could be rescued. The Arabian Sea was vast, and this island so tiny it wouldn’t be on a map.

Would they be back, those brutal men who’d looked as if they’d enjoy nothing better than slitting her throat?

Even with masks hiding their faces, she’d known they wouldn’t hesitate to kill. There’d been callous excitement in their hard, glittering eyes. Sadistic enjoyment of their victims’ desperate fear.

Belle shuddered and blinked her gritty eyes against scalding tears of fury and fright. She would not give in to panic. Her only hope, hers and Duncan’s, was to be strong. To concentrate on staying alive. No matter what the odds.

Deliberately she turned her thoughts to her family in Australia. She drew strength from the knowledge that, if she survived this ordeal, her mum and sister would be waiting for her.

When, she reminded herself, not if she escaped.

Belle pressed her palms to her aching eyes, ignoring the burn of unshed tears against her lids. She hadn’t slept and exhaustion sapped her strength. She couldn’t stop shaking. She slumped, fighting the despair that welled up inside her, clogging her throat and weighting her heart.

Gingerly she settled herself on the floor. She wouldn’t sleep, but she needed to recruit her strength.

Reluctantly she closed her eyes.

The noise woke her. A yowling wail that tore through the air and made the roof groan. They were in for a storm.

Belle opened her eyes and realized where she was. And that they weren’t alone any more.

Her heart thudded frantically, the sound of it swelling to a deafening roar in her ears. Her parched throat closed as she watched a man bend over Duncan. A torch propped on the floor illuminated the puckered scar that lined the man’s cheek and ran up to his short grizzled hair. A large gun was slung over his shoulder, and on the floor beside his boot she saw a long, curved blade. The Middle Eastern version of a Bowie-knife.

He reached out a hand towards Duncan’s throat, and Belle knew with terrified certainty that she had to act fast. Her colleague was in no state to save himself.

And yet she had to force herself to move. Dread was a physical weight pushing down on her. She knew she had no hope against the stranger.

Her stiff muscles screamed in protest as she shifted, centimeter by centimeter, till her fingers closed on the knife handle. It was heavy, smooth and well worn. Her arm wobbled as she lifted its deadly weight in her damp hands.

The intruder grabbed Duncan’s neck, and in that instant Belle struggled to her knees, unsteady but determined. Her clumsy movement took their galore by surprise, and she thrust the wicked blade against his neck. He froze.

`Move and you’re dead,’ she snarled, her voice a raw, broken whisper.

For a moment there was stillness.

Then out of the darkness a large hand clamped onto hers. Fingers strong as a vice closed on her, shutting off the circulation till her hands throbbed.

But she wouldn’t let go. The knife was all she had to protect them.

`Quiet, little tigress.’ The voice came out of the gloom, deep and mellifluous. `We’re friends: here to help.’

Turning her head towards the voice, she saw the gleam of eyes close to hers. Now she felt the heat of his body too. She shivered at the sensation of power that emanated from him.

The pressure of his fingers strengthened just a fraction and she cried out. The knife clattered to the floor as stars exploded across her vision.

Immediately he released his grip, and blood pounded agonizingly into her fingers. She bit down on her lip, cradling her hands against her chest as she blinked back scalding tears of pain and fear and frustration.

There was a scraping noise, and the man who’d threatened Duncan scuttled out of reach, taking the knife.

The man at her side grabbed the torch, and she winced as light dazzled her. The beam swung down to illuminate her hands. There was a hiss of indrawn breath from across the room. And from beside her came the soft sound of swearing, furious and unmistakable, in unintelligible Arabic.

The light moved on, flicking over her briefly but comprehensively.

Then, mercifully, he put the torch on the floor, tilted once more towards Duncan, who still slept.

Ìt’s all right, Ms Winters.’ The man with the deep voice spoke again. Now she detected the hint of a lilting accent in his precise tones. `We’re here to rescue you.’

Rescue! Her head spun and she slumped back on her heels. Could it be true? She struggled to take it in.

A hand, large and warm, settled on her arm.

`You’ll be all right while we look after your friend?’ She nodded.

Ì‘m OK,’ she croaked:

He said something to his companion, who returned to squat beside the pallet, reaching out to Duncan. Now she realized he was searching for a pulse. A flood of relief washed over her as she realized it was true. These strangers were here to rescue them.

`Drink this.’ The man who appeared to be the leader of the pair held a canteen to her dry lips, tilting it so she could swallow a welcome trickle. Greedily she raised her hands to the canteen, tipping it further. Sweet water filled her mouth, ran down her burning throat.

`Steady,’ he warned. `Too much and you’ll be sick.’

She knew he was right. But she was desperate for more. It was only his unbreakable hold on the water bottle that pre-vented her from guzzling.

`That’s enough.’ His low voice burred near her ear.

If she’d had the strength she might have complained about his high-handedness. But her attack on his companion had used her last reserves of strength. She swayed drunkenly to one side.

Immediately the stranger put his big hands on her shoulders to steady her. Calluses scraped her bare sunburn flesh and she flinched. He cursed again.

Ì‘m sorry,’ she mumbled. Ì‘m a bit unsteady.’

It’s a wonder you’re even conscious.’ His voice was harsh but his hands were gentle. `Here.’ He pulled her towards him, taking her weight easily.

She had a brief impression of heat and strength. A tantalizing awareness of some unfamiliar scent: sun and salt and man. Then he lowered her onto a cotton blanket. `Lie still while we see how Mr.

MacDonald is.’

`You know our names?’ she whispered.

It’s not often we have kidnappings in Q’aroum. Much less the abduction of two foreign nationals. Of course we know who you are.’ His voice was grim. `There’s been a coordinated air and sea search for the pair of you ever since your boatman reported the abduction.’

He brushed her tangled hair back from her face and she shut her eyes, feeling absurdly close to tears at the tender gesture.

`Rest now,’ he murmured, and she sensed him move away.

She ached in every joint, and her throat was as painfully dry as the hot wind that swooped south towards them off the Arabian Peninsula. Her head pounded and she knew she’d reached the limit of her endurance.

But there was soft fabric against her cheek and under her body.

And the caress of that big callused hand had invested her with hope again. Hope and reassurance. She recalled his voice, low and velvety. Her body had tingled into feminine awareness at the sound of it, despite the extremity of her situation.

If this was a hallucination she didn’t want it to end. She could drift off happily now, resigned to her fate.

She may even have dozed. The low murmur from the two men as they investigated Duncan’s injuries was as soothing as the sound of waves lapping on a beach.

She frowned, registering through the muddled haze of her thoughts that the wind was still picking up. Palm fronds slapped against the roof and there was a dull roar in the distance, like a freight train heading towards them.

Opening her eyes, she looked blearily at the strangers. A second powerful torch added light to the scene. She recognized the pattern of desert-colored camouflage gear and heavy boots. Army? Or perhaps mercenaries? Right now she didn’t care, as long as they were here to rescue them. Then the guy with the grey hair moved to one side, and she sucked in an astonished breath as she saw the second man in the light for the first time.

She’d been rescued by a pirate!

Belle shut her eyes, realizing it was some trick of the light and her tired brain. But when she opened them to stare again there was no mistake.

His black hair was combed back ruthlessly, revealing a fighter’s grim face: one of stark, slashing lines. Despite its severity his was one of the most breathtaking faces she’d ever seen. Every inch was hard and uncompromising, from his long, commanding nose to his solid jaw and the deep grooves bracketing his mouth. Every inch except for that mouth, which in repose spoke of sensual knowledge.

The angle of the torch highlighted the fanning lines at the corners of his eyes: the telltale sign of a man who spent his hours outdoors in this hot climate.

But, despite his army issue gear, the man deftly bandaging Duncan’s leg to a professional-looking splint was definitely in no one’s army. A heavy-looking hoop of gold caught the light at one earlobe as he moved. And behind his head she glimpsed hair pulled back in a ponytail. Absolutely not army regulation.

Abruptly he raised his face to meet her gaze, and she sucked in a stunned breath. For a long moment they watched each other. Long enough for her to imagine a pulse of something hot and knowing in his eyes.

He looked like a buccaneer who’d just spied a trophy ship. She swallowed at the frisson of something very like fear, staring back into his ruthless face.

Abruptly he gave an order to his companion, who moved immediately to her side, holding out the canteen. It was only as she reached gratefully for it that the leader of the pair looked away, and she felt the tension that had spun tight round her dissipate.

She propped herself up on an elbow and drank, careful this time to take it slowly. The man with the scarred face nodded approvingly and murmured something encouraging. He too looked as if he belonged on a tall masted ship where the rules of civilized society didn’t apply.

Hell! She must be weaker than she’d thought. Maybe heat and stress and lack of water were making her delusional.