The Sheikh's Disobedient Bride

Her bandit stopped walking, gestured to a tent on his left. “You’ll go there,” he said.

She looked at the tent and then the tribesman. “It’s a tent.”

“Of course it’s a tent,” he answered impatiently. “This is where we live.”

She looked back to the tent, the fear returning, squeezing her insides, making it hard to breathe. “Is this a temporary stopping point?”

“Temporary, how? What are you asking?”

“Are we traveling on tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Then what are we doing here?”

“Stopping.” He gestured to the tent. “Go inside. Dinner will be brought to you.”

Tally faced the tattered goatskin tent. It was hideous. Stained, patched, and worn. She’d been traveling in Northern Africa and the Middle East for six months now and she’d never seen such a rough encampment before. This was not a friendly camp. This was not a nomadic tribe, either. There were no children here, no women, no elderly people. Just men, and they were heavily armed.

Tally didn’t know who they were and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out, either. Survival was paramount in her mind at this point.

She turned to look at her captor. He was tall, and hard and very indifferent. She suppressed a wave of emotion. No tears, no distress, no sign of weakness, she reminded herself. “How long will you keep me here?”

“How long will you stay alive?”

A lump filled her throat and she bit her lip, hot, exhausted, grimy. “Do you intend to…kill…me?”

His dark eyes narrowed, and a muscle pulled in his jaw, tightening the weathered skin across his prominent cheekbones. He had a strong nose, broad forehead and no sympathy or tenderness in his expression. “Do you want to die?”

What a question! “No.”

“Then go inside the tent.”

But she didn’t move. She couldn’t. She’d stiffened, her limbs weighted with a curious mixture of fear and dread. While she hated how he snapped his fingers as he ordered her about, it was the cold shivery dread feeling in her belly that made her feel worse.

She hated the dread because it made her feel as if nothing would ever be okay again.

“What do I call you?” she asked, nearly choking on her tongue, a tongue that now felt heavy and numb in her mouth. Tally had been in many dangerous situations but this was by far the worst.

He stared down at her for a long, tense moment. As the silence stretched, Tally looked past him, spotted a group of bearded men still meticulously cleaning their guns.

“Do you have a name?” Her voice sounded faint between them.

“Seeing as you’re from the West, you can call me Tair.”

“Tair?” she repeated puzzled.

He saw her brow crease with bewilderment but didn’t bother to explain his name, seeing no point in telling her that his real name was something altogether different, that he’d been born Zein el-Tayer, and that he was the firstborn of his father’s three sons and the only son still alive. He’d survived the border wars and the past ten years of tensions and skirmishes due to a lethal combination of skill and luck.

In Arabic, Zein or Zain meant “good”, but no one called him Zein even if it was his first name because he wasn’t good. Everyone in Baraka and Ouaha knew who he was, what he was, and that was danger. Destruction.

Tair wasn’t a good man, would never be a good man and maybe that was all his captive needed to know.

“You’ll be fine if you do what you’re told,” he added shortly, thinking he’d already spent far more time conversing than he liked. Talking irked him, it wasted time. Too many words filled the air, cluttering space, confusing the mind. Far better to act. Far better to do what needed to be done.

Like he’d done today.

He’d removed the threat from town, away from his people. He’d keep the woman isolated, too, until he understood what she was doing in his land, and who—or what—had brought her here in the first place.

Single women—and single women with cameras—didn’t just happen upon Ouaha. If Western women visited Ouaha, which didn’t happen very often, they were part of a tour, something that had been organized by a trusted source, and their itinerary was publicized, known.

“How did you get to Ouaha?” he asked abruptly, studying her wan face. She looked tired, but there was nothing defeatist in her expression. Rather she looked fierce. Furious. A wild animal cornered.

“Airplane to Atiq, and then jeep and camel from there.”

“But someone planned your itinerary.”

“I planned it myself. Why?”

The flare of heat in her eyes matched the defiant note in her voice. If she was afraid or worried, she gave no outward appearance. No, she looked ready for battle and that fascinated him. But it wasn’t just her expression that intrigued him. It was her face. Strong through the brow, cheekbone and jaw, and yet surprisingly soft at the mouth with full, rose pink lips. Her gaze was direct, focused, not at all shy.

She had the look of a woman who knew her mind, a woman who wasn’t easily influenced or deceived, which made him wonder about her appearance in Ouaha.

“I’m the one to ask the questions. You’re the one to answer. Go now to your tent. I shall speak with you later.” Tair turned and walked away, but not before he saw her jaw drop and the blaze of fury in her eyes.

This woman didn’t like being told what to do. His lips curved as he returned to his men. She’d learn soon to mask her true feelings or she’d simply continue playing into his hand.

CHAPTER TWO

TALLY watched the bandit—Tair, he’d said his name was—walk away. She noticed he hadn’t even waited for her to respond. He’d ordered her in and then just walked away knowing she had no choice but to obey.

She clutched the tent flap, and stared at his retreating back, watching his white robe flow behind him.

Tally swore silently. Think, she told herself, do something. But what?

She caught the eye of one of the men cleaning guns and his expression was so disapproving that Tally shivered, and swiftly stepped into the tent.

But once inside, Tally didn’t know what she was supposed to do. The tent was crude. There were few furnishings—just a low futonlike bed, a blanket of sorts, a small chest and a couple of pillows on the bed—and nothing remotely decorative. No wardrobe for clothes (not that she had any!), no chair, no mirror, nothing.

It would have been so easy to panic, but Tally resisted falling apart. There was little point in giving way to hysterics. No one even knew she was gone. No one would know she was missing. As far as her family knew, she’d been missing for years.

Sighing, she rubbed her brow, feeling the grit of sand and dust at her temple, against her scalp. Riding across the desert had been an illuminating experience. She could have sworn she ate more sand and dust than what they’d traveled over thanks to the horses’ flying hooves.

Loosening her ponytail, Tally pulled the elastic from her hair and dragged her fingers through her hair, working the kinks free. What was going to happen now?

What was she supposed to do? Run? Steal a horse? Make vague threats about human rights and government relations?

Lifting the weight of her hair from her neck, she let her nape cool. She felt hot and sticky all over. Hot, sticky and afraid.