Desert Rogue. Erin Yorke
“He’s dead. Khartoum? Kincaid, you promised—” protested the shopkeeper. Surveying the two other bodies, he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, but if they went to Khartoum, when would he see Fatima again? “You swore you wouldn’t do this!”
“I guess I got carried away,” chuckled Jed, upending the fallen bottle of zabeeb. ”Want a drink?”
Shaking his weary head at the American’s nonchalance, Ali accepted the bottle and raised it to his lips. He was not experienced with alcohol, but somehow he felt in this instance, Allah would understand. Traveling with Jed Kincaid would drive any man to drink. Besides, if his fate consigned him to be this infidel’s companion, maybe he had better learn his ways. The Egyptian sighed, surprised at the sudden burst of warmth in his gut. In the meantime, he would pray that the road on which he journeyed with the American would not be quite so fiery.
* * *
Though Victoria Shaw had also invoked the heavens, she was perturbed that her prayers had not as yet been answered. At the moment, in the gentle light of morning, she wore her impatience for all to see as she paced the boundaries of the women’s quarters at the home of Zobeir, the slave trader, under the man’s watchful eye.
He was concerned by the behavior of the Englishwoman so recently delivered to him. Despite her desperate circumstances, condescension toward her new masters marked her as a woman of spirit. Although her imperious attitude had prompted him to keep her from the slave pens where she could start an insurrection, the rotund Zobeir had yet to decide whether or not to beat the pretty female into submission. After all, her proud, uncowed demeanor could very well raise her asking price, he mused, aware that there were many who would pay an exorbitant amount for the chance to tame so wild a creature.
Still, Zobeir concluded, witnessing the blonde issue a haughty denial to the servant who had brought her fresh garments to replace her own attire, she had to be gentled somewhat. No man would part with gold for a shrew, no matter how exquisite her looks.
Watching the woman continue her graceful caged walking to and fro, Zobeir wished he could afford the luxury of humbling her himself. But with a sigh, the slaver put such thoughts aside. One did not get rich by giving in to temptation. To steal Victoria Shaw’s virginity or to mar her delicate flesh with whips would only lower her price along with her pride. No, she would be disciplined, to be sure, but in more subtle ways.
Signaling to the serving girl who still stood holding the sheer harem garments, Zobeir approached his newest acquisition.
“Perhaps you failed to understand that after bathing you were to don these,” he said, fingering the indecently transparent pantaloons. “Put them on now.”
“I most certainly will not!” Victoria proclaimed, her frosty tones an indication that she considered the man her inferior.
“Yes, you will, or you will regret it,” Zobeir stated with a dangerous softness.
“I hardly think that likely,” Victoria scoffed.
“Ah, but you underestimate the power I hold over your destiny,” Zobeir replied, his cheeks growing rounder in the wake of his odious smile. “Do as I say and you will be sold to a kind master. There are those with whom you would not fare well.”
“I will not be sold at all,” Victoria said emphatically, though these last few days her belief in that statement had started to waver. “The Europeans living in Khartoum will not allow such an atrocity to be visited upon one of their own.”
“And have you seen any of them since your arrival?” Zobeir asked with a chuckle. “With auctions of slaves as private as they are, no one will ever be aware you have been in Khartoum.”
“I have already told you that I am a British citizen and the daughter of a wealthy man,” Victoria announced, tilting her chin defiantly. “I am worth more in ransom than any price you could ever hope to fetch for me in the slave market. If that is not enough to sway you, perhaps the idea of my fiancé’s terminating your vile life will change your mind.”
“Do not try my patience, English flower, or I will see you transplanted into a garden not fit for dogs, rather than into one containing blossoms as delicate as yourself,” the slave trader threatened. He had no inclination to explain to the girl that she had been marked for death by the powerful figure who had charged him and his men with her abduction. It was only the result of his own greed and the fact that the one to whom he answered was miles away that he had dared to defy his orders and keep her alive at all. However tempting returning her to her father for reward was, Zobeir knew it was an option that he did not have—not if he wanted to live.
“See here, I have already traveled endlessly bound in the bottom of a falucca, only to find myself carted into your despicable city under a pile of blankets. I survived that. Your talk doesn’t frighten me.”
“But my description of the sort of master to whom you could be sold will make an impression. Do you know how a man can treat a woman when he wishes to be cruel? Do you realize how he can tear into her body so that he rips at her very soul? If you do not fear pain, perhaps the idea of indignities will move you to do as I bid.” When the Englishwoman did not react, Zobeir decided to offer her details.
“I can sell you to a man so slothful that he will not waste his time arousing you, not even so that you may bring him pleasure. There are those who have the female they have selected for the night held down by eunuchs while the other women of the harem inflame the chosen one until she is ready for her master. Should you think the women would refuse to do such a thing, realize that there are those in every large harem so starved for physical joy that they would find such a duty a treat. They would relish bringing their victim to the brink of ecstasy so that their master had merely to enter her with no more finesse than a rutting ram in order to find his own satisfaction. Do you think you would like to belong to such a man? Does the idea of other women kissing and caressing your most private parts excite you?”
“How dare you talk to me of such things?” Victoria whispered fiercely, face pale but her voice still drenched with contempt.
“Ah, it is not the talking you will come to fear,” Zobeir said, his fingers stroking his straggly beard. “Do as I ordered and change your attire.”
“You will find that Englishwomen have more backbone than you suspected. I am not frightened by your disgusting threats.”
“Put on this clothing or I will beat you now!” the slave merchant thundered, his patience at an end.
“You wouldn’t,” Victoria retorted with a contemptuous laugh. “Lay one filthy finger on me and your life is over.”
“Your bravado is almost commendable. Still, if fear doesn’t move you, I will have to persuade you to submission by other means. Clothe yourself in those garments now or I will beat this woman.” With that, he reached out to grab the serving girl by the hair and pulled her to him, striking her repeatedly about the face and head.
Victoria couldn’t decide which sound she detested the most, the slap of fist upon flesh or the girl’s piteous cries. Unable to think of an option that would end the sobbing woman’s torment, Victoria Shaw reluctantly agreed to do as she was told.
“All right. Give me the clothing! Just stop hitting her!”
“I thought you would see logic eventually,” the slaver said smugly, casting the other woman aside. “And realize that the only reason I did not forcibly dress you myself is that I do not want any marks on your fair skin when you mount the block.”
“Do you promise to leave that girl alone if I do as you ask?” Victoria inquired in a calmer voice than Zobeir had expected.
“I swear before Allah that if you but wear the things I have given you, I will not touch the slave again...at least not in anger,” the man said with a wicked laugh.
“Leave, then,” Victoria directed, reverting to her usual position of authority despite her circumstances. But even as she held out her hands to receive