A Cinderella For The Desert King

Anger pierced the veil of fear and spurred Abby into retaliatory action. She didn’t pause to consider the consequences of her actions, she just lifted a clenched fist and swung. The man moved at the last moment but she caught his shoulder with a hard blow that drew a grunt of pain from him.

Someone laughed and the initial look of open-mouthed shock on his face morphed into something much uglier. There was no point running. There was nowhere to run to. The determination not to show her fear was suddenly stronger than the fear itself and Abby lifted her chin, clinging to her pride as she drew the tattered shreds of her shirt tightly around her against the imminent threat. The man advanced towards her, snarling angry words she didn’t understand, not that a dictionary was needed when his intent was pretty clear.

He lifted a hand to strike her when suddenly he froze. Everyone did, as a horse with a robed rider galloped full pelt into the semicircle, causing chaos as the men threw themselves to one side to avoid the slashing hooves. Just when it seemed as if man and horse were about to gallop straight into the flames of the bonfire, the horse stopped dead.

The rider, having achieved the sort of theatre-hushed entrance that film directors would have traded a row of awards for, calmly looked around, taking his time and not seeming to be bothered by the guns aimed at him.

After a moment, he loosed the reins and let them fall. The animal didn’t move an inch as his rider casually vaulted to the ground, projecting a mixture of arrogance and contempt.

Any idea that the hauteur and arrogance he oozed had anything to do with his superior position on the impressive animal vanished since, if anything, his air of command was even more pronounced as he began to move with long-legged purpose towards the spot where Abby stood as transfixed as everyone else by the tall figure in the flowing white robes. His elegance liberally coated his every move, oozing a level of undiluted male sexuality that had nothing to do with the way he was dressed or even the fact that, even without the dusty riding boots he wore, he had to be at least six foot six, with the length of leg and width of shoulders to carry off the height.

The rest of the men present wore Arab dress but there the similarity ended. The dregs of humanity who had been part of this degrading scene were bedraggled specimens. This man was...magnificent.

Abby registered this fact while not losing sight of the truth that he was probably just as much of a threat to her...maybe even more so. She ought not to care about such things in her position, but his face had perfectly sculpted features, symmetrical angles and hollows so dramatically beautiful that she experienced an almost visceral thrill of awareness looking at him.

He held the eyes of the man beside her until the man lowered his arm. The stranger gave a curt nod and then his gaze moved on to Abby. His scrutiny lacked the leering quality of the other mens’ but it was equally disturbing, though in an entirely different way. Her tummy fluttered erratically in reaction to his blue-eyed stare.

She lifted her chin and planted her hands on her hips, staring right back until a draught made her realise that her ripped blouse was still displaying a lot of skin. Head bent, cheeks hot, she clumsily attempted to pull the sides closer together across her chest as she awkwardly fastened the buttons with shaking fingers. The top button had gone so she used the one below and, as it was either cover her breast or her midriff, she chose her breast.

She thought she might have imagined the flicker of something close to admiration in the horseman’s lean face before he turned and spoke to the man who appeared to be the auctioneer.

His voice was low, a throaty, abrasive quality giving the deep, velvet drawl texture.

Whatever he said caused one of the men who had been bidding to step forward, shouting and gesticulating in protest. As the shouting man reached Abby she leaned back, her nostrils flaring in distaste as his foul breath wafted over her face. She winced and closed her eyes as he grabbed her hair, steeling herself against the pain she anticipated. But it never came.

Instead, the man’s grip loosened and fell away, the stench receding. Head bent, she half-opened her eyes and saw the man who had grabbed her standing some feet away. He was still close but his focus was not on her, it was on the tall, white-clad figure who stood smiling with his hand curled around the man’s upper arm, seemingly oblivious to the wicked-looking blade pointed at him.

Abby held her breath, her heart continuing to fling itself against her ribcage with bone-cracking force, while this fresh top-up to the adrenaline already flowing through her veins made her head spin.

She felt strangely dissociated from the scene she was watching, as though it were the cliff-hanger in a soap opera finale...but this was real. As was the metallic taste of fear in her mouth.

The silent war of attrition lasted a few seconds before the lesser man’s eyes widened and he turned his head and slid the blade back into the concealed sheath on his robe.

He had lost face and he was not going to retire gracefully. He began to gesticulate angrily as he shouted, but Abby noticed that the few growls of agreement from the audience of watching men were subdued. Clearly in the ‘lay it on the table and measure it’ stakes he had lost out big time.

The tall horseman appeared oblivious to the growing tension as he addressed his soft comments to the man who had been in charge of the flesh auction.

Her would-be purchaser bent in to listen and threw up his hands, turning to his audience and inviting them to share his contempt. The response was a low growl.

For his part, the tall stranger seemed utterly oblivious to the threat that lay heavy in the air as he held out a hand and slid a ring off one long, brown finger, dropping it into the palm of the waiting man’s extended hand, then sliding a metal-banded watch from his wrist and adding it to the auctioneer’s spoils.

The man produced a flashlight from his pocket and turned away, his shoulders hunched as he examined his haul. Without another word he nodded and called out something to another man, who came across holding a rolled-up sheet of paper. He unrolled it and laid it on top of a crate that was acting as a table.

Was it a bill of sale?

The idea filled her with a mixture of revulsion and disbelief. This could not be happening; it was too surreal.

Without even looking at her the horseman took her arm and tugged her with him to the makeshift table. He took the offered pen and wrote what she presumed was his name on it.

He then turned and held the pen out to Abby, who stared at it as if it were a striking snake before she shook her head and tucked her hand behind her back.

‘What is it?’

The music being blasted from several of the trucks that had masked the noise of his arrival came to Zain’s aid again, covering his murmured response.

‘You can read the small print later,’ he said, his words betraying an urgency suggesting the odds of them getting out of here diminished the longer they remained. ‘If you ever want to see your home and family again sign it right now, you little fool.’

Her eyes fluttered wide as they flew to his face—she had not expected a reply to her question, let alone one in perfect English.

She took a deep breath then let it out slowly. Why was she even hesitating when the alternative was even more grim? Abby gave an imperceptible nod. The words on the paper blurred as she bent towards it and the pen that had been thrust into her hand trembled.

She would have dropped it but for the steadying grip of the long brown fingers that curved over her hand and guided it to the paper.

She looked from the big hand that curved her trembling fingers around the pen to her shaky signature appearing on the paper but felt no connection to it.

She stood there like a statue while the horseman physically took the pen from her fingers, conscious of a low buzz of argument just to her right that became loud and a lot angrier as the horseman rolled up the paper and put it inside a pocket hidden inside his robe.

* * *

The girl looked up at him with glazed green eyes—shock, he diagnosed, stifling a stab of sympathy. He pushed it away; empathy was not going to get them out of here. Clear thinking was. There was nothing like the danger of a life and death situation to focus a man, Zain thought with a smile. A bit of luck thrown in would also help.

In the periphery of his vision he was aware of the argument that was escalating, fast becoming a brawl...others were drifting towards it and sides were being taken.

‘Come on,’ he said through clenched teeth.

As his fingers curved around her elbow he could feel the tremors that were shaking her body. He pushed away a fresh stab of sympathy. His priority right now was getting out of this camp before someone recognised him and realised that he was worth more money than any girl, even one with flaming hair, curves and legs... He cut short his inventory and lifted his gaze from the shapely limbs in question.

‘Can you walk?’ There wasn’t a trace of sympathy in the question.

Ignoring the fact her knees were shaking, the woman lifted her chin and responded to what he could admit had been a cold, vaguely accusing question.

‘Of course I can walk.’ She was unsteady but she fell into step beside him. It was clear that he was still a danger in her eyes but she clearly saw he represented her way out of this awful place.

‘We don’t have all day.’ Behind his impassive expression he was impressed that she was still walking, and she wasn’t having hysterics... This was going to be easier if she was not having hysterics.

‘Keep up.’

Clearly unused to looking up at many people, the woman tilted her chin to lob a look of resentment at his patrician profile. ‘I’m trying,’ she muttered between clenched teeth.

‘Then try harder before they realise they could attempt to retake you despite the bride price I paid.’ His glance travelled from the top of her flaming head to her feet and all the lush curves in between before trailing to his own hand, which looked oddly bare without the ring he had worn since his eighteenth birthday. ‘Or me,’ he added softly.

Luckily, he was the spare and not the heir.

Through the dark screen of his lashes he calculated how many people could get between them and the waiting horse. It was encouraging to see that most had moved to join in the fracas they were swiftly moving away from. Zain was content for the men to fight amongst themselves. It was the possibility of their stopping long enough to unite against a common foe—namely himself and the redhead—that bothered him.

None of the thoughts passing through his head showed in his body language, however, as he had learnt a long time ago that appearances did matter. It wasn’t about a macho reluctance to show weakness; it was common sense. Weakness would always be exploited by enemies, and that went pretty much double when the enemies in question were carrying weapons.

A spasm of impatience flickered across his lean features as the girl slowed and came to a nervous halt when they got within a few feet of the stallion.