Desert Rogue. Erin Yorke
Once we see the lay of the land, I’ll decide where to place the explosives, and if you can keep me in the shadows for a few moments, it will be easy for me to get that job done. From what we’ve heard, Khartoum is building up an arsenal and constructing a powder magazine outside the city on Tuti Island rather than in the city proper. But I’m sure there’ll be something else we can send to smithereens and cause a ruckus. When I give the signal, you set off the fireworks. By the time we’re through, it will look like the Fourth of July in there.”
“July? Your month of July is a few weeks away, isn’t it?” Ali asked, drawing his eyebrows together and regarding Jed curiously.
“Never mind,” Jed intoned, his deep voice rife with disgust. “All you have to know is that you light the fuses when you hear the signal.” With that, the rugged American whistled a few jaunty bars of “Yankee Doodle.” “Think you can remember that tune?”
“Who could forget such a disharmonious melody,” Ali responded dryly. “Still, it’s not too late to return to Cairo.”
“What do you reckon Reed will do if we show up without the woman and with a big chunk of the money gone? You have no choice, Ali. Now, come along,” ordered Jed as he began to lead the way.
“No,” said the merchant, his voice adamant.
“No?” repeated Jed in his most menacing fashion.
“No,” Ali reiterated. “If we are to have even a prayer of this insanity succeeding, I will do the leading and you will follow like a respectful slave. I shall hold the rifle, and, like a beast of burden, you will carry the sack containing the explosives. Should you enter Khartoum with your usual swagger and foul temper, you’ll be cast in irons the moment you enter the pens. And in all likelihood, I’ll be chained to the wall right beside you. You must appear to be submissive, resigned to your fate, perhaps even a bit timid or fearful. And above all, you must remember I will be the one giving the orders. Is that clear?”
“All right,” Jed yielded, irked that the Egyptian’s demeaning suggestions had merit. “But I’m warning you, don’t overplay your role.”
“I think this might be the only part of this ill-advised adventure that I enjoy,” Ali said. He grabbed the halter around Jed’s neck and gave it a tug. “Come, slave.”
“Watch it, you bastard,” Jed growled. Nonetheless, he affected a hopeless shuffle and followed in Ali’s wake. “Just remember, you’re going to have to live with me on the journey back to Cairo.”
* * *
She had come this far without giving in to tears, Victoria reminded herself as Zobeir’s men hurried her through the seemingly endless maze of corridors after preparations had been made to transfer her to the pens. No matter how desperate she felt, how hopeless it seemed, she would not surrender to emotion. Hadn’t she outmaneuvered Zobeir, the wealthiest slave merchant in Khartoum? The memory of his anger-mottled face cheered her immediately.
Indeed, since he had sent five guards to serve as her escort after making her wait hours alone in a closetlike cell, he no longer considered her helpless. Forcing him to take such precautions had to be a victory of sorts, Victoria assured her flagging spirits.
His men surrounded her, the one at her side grasping her elbow so firmly it was a wonder she had not lost circulation in her arm. The situation was intolerable for a British citizen.
“You are holding me too tightly,” Victoria announced curtly, stopping suddenly. While the men were still startled, she twisted her upper body forcefully to the left. Wrenching her arm free from its human vise, she glared at the one responsible for her discomfort, her blue eyes challenging his implacable black ones.
“Your manners are sadly lacking,” she chided. “I realize you answer to Zobeir, but aren’t you man enough to defend a helpless female from abuse rather than perpetrate such behavior?”
Fury flashed across the face of the guard and the feisty blonde found herself on her knees, her long hair wrapped tightly around the man’s hand as the pain of his tugging it caused unbidden tears. Even as she squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed to ease the agony, Victoria knew she was defeated.
“A man is always master, though he may in turn answer to another,” replied her tormentor while the others chuckled. An abrupt jerk of the hand forced Victoria to look up into his cruel smile. “Have I convinced you to walk or shall I drag you? It is the same to me.”
“Zobeir will—” she began to threaten weakly until his fingers twitched, viciously tightening his hold on her blond tresses.
“He won’t object since your skin won’t show any ill effects. Indeed, I shall make it a point to inform your buyer of this particular form of discipline,” promised Zobeir’s man. Then, using her hair, he yanked her roughly to her feet. “Now will you walk?”
“Yes.” There was no need to say more, nor any ability to do so. Stung now by the painful reality of her situation, Victoria regretted her pointless defiance. There would come a time when he was less vigilant, she promised herself, refusing to despair.
With a satisfied grunt, the Sudanese released her curls, took her elbow and addressed his cohorts, his words causing loud guffaws. Then they were moving once more through the still-deserted halls of Zobeir’s grand home.
With each step across the lush carpets, Victoria questioned her presence in this world of masculine brutality and power. It was more than a week since she had been kidnapped, nine days if she calculated correctly. Why hadn’t Hayden or her father found her? Cameron Shaw had always said, “Money buys power—or at least the semblance of it.” Surely if her father contacted the khedive, the political leader would interfere on her behalf.
Could it be possible that no one knew she was in Khartoum? For a long moment this thought stunned her, almost as badly as the harsh sunlight that blinded her as they left the sheltered rooms.
Outside, the guards moved closer, herding her at a quick pace through the dusty streets. A few heavily veiled women averted their eyes as they passed, while a large group of men leered openly and began to follow her, shouting in Arabic. Two particularly persistent fellows tried to push past Zobeir’s men to reach her, but they were easily repelled by her human shield. The slave trader had not exaggerated when he said many men would want her. But would Hayden continue to desire her, if he ever found her?
All too quickly, they stopped before a guarded enclosure, its eight-foot-high walls topped with spikes embedded in the sandstone. Heavy wooden gates provided the only interruption in the rough-textured expanse, at the top of which stood a sentry’s post.
“Zobeir wants her in the pens until tomorrow’s auction,” announced the man beside her. “We will take her through.”
“There is no need—”
“Zobeir knows you have sampled his wares in the past and he wants her untouched,” refuted the slave trader’s deputy.
Not understanding the sharply spoken exchange, Victoria dared hope for a moment that she was being turned away. Instead, the high gate opened and they were motioned inside.
As she moved, the young Englishwoman looked about and was startled to see men on every side of her: short, tall, dark-toned, light-skinned, bearded, clean-shaven, clothed in every possible garb. Some were asleep, but more were standing about, carefully watching her progress across the compound.
“Zobeir said the women’s pen,” she reminded her keeper. She was nervous because of the hungry leers on dozens of faces, most of them destined for slavery themselves.
“They are sheltered behind the men’s quarters to offer extra security from anyone who would interfere,” the man explained gruffly. “The guards and these slaves are between the women and the street in case of trouble.”
“Has anyone ever tried to free Zobeir’s women?” Victoria asked, a tiny glimmer of hope sparking to life.
“To be certain, no one has succeeded, though once