Desert Barbarian Read online

  The phrase seemed to amuse him. The hard mouth curved in a smile of mockery. 'To make that sound truly insulting the words should be Arabic,' he told her, his dark eyes full of laughter.

  'Then I wish I knew Arabic!' she flung back.

  'Perhaps I will have time to teach you,' he returned softly. 'I think it might be enjoyable.'

  'Don't bother!'

  'Arabic is a language which makes love a sensuous delight,' he said tormentingly. 'It is full of love poetry. Sometimes of an evening the Bedouin sit around the camp fire and recite love poems for hours, capping each other with apt quotations, while the stars make a steely glitter overhead…'

  'You make it sound very romantic,' she said, her eyes held hypnotically by his. 'But I expect it's far from the reality.'

  His thin brows rose. 'And I thought you were at­tracted to the romanticism of the desert! You sounded wistful when you talked of it to your friend on the terrace outside the hotel…'

  'You were listening to us all the time,' she said, half to herself, her nerves jumping at the thought of him lurk­ing in the shadows watching her while she thought herself alone with the night sky. She tried to remember what she had said to Mrs Brown, but it seemed so long ago. She had said silly, futile things and this man had listened, no doubt with that sardonic, mocking smile.

  'You expressed a desire to taste the real life of the Arab world,' he murmured drily. 'Well, you have your wish…' He moved away, lifting the candle so that the pale light moved around the room. 'A typical Arab house, Miss Brinton. Delightful, isn't it? Romantic and exciting…'

  Her eyes moved around the tiny, low-ceilinged room, taking in the dirty, crooked shutters which covered the small windows, the low table in the centre, around which were arranged thick cushions, the large tapestry-covered cushions which appeared to form some sort of couch, on which she herself had been flung. There was no other furniture but a wall cupboard in a corner. The walls were plastered but had been given a grimy patina by time, and cracks ran across them here and there. In one crack a grey-green lizard sat motionless, only the filmed blink of an eye betraying that he was alive.

  The yellow candle beam rested once more on her face. 'You are the only thing of beauty here,' he said softly. 'You are very desirable, Miss Brinton. I would get a high price for that golden hair of yours, that smooth, un­blemished white skin and those blue eyes. They admire that colouring here. Your life in the harem would not be hard; it would be as filled with luxury, as idle and spoilt, as your life has always been. You would merely exchange one indulgent owner for another. The only difference would be that you would learn other arts, more sensuous and infinitely more enjoyable than those of the sports field which you have pursued until now.'

  Marie swallowed, digging her nails into her palms, her eyes fixed bravely on his lean face. 'You… you wouldn't dare…'

  He laughed at that, a look of reckless gaiety lighting his face and making him younger and even more devastatingly attractive. 'If you knew me better, Miss Brin­ton, you would not fling out challenges in that light-hearted fashion. Has no one ever told you that the Arabs love a challenge?'

  'My father will pay your ransom, anyway,' she said shakily. 'You wouldn't get more… any other way…'

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'I wonder…'

  'He will,' she insisted.

  He inspected every inch of her again, from her bare shoulders, along the close-clinging silk of the white gown. 'Yes,' he murmured, 'I think he would.'

  She felt sick relief in the pit of her stomach. 'M-may I have some water? I'm so thirsty…'

  For a moment he did not move, his eyes lingering on her face. She looked at him nervously through her lashes. 'Please… water…'

  He moved away to the cupboard. She watched his dark shadow stalk across the wall, the hawk-like profile sharply black against the yellow light. He found a glass and a jug of water, came back towards her, poured water into the glass and handed it to her. Their fingers touched briefly in the exchange, and Marie felt herself shiver. She sat up and sipped, then slowly rose as if to give him back the glass. As he bent to take it from her, she flung the rest of the water into his face.

  He swore under his breath, his hands going to his eyes, blinded by the cold sting of the water.

  While he was preoccupied she darted to the door behind him, wrenched it open and stumbled out into a dark alley. She ran, holding up her long skirts, doubled round a corner and stopped dead, finding herself in one of the crowded bazaar streets, lit by smoking flares beside stalls and noisy with the calls of the stallholders as they tried to attract attention.

  Her appearance immediately attracted notice. Within seconds she was surrounded by a crowd of excited Arabs, all shouting at her, some of them touching her silk gown or the gleaming whiteness of her bare arms with grimy fingers, exclaiming over her, while others babbled at her in pidgin English, trying to sell her souvenirs or offering to guide her back to her hotel.

  She was terrified, trembling, completely hemmed in and unable to escape. 'Please,' she asked, turning to one of the older men in appeal, 'will you take me to the Marina Hotel?'

  'Yes, lady, yes,' he said eagerly, beginning to quote a price to her.

  But then a voice spoke behind them all, in fierce hard Arabic, and the men fell back in silence, backing away from her.

  With a feeling of dream-like inescapability Marie saw the white headdress, the gold cord, the hawk-like face. He grasped her by the elbow and shook her, barking angrily at her. 'Silly little fool!' Then he spoke again in Arabic, his face glaring down at her. The crowd, watch­ing from a distance, their faces curious, began to laugh. One of them shouted something to him, and the others roared in wild amusement. Marie looked round, bewild­ered and frightened.

  The hard arms lifted her again, threw her over his shoulder like a sack of coals, and while she lay helpless in this undignified posture, she was enraged and humiliated to feel a hard slap across her bottom. Kicking and struggling, she seethed as he strode back into the darkness of the alleys while the other men cackled with delighted laughter behind them.

  A moment later he carefully locked the door and then flung her back upon her cushions.

  'You… you bastard!' she seethed. 'You enjoyed that!'

  He grinned, showing those hard white teeth. 'Yes,' he agreed shamelessly. 'And you deserved it.'

  'What did you say to them?' She was sore where he had hit her, and rubbed herself self-pityingly, although it had been her pride which had been most hurt. There had been something so humiliating about the way he flung her lightly over his shoulder and slapped her. She had felt suddenly like a naughty child, a toy in the powerful hands of this dark-visaged stranger. At that moment the full realisation of her helplessness had come home to her.

  'I told them you were my woman who had run away from me. They advised me to beat you and then make violent love to you. They assured me such treatment would be certain to make you more malleable in future.' He gave her a taunting glance. 'I've followed one half of the advice. Perhaps I should now follow the other?'

  'If you touch me, I'll scream,' she muttered in impotent rage.

  He laughed. 'Empty threats, Miss Brinton.' He knelt down beside her, his eyes holding hers, and a wave of weakness swept over her. He had a magnetic strength, a primitive personal magnetism, which made her suddenly deeply aware of her own weak femininity, and his physi­cal power. What if he did make love to her? What could she do?

  'How long are you going to keep me here?' she asked, again trying to distract him. 'When news of my dis­appearance gets out, some of those men in the bazaar will put two and two together. There'll be a reward, no doubt. They will inform the police and this district will be thoroughly searched.'

  'By then we will be safely miles from here in the heart of the desert,' he said coolly.

  Her heart sank. 'In the desert?'

  He gave her a mocking smile. 'I thought you longed to see the desert. Aren't you eager to ride across the empty san
ds with me, lie beneath the stars, wrapped in my burnous, with only the wind for company? I will show you the great wastes of sand and sky, teach you to appreciate the beauty of the emptiness…'

  'Oh, shut up!' she cried bitterly, seeing that his smile was full of wry mockery.

  He laughed, pushing back his white headdress to ex­pose thick sleek black hair. 'You are contrary, it seems, Miss Brinton. Are you tired of the excitements of Arab life already?'

  She longed to burst into tears, but determined to show him no weakness. She sensed that any hint of fear would make him despise her, so she had to pretend to a courage she did not possess.

  He moved away, searched in the cupboard and came back with a long woollen garment like a tent. 'Put this on…'

  'Why?' she asked dubiously, eyeing it without favour. It was a grey-white colour, crudely woven and shapeless.

  'Miss Brinton, don't argue. Put it on. If you do not obey me instantly whenever I give you an order I shall be forced to render you unconscious, and I am sure you would not wish me to do that.'

  She stared into his face, finding it as grim as carved stone, the dark eyes unyielding.

  Reluctantly she lifted the garment and let it fall over her head and down to her feet. Inside it she was very warm. 'I feel like a tent,' she said sullenly.

  He grinned wickedly. 'You look like one. No man will look twice at you now.' He put a hand to the back of the garment and lifted an all-enveloping hood over her head so that only part of her face could be seen. 'Now! You could be any Arab woman.'

  'Thanks a lot!'

  He laughed. 'You sound like a sulky child.'

  'I detest you,' she muttered under her breath, half afraid to let him hear.

  His strong fingers gripped her wrist. 'Come,' he said. 'We must leave now. The desert night is cold. You will be glad of your tent-like clothes later.'

  He led her out of the back door into a close-set palm grove and along a winding path to the back of a low stable. An Arab boy in a dirty white djibbah sat on the floor asleep, his bare heels together, his legs loosely cros­sed. He jumped up, blinking sleepily, as they approached.

  Speaking in Arabic, her captor gestured to the stable. The boy nodded and darted inside. Marie heard the jingle of harness, the stamp of horses' feet. After a few moments the boy led out two horses, saddled ready for a journey. She was lifted on to one of them, a fine spirited little white mare. For a moment she thought of galloping away to escape, but her captor read her thoughts and gave her a cool, tormenting grin.

  'I would catch you up in two minutes, Miss Brinton,' he said softly. 'And I would beat you with my riding crop until you begged for mercy.'

  She glared at him from below the hood of her gar­ment, saying nothing.

  He laughed and leapt into the saddle of the other big black horse with a grace and agility which she could not help admiring. Devil though he was, he had a physical appeal she could not resist. She had always admired men who rode well.

  They rode away under the sweeping fringe of palms leaving the boy staring after them. There were a few scattered houses on the outskirts of the little town, most of them surrounded by palm trees, a sandy road running between them and winding out inland towards the dark­ness of the desert.

  'We shall ride towards Wadi Aquida,' he said.

  Marie was surprised that he should name the place to her, but already she knew him well enough to guess that knowing the name would be of no help to her anyway.

  The moonlight showed her an emptiness ahead, an emptiness so bleak and yet so beautiful that it took her breath away.

  The horses rode silently over the soft, flat sand. The cool night air was gentle on her face, blowing through her loose garment and refreshing her. The moonlit sand seemed without shadows so that there were no land­marks for her to pinpoint. She wondered how he knew which way to go. The horses occasionally snorted, the saddles creaked. To the east she saw the dark outline of a low line of hills, and once the horizon was specked by a small ring of palm trees circling a gleam of water, lit by the smoky flame of a camp fire.

  'Bedouin!' he remarked, nodding as he saw her stare in that direction.

  She was growing tired. They seemed to have been riding for so long, and she was longing for her bed. Her back ached, her hands were icy cold on the reins.

  Suddenly she saw a swelling ridge ahead which seemed to have sprung up out of the ground. They were riding straight towards it, and soon the horses began to climb it, their feet slipping and sliding on blown sand.

  As they crested it, she saw another ring of palm trees and the faint, illusory gleam of water under the moon.

  'Wadi Aquida,' he said, riding down towards it.

  When they reached the palm trees Marie saw that the sand around the water was well trampled, and a kicked-out camp fire still smouldered. For a moment her captor squatted, studying the ashes. Then he looked at her calmly.

  'Bedouin. They probably left here an hour ago—the ashes are still warm. Find some scrubwood.'

  'I'm tired,' she said sulkily, sinking down beside the fire and extending her frozen hands towards the faint warmth which still came from it.

  He bent and jerked her to her feet, shook her like a rag doll. 'Do as you are told!'

  'My back aches and I'm stiff,' she muttered, on the point of weak tears.

  'We are all tired,' he said. 'The horses need watering. Find as much wood as you can and get that fire going again…'

  Marie stumbled away and began to search under the date palms. She found a few branches of thorn trees, withered and dried by desert suns, and hurried back to feed the fire with them, blowing on it and watching it anxiously. After a while she managed to get a few sparks, then a little flame, then eventually a blaze, which she continued to feed with thorn sticks until the fire was adequate. Wrapped in her loose, warm garment she sat beside it, huddling like a child at the hearth.

  Meanwhile he had watered the horses, fed them from the saddle bags and then he moved towards the fire, a battered old iron pot in his hand.

  'Fill this from the pool,' he ordered.

  She reluctantly stood up and took the pot, returning to the gleaming water with it, filled it and went back to him. He had produced two tin mugs, a flat loaf of Arab bread and some oranges from the saddlebags. He thrust the pot of water into the edge of the fire with a practised hand.

  'We'll have coffee soon,' he told her. 'Sit and eat.'

  She looked at the unleavened bread with a grimace, but when he had wrenched it into two halves and handed her one, she found the taste quite appetising, hunger being an excellent sauce. She ate two small oranges as well and began to feel much better, although sleepiness was becoming a nightmare to her. Her head kept nodding down upon her chest. She had to force herself to stay awake, afraid to sleep. The warmth of the fire was so comforting that she longed for sleep with an almost passionate longing.

  When he had made strong, black coffee he poured her a cup. 'It is unsweetened,' he warned her.

  Marie cupped her hands around the mug, enjoying the warmth of it, and sipped, scalding her mouth.

  He laughed as she spluttered over it. 'Good coffee?'

  Warily she sipped again. 'Very good,' she said, sup­pressing a yawn.

  He crouched beside her in the smoky firelight, his face carved into strange, disturbing hollows, the high cheek­bones and ascetic lines of the face emphasised by the shadows around them.

  'Sleep now,' he said, taking the empty mug from her. He laid a woven mat on the sand, taken from the back of his black horse. 'You will find this comfortable enough.'

  She slowly lay down, watching him nervously as he walked away out of the firelight, his back as straight, his walk as steady, as if he had not spent the night riding across the desert.

  Her lids began to flicker, to sink. She listened to the singing of the thornwood on the fire, the soft sifting of ash in the desert wind.

  Another sound brought her suddenly awake. A muffled slithering across the sand… her eyes
moved nervously around the fireside… then she gave a scream, freezing immediately afterwards. A small black snake was lying close beside her, forked tongue quivering on the air, one eye watching her.

  'What is it?' He had spun round from where he was attending to the tethered horses under the palm trees.

  'A snake,' she whispered, not taking her eyes off the ghastly thing.

  'Don't move,' he said, slowly coming back towards the fire. 'What colour is it?'

  'Black,' she whispered. 'Very small and black.'

  He swore under his breath, adding again, 'Don't move an inch. Don't even breathe.'

  She lay rigid, her eyes fixed on the snake. It suddenly began to writhe towards her with an undulating slow­ness that terrified her. Then there was a deafening ex­plosion and the snake was in two bits—blown into half with one shot.

  Marie leapt up then and broke into scalding sobs, shaking from head to foot.

  He pulled her into his arms, one hand on the back of her head, pressing her close against him. She wept softy, trembling like a leaf, clinging to him.

  His hands moved against her back, stroking her calmingly, soothing her, while he whispered consolation. 'It's all right, it is dead. You were very brave. It's all right now. It can't hurt you now…'

  'It… it was so silent,' she whispered. 'It… slithered towards me…'

  'They come in search of the warmth,' he said gently. 'Sometimes they get into your blankets during the night. You have to search the ground before you get up. But there's no need to be afraid. I'm used to them.'

  'Are they poisonous?'

  'Very,' he said bluntly.

  She raised her head, shuddering, but laughed helplessly. 'Oh, you're so damned honest! Why couldn't you lie to me?'

  He pushed the hood back from her hair, his fingers lingering on the gleam of gold which framed her white face. 'I'll lie to you if you want me to, Miss Brinton…'

  A slow, warm sweetness was spreading through her body. She hung in the shelter of his arms, relaxed to the point of physical collapse, aware in every nerve of the hardness of his body against hers, the muscled easy strength which had carried him through these last hours of hard riding across difficult terrain yet left him still unwearied at the end. Her own physical exhaustion, coupled with the recent shock and the insidious warmth of the firelight and his closeness, made her head swim.