The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride

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. ‘Is 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. ‘And 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. ‘Or 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 manoeuvred 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.

‘I’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.’

‘I 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 doddle. She wouldn’t feel completely safe till she’d left this prison behind.

He hunkered down in front of her, blocking off the torchlight 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.

‘I’ll leave a torch,’ he said, placing it so its light shone towards the door. ‘And 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 buccaneers 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 realise 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, emphasising 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. ‘It’s a small boat.’

She nodded impatiently. She knew inflatables.

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

‘I 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. ‘I’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 scrutinised 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.