The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride (2 page)

One of her rescuers looked like a typecast villain and the other as if he’d stepped out of some swashbuckling fantasy. It had to be a trick of the poor light.

Reluctantly she handed back the water bottle, then let her head sink to the cushioning blanket. Soon, perhaps in a few hours, she’d be back in the Kingdom of Q’ aroum, receiving the best of modern medical attention.

The two men packed their medical supplies. And still Duncan slept. Ìs he all right?’ There was a telltale quiver of fear in her voice that brought the buccaneer’s gaze up to meet hers.

It’s a bad fracture,’ he replied. Ànd he’s lost a lot of blood. But he should recover quickly once we get him to hospital.’ His eyes narrowed. `He doesn’t seem to be dehydrated. You’ve done a good job looking after him.’

And not such a good job looking after yourself, his stare seemed to say. But what else could she have done? Drunk all the water and left Duncan in need?

`He’s still asleep,’ she said. Òr unconscious?’ Surely the pain of bandaging his leg should have woken him?

I’ve given your colleague a strong painkiller that’s knocked him out for the moment. It’s best if he doesn’t wake while we move him.’

Belle nodded, knowing he was right. But she’d be relieved to see Duncan conscious again. He’d drifted in and out of delirium for too long now.

She watched, heavy-eyed, as the men conferred in Arabic. The older one, with the scar, pointed to Duncan and herself. And all the while the wind gusted and swirled, making the shack’s walls creak and the roof shudder. Then the conversation was over. The younger man spoke once, decisively, and it seemed they were in agreement.

They turned to the hut’s rough wooden door, working together: the older one heavy-set and methodical, the younger man lithe but broad-shouldered and strong. It only took a few minutes to get the door off. Then they laid it beside the pallet, ignoring the whirling gusts that hurled sand through the gaping doorway.

Of course. It was a makeshift stretcher for Duncan.

Time she got ready. Carefully Belle inched herself up, wincing as she scraped her chafed ankles. By the time she had maneuvered herself to her knees, ready to rise, she was breathless, and pain thrummed in her hands and feet.

`What are you doing?’ That deep voice was dangerously low, sending a thread of renewed tension spidering up her backbone.

She looked up as he loomed over her, a tall pirate. In the shadows she could see his sensuous mouth was a taut line. His brow furrowed.

Ì‘m getting ready to leave.’ Obviously.

`Not yet.’

`But I-‘

‘It will take two of us to get Mr. MacDonald to the boat. I can’t look after you and carry him.’

Ì don’t need looking after!’ She’d survived this long virtually alone. She could make it to the boat by herself. All she wanted was to get off this godforsaken island. After what she’d been through, scrambling to the shore would be a doodle. She wouldn’t feel completely safe till she’d left this prison behind.

He hunkered down in front of her, blocking off the torch-light so she couldn’t read his features. But she felt his warm breath on her face. Inhaled the spicy scent of his skin. Somewhere low in her abdomen a quiver of excitement flared. `You’re hurt, Ms Winters.’

His tone was patient. Almost.

`You’ve done everything you could in the circumstances. Now it’s time to let us take care of you.’

It made sense. Even to someone as desperate to escape as she was.

Reluctantly she nodded.

`Good.’ He reached for the blanket and draped it over her shoulders, pulling it round her as protection against the grit laden wind. She winced at the abrasion of cloth against tender skin.

Ì‘ll leave a torch,’ he said, placing it so its light shone towards the door. Ànd I’ll be back soon.’

Then they disappeared into the howling darkness, carrying Duncan. Leaving her to wonder who they were.

Or, more precisely, who he was. The man with a voice like a caress. If it weren’t for that hint of an accent she’d have thought him English. Well-educated English. But he was probably local.

His deep olive complexion was the norm in the Arab world.

Not that Q’ aroum was a typical Arab country. As a fiercely independent island nation in the Arabian Sea, it had been home for centuries to adventurers and buccaneer from the Middle East, Africa and beyond.

The proud tilt of his head, the way he walked as if he owed allegiance to no man, made her think of long ago princes. Or pirates.

She really had to find a new fantasy, she decided wearily as she pulled the blanket closer, huddling into its comfort. If only it could block out the lashing sand and the sound of the rising storm.

Experience told her this was no minor gale. This was seriously nasty weather. And she wanted to be back on the main island when it hit.

It took a moment for her to realize he was back, his approach hidden by the storm. She raised her eyes from his boots all the way up to his face as he stood in the doorway.

His expression was unreadable, but his watchfulness and the way he obviously masked his thoughts made her shiver.

There was something wrong. She could feel it.

`What is it?’ she whispered as fear clawed its way back up her throat, drying her mouth once more.

The torchlight cast heavy shadows on his face, emphasizing the compelling personality she sensed in him. This time it didn’t reassure.

He moved into the room, pacing slowly towards her in a way that made her shrink back a little under her covering. He stopped, folded his legs beneath him and, in a single supple motion, sat cross-legged in front of her.

`There’s a complication to our plans,’ he said.

Belle swallowed hard as apprehension shivered through her. She didn’t want to hear this. She looked into his gleaming eyes and tried to draw on his strength. She wasn’t alone any more. Whatever it was, she would cope.

`What’s the problem?’

`Dawud and I came over on an inflatable,’ he explained. Ìt’s a small boat.’

She nodded impatiently. She knew inflatables.

`No,’ he said. Ì mean this one is small. Too small for all four of us now that Mr. MacDonald is strapped across the length of it.’

Ì see.’ The disappointment was so strong she felt like weeping.

Ridiculous, since all she had to do was wait for Dawud to come back to collect them.

Patience, Belle. Just a little longer.

`Well, we’ll just have to wait for Dawud to return.’

He paused for a second before shaking his head. Ì‘m afraid it’s not that simple.’

She really had a bad feeling about this now. Foreboding sliced through her. She hunched lower under the protection of her blanket.

`There’s a storm coming this way. A cyclone.’ His voice was steady, unemotional.

Her heart plunged and her hands clamped, white-knuckled with effort as she willed herself not to shake.

`Dawud’s left. He should just have time to reach port before it becomes too dangerous. But it would be suicide for him or anyone else to return tonight.’ The buccaneer scrutinized her, as if watching for signs of weakness. `We’ll be stranded here until the storm passes. Maybe for another twenty-four hours.’

Twenty-four hours. It sounded like a lifetime.

And, if the cyclone hit head-on, time enough to die.

She felt sick with disappointment after the certainty she’d been rescued. Nausea welled and the swallowed hard, oblivious now to the raw abrasiveness of her throat.

At least Duncan had got away safely.

Belle stared at the man before her. His gaze was impenetrable and his utter stillness gave nothing away. Neither urgency nor the fear that would be natural in the circumstances. The fear that froze her own limbs right now.

But something about the set of his shoulders, the casual grace of his hands resting at his folded knees, told her he was ready for anything, even a hysterical woman.

She gnawed at her lip, willing the trembling to subside. She’d seen tropical cyclones as a kid on the Great Barrier Reef coast. She knew how devastating they were. Involuntarily she looked up at the barely-there roof. It shifted and groaned in the gale. `How can we prepare?’

He inclined his head and the waiting stillness left his body. As if she’d passed some test. He’d expected her to panic, had braced himself to handle a distraught woman.

He gestured to her blanket. If you’ll permit?’ When she nodded he folded it back to reveal her bare feet. She shuddered as the torchlight illuminated her, and she felt a ridiculous urge to tuck her feet back out of sight.

They were filthy with sand and dried blood. Each ankle ringed with red welts where the shackles had bitten into her skin as she moved.

In the gloom his face was impassive. Yet she read tension in his clamped jaw as he surveyed her injuries. And the air between them was electric, charged with some fierce emotion that radiated from him in waves.

Anger? Or frustration that he had this to deal with as well as the approaching storm?

She shrank further under her cotton wrap as she felt his eyes on her face. She wished she could read his expression. Instinct warned her to be wary of this man. It was crazy. She had to trust him. He was risking his life for her, a stranger. What danger could she be in from him?

Despite the fine, dusty sand swirling around them Belle could identify what had to be his own natural scent: clean male skin with a slight salt tang. She shivered.

`Shouldn’t you release my hands first?’ Then she could help strengthen the shelter. And she’d be less dependent on him. She’d feel better if she could help herself.

`Later. It’s important that your legs are free.’

Why? They had nowhere to go. And with the sea churning in the strong winds the surface of their atoll could only get smaller. It was only a couple of meters above sea level that was nothing if the cyclone hit them full-force.

The truth was sudden and horrifying.

He must have sensed the immediate tension in her. He looked up, his eyes darkly gleaming. Àre you all right?’

Oh, she was just dandy. Wearily she inclined her head. Now she understood his reasoning. It’ll be easier to swim with the shackles off,’ she said. Ìf we get swamped.’

He shifted, and the torchlight glanced off his strongly honed features. It revealed a calm certainty and a strength that, beyond all reason, reassured.

Ì will look after you,’ he said slowly. Ì promise you.’ It sounded like a pledge. In that moment she had no doubt he’d give his all to save her.

But would that be enough to preserve either of them?

`Have faith, Ms Winters,’ he said in a steady voice. Ì will see you through this. The eye of the storm is predicted to track further west. It will be unpleasant here, but we will survive it together.

Now, sit still while I do my best with the lock.’

He spread a small packet of tools beside him. Then one large, warm hand cupped her heel and she sucked in a stunned breath as her reeling senses reacted to his touch. It was impersonal, she assured herself, merely steadying her foot to give him better access to the heavy shackles.

But she couldn’t ignore the tiny, trembling waves of awareness that spread her leg. Reaction to her ordeal. That was what it was. No man, no matter how starkly sexy, had the power to generate electricity with his bare hands.

She shut her eyes to block out the image of his dark head bent low over her, the light gilding the aristocratic ridge of his cheekbone and glinting on the barbaric looking ring at his ear.

The gale roared around their refuge and the air swirled, heavy with grit, presaging the devastation fast approaching. Yet tucked in this corner, her world limited to the scope of a torch beam, she felt cocooned in a fragile, dream like world. Protected by this remarkable man.

Remarkable? She didn’t know anything about him except for his extraordinary good looks. And his palpable aura of authority. The sense that he would cope not just survive, but triumph, no matter what the odds.

A jarring movement broke her reverie and she opened her eyes.

He’d attempted to pick the lock. Blood covered his wrist from a long gash-his hold must have slipped. Àre you all right?’

He raised his head and she could have sworn she saw a flash of humor lurking in his eyes. But he didn’t laugh at the absurdity of her, trussed before him like a sacrificial victim, worrying about his injury. ‘I‘11 live.’

The chain at her feet jolted, then blessedly gave way. Relief washed through her. Without the shackles wearing her down she had a slim chance of staying afloat

Now he did smile. A dazzling grin that lit the uncompromising angles of his face into a less austere, but still riveting male beauty.

Dazed, Belle’s eyes widened. She’d thought him sexy before. Now he was simply stunning.

No real-life pirate had ever looked that good!

`Your patience has been rewarded,’ he said, dropping the metal to the floor. Ànd just in time.’ The rain had arrived, a thunderous downpour that swept in through the door and gushed through the holes in the roof. Belle shivered as her covering grew wet. The wind was notching up too. Soon they wouldn’t be able to hear each other.

`My hands…’ He shook his head and held up the discarded lock.

The tool he’d used had broken, jammed in the rusty metal.

Hope died in her breast, flattened by the solid weight of despair.

Would she ever escape this nightmare? It grew worse and worse by the hour.

`No time,’ he said as he hefted the torch, directing its beam upwards. It played over the roof that heaved like a living thing.

And then the bulging walls.

She heard a whisper of a curse from the man before her. Then he was on his feet, shouldering his backpack.

He loomed before her, big and solid. She caught a glimpse of his determined face before he bent and the light went out. Then his hands were on her, pulling her up. `Lift your arms,’ he said in her ear.

She felt the brush of his hair against her arms. He pulled her wrists so that she strained up against him, her arms encircling his head.

Then he lifted her in a single easy movement, tucking her close. A wall of solid muscle supported her, warmed her. Strong arms bound her and she sank gratefully into him, finding comfort in his strength and the steady, calming rhythm of his heart.