The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride. Annie West
pressure of his fingers strengthened just a fraction and she cried out. The knife clattered to the floor as stars exploded across her vision.
Immediately he released his grip, and blood pounded agonisingly into her fingers. She bit down on her lip, cradling her hands against her chest as she blinked back scalding tears of pain and fear and frustration.
There was a scraping noise, and the man who’d threatened Duncan scuttled out of reach, taking the knife.
The man at her side grabbed the torch, and she winced as light dazzled her. The beam swung down to illuminate her hands. There was a hiss of indrawn breath from across the room. And from beside her came the soft sound of swearing, furious and unmistakable, in unintelligible Arabic.
The light moved on, flicking over her briefly but comprehensively. Then, mercifully, he put the torch on the floor, tilted once more towards Duncan, who still slept.
‘It’s all right, Ms Winters.’ The man with the deep voice spoke again. Now she detected the hint of a lilting accent in his precise tones. ‘We’re here to rescue you.’
Rescue! Her head spun and she slumped back on her heels. Could it be true? She struggled to take it in.
A hand, large and warm, settled on her arm.
‘You’ll be all right while we look after your friend?’
She nodded. ‘I’m OK,’ she croaked.
He said something to his companion, who returned to squat beside the pallet, reaching out to Duncan. Now she realised he was searching for a pulse. A flood of relief washed over her as she realised it was true. These strangers were here to rescue them.
‘Drink this.’ The man who appeared to be the leader of the pair held a canteen to her dry lips, tilting it so she could swallow a welcome trickle. Greedily she raised her hands to the canteen, tipping it further. Sweet water filled her mouth, ran down her burning throat.
‘Steady,’ he warned. ‘Too much and you’ll be sick.’
She knew he was right. But she was desperate for more. It was only his unbreakable hold on the water bottle that prevented her from guzzling.
‘That’s enough.’ His low voice burred near her ear.
If she’d had the strength she might have complained about his high-handedness. But her attack on his companion had used her last reserves of strength. She swayed drunkenly to one side.
Immediately the stranger put his big hands on her shoulders to steady her. Calluses scraped her bare sunburnt flesh and she flinched. He cursed again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m a bit unsteady.’
‘It’s a wonder you’re even conscious.’ His voice was harsh but his hands were gentle. ‘Here.’ He pulled her towards him, taking her weight easily.
She had a brief impression of heat and strength. A tantalising awareness of some unfamiliar scent: sun and salt and man. Then he lowered her onto a cotton blanket. ‘Lie still while we see how Mr MacDonald is.’
‘You know our names?’ she whispered.
‘It’s not often we have kidnappings in Q’aroum. Much less the abduction of two foreign nationals. Of course we know who you are.’ His voice was grim. ‘There’s been a co-ordinated air and sea search for the pair of you ever since your boatman reported the abduction.’
He brushed her tangled hair back from her face and she shut her eyes, feeling absurdly close to tears at the tender gesture.
‘Rest now,’ he murmured, and she sensed him move away.
She ached in every joint, and her throat was as painfully dry as the hot wind that swooped south towards them off the Arabian Peninsula. Her head pounded and she knew she’d reached the limit of her endurance.
But there was soft fabric against her cheek and under her body. And the caress of that big callused hand had invested her with hope again. Hope and reassurance. She recalled his voice, low and velvety. Her body had tingled into feminine awareness at the sound of it, despite the extremity of her situation.
If this was a hallucination she didn’t want it to end. She could drift off happily now, resigned to her fate.
She may even have dozed. The low murmur from the two men as they investigated Duncan’s injuries was as soothing as the sound of waves lapping on a beach.
She frowned, registering through the muddled haze of her thoughts that the wind was still picking up. Palm fronds slapped against the roof and there was a dull roar in the distance, like a freight train heading towards them.
Opening her eyes, she looked blearily at the strangers. A second powerful torch added light to the scene. She recognised the pattern of desert-coloured camouflage gear and heavy boots. Army? Or perhaps mercenaries? Right now she didn’t care, as long as they were here to rescue them. Then the guy with the grey hair moved to one side, and she sucked in an astonished breath as she saw the second man in the light for the first time.
She’d been rescued by a pirate!
Belle shut her eyes, realising it was some trick of the light and her tired brain. But when she opened them to stare again there was no mistake.
His black hair was combed back ruthlessly, revealing a fighter’s grim face: one of stark, slashing lines. Despite its severity his was one of the most breathtaking faces she’d ever seen. Every inch was hard and uncompromising, from his long, commanding nose to his solid jaw and the deep grooves bracketing his mouth. Every inch except for that mouth, which in repose spoke of sensual knowledge.
The angle of the torch highlighted the fanning lines at the corners of his eyes: the telltale sign of a man who spent his hours outdoors in this hot climate.
But, despite his army issue gear, the man deftly bandaging Duncan’s leg to a professional-looking splint was definitely in no one’s army. A heavy-looking hoop of gold caught the light at one earlobe as he moved. And behind his head she glimpsed hair pulled back in a ponytail. Absolutely not army regulation.
Abruptly he raised his face to meet her gaze, and she sucked in a stunned breath. For a long moment they watched each other. Long enough for her to imagine a pulse of something hot and knowing in his eyes.
He looked like a buccaneer who’d just spied a trophy ship.
She swallowed at the frisson of something very like fear, staring back into his ruthless face.
Abruptly he gave an order to his companion, who moved immediately to her side, holding out the canteen. It was only as she reached gratefully for it that the leader of the pair looked away, and she felt the tension that had spun tight round her dissipate.
She propped herself up on an elbow and drank, careful this time to take it slowly. The man with the scarred face nodded approvingly and murmured something encouraging. He too looked as if he belonged on a tall-masted ship where the rules of civilised society didn’t apply.
Hell! She must be weaker than she’d thought. Maybe heat and stress and lack of water were making her delusional.
One of her rescuers looked like a typecast villain, and the other as if he’d stepped out of some swashbuckling fantasy. It had to be a trick of the poor light.
Reluctantly she handed back the water bottle, then let her head sink to the cushioning blanket. Soon, perhaps in a few hours, she’d be back in the Kingdom of Q’aroum, receiving the best of modern medical attention.
The two men packed their medical supplies. And still Duncan slept. ‘Is he all right?’ There was a telltale quiver of fear in her voice that brought the buccaneer’s gaze up to meet hers.
‘It’s a bad fracture,’ he replied. ‘And he’s lost a lot of blood. But he should recover quickly once we get him to hospital.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘He doesn’t seem to be dehydrated. You’ve done a good job looking after him.’
And