Girl in the Bedouin Tent

Surreptitiously she slid her hand under cover of her cloak to where he had carelessly abandoned the knife, holding his gaze unblinking all the while.

‘Sheathe your claws, kitten. You have no need of a blade now.’

Kitten! Indignation swamped doubt as her fingers clenched convulsively on the hilt of the fruit knife. ‘No?’ She tilted her chin.

‘No. I do not harm women.’ The glint in his gaze spoke of pride and outrage.

But she’d take no chances. ‘In the circumstances I know you’ll understand if I reserve the right to protect myself.’

Not by so much as a flicker of his eyelids did he move. Yet his features grew taut, the grooves beside his mouth deepening, the angle of his jaw becoming razor-sharp.

Amir regarded her with stunned curiosity. His word was not enough? He wasn’t to be trusted?

Surely she couldn’t believe him to be cut from the same cloth as Mustafa and his cronies?

It seemed she could.

She lifted her chin, revealing a slender throat that reminded him of her fragility despite her bone-deep defiance. Luminous skin caught his eye, so at odds with her gaudy make-up.

Something stirred inside. Respect for this woman who didn’t realise she had no need to keep fighting.

He thought of the long years he’d spent proving himself again and again, fighting against doubt, scorching disapproval and ever-present prejudice. That determination to keep fighting had got him where he was today. Who was he to insist she give up?

‘If it gives you comfort, then by all means keep the knife.’

He paused and smiled, expecting acknowledgment of his gesture. After all, to bear arms in the presence of royalty had been till recently a capital offence.

She remained stony-faced and he was torn between exasperation at her distrust and approval of her determination.

Amir gestured towards the outer wall. ‘But don’t try attacking one of Mustafa’s guards with it. They’re trained warriors. They won’t hesitate to use maximum force if attacked. You’ll come off worst.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ Her eyes sparked fire. ‘You call them warriors? Kidnapping an unarmed woman? I thought the men here would have more pride.’

‘You’re right. Their behaviour blemishes honour.’

The mark branded him too. She’d been in his kingdom when abducted. It sickened him that she’d been plucked from his country and subjected to this.

‘Mustafa’s men will do what Mustafa tells them to.’

‘And you?’

She went too far this time.

‘Ms Denison.’ His voice rang with hauteur. ‘I give my word you have nothing to fear from me. The first I knew of your presence was when you were brought to me at the feasting tent.’

‘I …’ She faltered and her gaze dipped. ‘I see. Thank you.’

Like a balloon pricked by a pin, she seemed to deflate before his eyes. Instantly, regret lashed him. Where was his control? Strive as he might to reassure, his reactions to Cassandra Denison were too raw and unpredictable.

How to gentle her and win her trust?

He had a lifetime’s experience in pleasuring women. His lovers were well satisfied. But since adolescence females had pursued him. All he’d had to do was reach out and select the one he wanted. He treated them well, but he’d never had to exert himself to win a woman’s trust.

How was he to deal with this woman who defied yet intrigued him? A woman so reluctantly dependent on him?

CHAPTER THREE

‘WHY isn’t it so simple?’

‘Pardon?’

Cassie struggled to sound calm. ‘Getting me away from here. You said it’s not that simple.’

‘That’s right.’ He poured himself a drink, then raised a golden goblet to his lips.

Frowning, Cassie looked away to the table between them. There was something disturbingly intimate about watching the strong muscles of his burnished throat as he tipped his head back to drink.

Was it the stress of her situation that made her so hyperalert? Or the intimacy of this quiet lamplit haven, so peaceful after her recent trauma?

Slowly he lowered the goblet, and she had the unnerving feeling he was preparing to break bad news.

‘I’ve just arrived and I won’t be leaving for a week.’

Cassie nodded. ‘And.?’

‘And you will have to remain here till then.’

‘No way!’ On surging outrage she rose, only to subside again when he held out an arm to bar her way. He didn’t touch. His hand stopped centimetres from hers. But his expression had its effect. ‘If you expect me to wait around here a whole week—’

‘That’s exactly what I expect, Ms Denison. When my negotiations are over I’ll escort you to safety. In the meantime, so long as you remain in this tent, you are under my protection. No one will touch you while you are mine.’

Cassie’s eyes rounded. His.

A bolt of electricity zapped her.

It wasn’t news. That scene in the other tent had been brutally clear, despite the language barrier. Yet to hear him spell it out was too much.

‘I’m not yours.’ Her voice rose. ‘I’m not any man’s.’

He shook his head. ‘As far as Mustafa and everyone else in this camp are concerned you belong to me.’

‘That’s barbaric!’

What century did he think this was?

He shrugged. ‘Of course it is. Mustafa thinks to shore up his position by acts of bravado and posturing.’ Dark eyes dropped for a moment to her voluminous cloak, but she suspected it wasn’t coarse wool he pictured in his head. A tremor ran through her as she remembered his gaze on her bare skin. ‘The man has no subtlety.’

Out of nowhere heat washed her. She only just stopped herself wondering what sort of subtleties the Sheikh of Tarakhar preferred.