The Sheik Retold Page 14

  ***

  Slowly through waves of deadly nausea and the surging of deep waters in my ears, I struggled back to consciousness, but all recollection was dulled in bodily pain and thought merged in physical suffering. The agony in my head was excruciating, and my limbs were bruised and battered. My eyes were still shut, weighted with lead, and the effort to open them was beyond my strength, but gradually the fog cleared and my memory supervened.

  There were at first only fragments—Gaston with the horror in his eyes and the convulsive working of his mouth in the last moments. My own dread—not of the death, but lest the mercy of it be snatched away. Then the hail of bullets and Gaston's fall, the blood that poured from his wounds, rolling across my feet. I remembered vaguely the wild faces hemming me in, but nothing more.

  Gaston was in all probability dead. A lump came into my throat. He had done all that he could to save me. He had proved his faithfulness, shielding me with his own body, sacrificing his life for his master's plaything. "Poor Gaston," I whispered.

  I stretched out my hand as if to find him beside me, but instead of his body or the dry hot sand, my fingers closed over soft cushions. I sat up with a jerk, but nausea overcame me, and I fell back again, my arm flung across my face, shielding the light that pierced like daggers through my throbbing eyeballs.

  I lay still until the horrible nausea passed and the agony in my head abated to a dull ache. Hoping to understand where I was and what had happened, I stole a glance through my lashes, screened by the sleeve of my coat. I lay on a pile of cushions in the corner of a small tented apartment that was bare, except for a single rug. I could only presume it must be the camp of the robber sheik, Ibraheim Omair.

  In the opposite corner was an Arab woman crouched over a little brazier. I noted the smell of native coffee heavy in the air. After a time I sat up, looking at the Arab woman. She was quite handsome and must have been pretty as a girl, but there was no sign of softness in her sullen and vindictive eyes. By her expression, my mere presence in the tent was objectionable to her. I knew instantly there would be no help or compassion from that quarter.

  The sentiment gave a necessary spur to my courage. I had learned to wield my own power among the natives of India the previous year, and here in the desert there was only one Arab whose eyes did not waver beneath mine. I speared her with all the haughtiness I could muster, and she instantly turned back to her coffee-making. This small triumph of wills helped to bolster my confidence.

  When I leaned back again, my hand brushed against my jacket, coming away stained and sticky. One side and sleeve were soaked with blood. Was it Gaston's? I ripped the jacket off with a shudder and flung it away, rubbing the red smear from my hands with a feeling of horror.

  The little tent was intensely hot, and it stank with a revoltingly pungent smell that I'd never experienced in the scrupulous cleanliness of Ahmed Ben Hassan's tents. A burning thirst was parching my throat. The effects of the blow to my head were slowly wearing off. I rose to my feet with infinite caution and crossed the tent to the Arab woman.

  "Give me some water," I said in French, but the woman shook her head without looking up. I repeated the request in Arabic, one of the few sentences I knew. This time the woman rose and held out a cup of the coffee she had been making. I hated the sweet, thick stuff, but it would have to do until I could get the water I craved. But when I put out my hand to take the little cup, something in her malignant stare gave me pause. The coffee was drugged. I could not say what beyond the woman's expression made me think so, but I was certain of it. I pushed it away.

  "No. Not coffee. Water," I repeated.

  The woman tried to force the cup to my lips. She was strong, but I was younger and stronger, even in my battered condition. I dashed the cup to the floor and sent the woman crashing against the brazier, oversetting it and scattering brass pots and cups over the rug. She screamed in a shrill, piercing voice, scrambled to her knees, and beat out the glowing embers. In answer to her cries, a curtain tore open to admit a gigantic Nubian. She pointed at me while her lips poured out voluble abuse. The Nubian listened, white teeth flashing in a broad grin, and shook his head. He picked up the last remaining embers that had scattered on the rug, rubbed the smoldering patches until they were extinguished, and then turned to leave the room. But I called him back.

  "Fetch me water!" I demanded.

  He pointed to the coffee, but I stamped my foot more imperiously than before. "Water! Bring me water!"

  With a wider grin, the Nubian made a gesture of acquiescence and went out, returning in a few moments with a water skin. Its condition made me hesitate, but my thirst was too great to allow niceties to interfere. I picked up one of the coffee cups that had rolled to my feet, filled it, and then drank. The water was warm and slightly brackish, but at least it relieved the dry, suffocating feeling in my throat.

  I then returned to the cushions and dropped down onto them with shaking legs. How long had I been here? I had no way of knowing, nor could I even determine the hour from inside the tent. I guessed it must be late afternoon or possibly early evening, as it was not completely dark. I guessed that Ibraheim Omair must be absent from his camp. I could think of no other reason why he would not wish to inspect his captive, unless of course, the delay was simply to prolong my mental torture. If only his return could be delayed until Ahmed came.

  Ahmed.

  The irony of the role reversal—that my former abductor had become my savior—brought a quivering smile to my lips. The same man I had loathed for his brutal abduction now represented safety and salvation, and I prayed for his advent with the desperation of despair.

  I knew he would come for me—maybe not out of love, but most certainly out of pride. He was enormously jealous of his possessions. I had proven as much when I'd taunted him the other night regarding the Vicomte de Saint Hubert. No, he might discard me at his own pleasure, but no one would ever take me from him with impunity—especially his dire enemy.

  Soon our absence from our own camp would be known, but it would be three or four days before he even became aware that I was missing. He would know the peril, and he would come. Yes, he would come, if for no other reason than the jealousy which held him in its inexorable grip. He would come! He would come! I whispered it over and over, as if the chant alone would bolster my courage. He would not let anything happen to me. My head throbbed again, and I was overcome with dizziness. I slumped onto the cushions, slipping back into unconsciousness.

  ***

  When I awoke again there were men in the adjoining room. A sharp, guttural voice predominated over all the others, a voice of authority. Ibraheim Omair! The realization that he had come before Ahmed made my stomach drop and sent me surging to my feet. I stood rigid, one foot beating nervously into the soft rug.

  Noting my agitation, the Arab woman turned to me with a sneer.

  The voices continued, and the suspense only increased my trepidation. At last, the curtain slid aside and the same huge Nubian entered. He came toward me, but the Arab woman intercepted, blocking his path with wild eyes, passionate gestures, and an outpouring of low, frenzied words. He ignored her protests and thrust her out of his way to step toward me, extending his hand as if to grasp my arm. I retreated from him with a glare and a gesture that made it clear to him I would not permit his touch. My air of imperious hauteur was my shield, my only protection.

  My heart was hammering against my breastbone. I buried my shaking hands deep in my breeches' pockets to hide them and set my teeth with a long, shuddering breath. Thus braced, I ventured to the curtain, nodding to the Nubian to draw it aside. The adjacent room was only marginally larger than the one I had left and almost as bare. I entered with my attention focused on the central figure that commanded it —Ibraheim Omair, the robber sheik, lolling his great bulk on a pile of cushions.

  His was the image I had conjured previously when I had thought of desert sheiks—the fat and slothful ones who smoked the hookah and indolently watched their s
laves beaten for pleasure. He was the Arab of my imaginings; this gross, unwieldy figure lying among the tawdry cushions; his swollen, ferocious visage seamed and lined with every mark of vice. His appearance was slovenly; his robes, originally rich, were stained. There was a little inlaid stool with coffee beside him, and behind him stood two other blackamoors like the one who had summoned me. Large and stoic, they all appeared to be statues cast from one mold.

  I threw my head back and swaggered across the thick rugs at my leisure to halt in front of the chief. His heavy face lit up with a malicious gleam as I came toward him, his puffy lips parting in a wicked smile that displayed broken, blackened teeth. He leaned forward a little, weighing heavily on the fat hands that rested on his knees, hands engrained with dirt, showing even against his dark skin. His deep-set bloodshot eyes roved slowly over me to finally rest back on my face.

  His entire demeanor evoked such bestial evil that I was soon bathed in perspiration. I longed to scream and dash for the opening, to take my chance in the darkness outside, but if I ever reached the open air, I would never be allowed to get more than a few steps from the tent. My only course lay in the bravado that kept me from collapse, to convey the impression of fearlessness, though cold terror was knocking at my heart. The hold I exercised over myself was tremendous, with every instinct rebelling against this pretense of calm. My body was rigid with the effort, and my hands clenched inside my pockets until my nails bit into my palms. I hid my fear, surveying him with my haughtiest demeanor—with curling lips and insolent, half-closed eyes.

  "So! The English woman of my brother Ahmed Ben Hassan," he spoke in heavily accented French, snarling his enemy's name. "Ahmed Ben Hassan! May Allah burn his soul in hell!" He spat and leaned back on the cushions with a grunt to drink some coffee.

  I kept my silence with my eyes fixed on him. He seemed uneasy, with one hand ceaselessly caressing the curved hilt of a knife stuck in his belt. I recognized it as my own sheik's jambiya. They must have taken it from my jacket pocket. He hitched himself forward once more and beckoned me to come nearer. I hesitated. There was a flutter of draperies from behind, and the Arab woman entered to fling herself at his feet. In a flash I understood the hatred that had gleamed in her eyes. She had perceived me as a rival. With a low, wailing cry, she clung to his knees, but the idea of even touching this man struck me with a wave of abject disgust.

  Crouched at the old Arab's feet, the woman continued her appeal, imploring and distraught. Omair looked down on her with a narrowed gaze and lips drawn back from his blackened teeth. He shook her off with a swift blow in the mouth, but the woman still clung with an upturned, desperate face, a thin trickle of blood oozing from her lips.

  With a hoarse growl like the roar of a savage beast, the chief caught her by the throat. Her eyes grew wide and terror-stricken, yet her frantic, clutching hands were powerless against his grasp. He drew the deadly knife from the folds of his waistcloth and slowly drove it home into the strangling woman's breast. In seconds her body gave a sudden jerk and then slumped, lifeless, in his grasp. With a cold callousness I never could have imagined, he wiped the blood-stained knife on her clothing before flinging the dead body from him. I watched in horror as it rolled over the rug to rest midway between us.

  I became conscious of a muffled, rhythmical beat, like the ticking of a great clock, and realized with dull wonder that it was my own heart. My eyes were glued to the still figure on the rug with the gaping wound in the breast. Her blood was welling, staining her clothes, and pooling out onto the rug on which her body lay.

  Odd thoughts flitted through my mind. It was a pity that the blood should spoil the rug. It was a lovely rug. I wondered what it would have cost in Biskra—less, probably, than it would in London. I forgot the rug as my gaze traveled upward to the woman's face. Her mouth was open and the streak of blood was already drying, but it was her eyes, protruding, agonized, that brought me back to myself. I felt physically sick, but fought it down. My curls were clinging, drenched on my forehead, and I wondered if my clenched hands would ever open again. I must make no sign of fear. I must not scream or faint. I must keep my nerve until Ahmed came. Oh, dear God, send him quickly!

  Very slowly I raised my head, my gaze tracking across the dead woman's body to look Omair full in the face. Then I threw back my head with a laugh! It was long, loud, and hysterical, lasting until I managed to drag my eyes away from the horrible sight and catch my lip between my teeth.

  My fingers were clenching and unclenching again. They wrapped around the cigarette case in my pocket. I took it out, chose and lit a cigarette, taking care to control my trembling. With an affectation of carelessness, I flicked the still-burning match onto the carpet between the feet of the Nubian slave who stood nearby. He had not moved since the woman's entrance, and the two servants stationed behind the pile of cushions stood equally motionless. Finally, the chief nodded for them to carry the body away. The one who did returned a moment later with fresh coffee and then vanished again.

  Omair leaned forward and beckoned to me, patting the cushions beside him. Mastering my loathing, I sat down with all the indifference I could assume, but his proximity nauseated me. He reeked of sweat, grease, and ill-kept horses. My thoughts went back to Ahmed and the fastidious care he took of himself, the frequent bathing, the spotless robes, the wholesomeness that clung about him, the faint, clean smell of shaving soap mingling with perfumed oil and the scent of Turkish tobacco. The contrast was hideous.

  I refused the coffee he offered with a shake of my head, paying no attention to his growl of protest. When I laid down the end of the cigarette that had kept my lips from trembling, his fat hand closed about my wrist. He jerked me toward him. "How many rifles does the Frenchman bring to that son of darkness?"

  The question surprised me. Rifles? Frenchman? Did he mean Raoul?

  "I do not know anything about rifles," I replied. "Why have you taken me?"

  "For the reward, of course. They are offering one thousand francs for you."

  A reward? Now I knew why this sheik had not killed me. He opened a drawer in the little table beside him and retrieved a clipping from a French newspaper and handed it to me. There were two large full-length photographs, one of me in evening dress and the other in my riding breeches and short jacket, with hat and whip lying at my feet and the bridle of my horse over my arm. Under the photographs was written:

  Miss Diana Mayo, a well-known heiress and sportswoman whose protracted journey in the desert is causing anxiety to a large circle of friends. Miss Mayo left Biskra under the guidance of a reputable caravan-leader two months ago, with the intention of journeying for four weeks in the desert and returning to Oran. Since the first camp, nothing has been heard of Miss Mayo or her caravan. Further anxiety is occasioned by the fact that considerable unrest is reported amongst the tribes in the locality towards which Miss Mayo was traveling. Her brother, Sir Aubrey Mayo, is offering a reward of one thousand francs for her safe return.

  Aubrey offered a reward? I almost laughed at the irony. It was of course only for form's sake that he had done so, but this news reassured me that Omair would not kill me. I could see the overwhelming force of avarice in him. I would be worth nothing to him dead— but then again, there were things he could do to me that were worse than death.

  "Yes." He read my thoughts. "I shall collect the one thousand francs—when I am finished with you, of course." It was clear he intended to violate me, and there was no one to stop him. He snatched the paper out of my hands. His fingers tightened on my arm. "Now you shall enlighten me. How many men are in the camp where that son of a dog Ben Hassan kept you?"

  "I do not know."

  "I do not know! I do not know!" he echoed with a sudden savage laugh. "You will know when I have done with you." He crushed my wrist until I winced with pain. Question after question relating to the sheik and his tribe followed in rapid succession, but to all of them I remained silent, with averted head and compressed lips.

  He wo
uld not learn anything from me that might injure Ahmed, though I feared the price I might pay for my silence. My breath came faster, but my courage still held. I clung desperately to the hope that Ahmed would come in time. I forced down the torturing doubt that he might come too late, that when he did, I might be beyond a man's desire.

  Dear God, there must be some way to escape!

  Omair abruptly ceased his questioning. "Later, you will speak." I shuddered when his hand passed over my arm, my neck, and down the curve of my body. I turned away, but he forced me to face him again with a muttered ejaculation. I writhed in his grasp. The hateful words in the guttural voice, his vile French, the leering mouth, and the light of lust growing in his eyes, were all a ghastly nightmare.

  With a sudden desperate wrench, I freed myself, but Omair caught me with a swiftness of which I would not have thought him capable. He dragged me back to the divan where I lay still, reserving my strength for the final struggle. "One hour, my little gazelle, one hour—" he said hoarsely and bent his face to mine.

  I flung my head aside and strained away from him, fighting with the strength of madness, kicking and twisting until my feet rested on the ground, but his grip never relaxed. His hot breath was on my face, the sickening reek of his clothes in my nostrils, but my strength was almost gone. My brain was growing numb again as it had when he had murdered the woman before my eyes.

  "Ahmed! Ahmed!" I sobbed his name. He would never know that I loved him. Oh, God! I loved him!

  "You think that Ahmed Ben Hassan will come? Little fool! He has forgotten you already. There are plenty more white women in Algiers and Oran that he can buy with his gold and his devil face. The loves of Ahmed Ben Hassan are as the stars in number. They come and go like the swift wind in the desert, a hot breath—and it's finished. He will not come, and if he does, he will not find you, for in an hour, we shall be gone."

  Omair had not shaken my faith, but in my agony the thought of him was only further torture. I knew Ahmed would come, but he would come too late.