Girl in the Bedouin Tent. Annie West

up on a silk carpet beside the bed. She nestled her head on the plump pillow and almost sighed her pleasure. Every bone ached with tiredness.

      ‘You can’t sleep there.’ The crisp voice came out of the darkness. Instantly she stiffened.

      ‘I prefer to sleep alone.’

      ‘We’ve been through this, Cassie.’ Was that a sigh she heard? ‘Still you do not trust me?’

      ‘It’s not …’ Of course it was. A matter of trust.

      But how could she trust this stranger as completely as he expected?

      A stranger whose touch had been gentle yet soothingly impersonal as he’d removed that hated lead chain. A stranger whose deep voice and efficient, unfussy care had eased her frayed nerves and given her support when she needed it.

      Still—

      Her thoughts disintegrated as warmth surrounded her. Strong arms lifted her tight against his solid form.

      Terror engulfed her, obliterating her tentative sense of wellbeing. Cassie fought to escape but could get no purchase on the smooth, hard muscle of his bare torso. Not when his body seemed made of unbreakable steel beneath the warm silk of his skin.

      A whoosh of air was expelled from her lungs as he dropped her onto the bed. Cassie barely touched the mattress before she was scrabbling to escape, but he sat beside her, his hip hard against her own, his hold firm as he captured her flailing hands in one of his.

      ‘Enough!’ The single word broke through her panicked struggles. ‘Enough. You are quite safe.’

      Safe? Cassie stared up at a broad, muscled torso dusted with dark hair, to a dangerously angled jaw accentuated by the shadow of stubble. Her heart gave a single lurch. Of fear or something else?

      ‘You can’t sleep on the floor. You will sleep here, with me, and you will give the impression, when the servants arrive in the morning, that you are well content. Is that understood?’

      Eyes like glittering black jade met hers. ‘Cassie? Do you understand? It must appear we spent the night as lovers. For your own safety. Unless you wish to be taken away.’

      Cassie swallowed, the movement like scratching sandpaper in her throat. Through the manic pounding of her heart the only sound was her ragged breathing. Fury, she assured herself.

      He leaned a fraction closer and the scent of sandalwood tickled her nostrils. ‘All right?’

      ‘You give me no choice!’ She had no doubt he’d bring her back if she shifted from the bed.

      ‘I’m glad you understand.’ Amir moved then, bending away from her and reaching out to something beside the bed.

      Cassie froze, wary and at the same time mesmerised by the shift and bunch of muscles in his torso. She’d never realised how imposing a naked male could be up close.

      ‘Here.’ He closed her fingers around something cold. ‘My gift to you.’ He straightened.

      Frowning, Cassie turned from him to look at the heavy object in her hand.

      ‘Hold it like this.’ His hand closed around hers and he drew from the scabbard a lethal-looking blade that gleamed wickedly in the lamplight.

      ‘You’re kidding!’ Cassie’s breath sucked in on a hiss of disbelief.

      ‘Keep it with you till I return you to safety. It’s far more effective than the paring knife you dropped.’

      Stunned, she looked at his smiling mouth, then up to grim eyes that belied his light-hearted tone.

       Suddenly she believed. She trusted.

      ‘Sleep with it, Cassie. And if anything frightens you in the night, remember you have this.’ On the words he lifted her hand and pressed the tip of the dagger against his chest.

      His hand fell away and still the deadly blade rested on his bare, bronzed skin.

      Holding the heavy knife took all her strength. Yet within, something surged as she watched him watching her from beneath hooded lids. As she saw the blade glint with every slow rise and fall of Amir’s chest.

      Her heart squeezed. He gave her not just words, but the power that had been taken from her. The power to protect her self.

      The knife wobbled dangerously in her fist and he closed a gentle hand around hers, lowering it to the cool cotton sheet near her shoulder.

      ‘Rest now. No one will harm you.’ He released her, his hand hovering a moment as if to stroke her cheek. Then his hand dropped.

      His lips thinned and abruptly he stood, towering above her, his wide square shoulders and tapering waist perfect male symmetry outlined by the single lamp.

      Before she could respond he pulled the coverlet over her, and she couldn’t help but tense. He stood a moment watching her, then with an abrupt movement bent to tuck in the bedding. A moment later he was striding to his side of the bed.

      Cassie’s eyes followed him. She took in the power of his lean torso and the powerful buttocks and thighs encased in pale drawstring pants that rode low on his hips. She’d never known a man to look so elemental. So … male.

      Heart in mouth, she watched him lift the coverlet on the far side of the bed and slip beneath it. Without a word he turned away from her.

      How long she lay there, staring at the golden expanse of his back, Cassie didn’t know.

      Eventually, despite her determination to remain watchful, her eyelids flickered and her fingers loosened their hold on Amir’s knife.

      As exhaustion finally claimed her she was aware of a growing sense of peace.

      She was almost asleep when her drowsy brain registered why it was she felt so safe. Not because of his words. Nor the concern she’d read in his eyes. Nor the blade he’d given her to defend herself, even against him.

      It was the cursory, almost unthinking comfort of that one final action.

      How many years had it been since anyone had tucked her into bed for the night? Had showed her such tenderness?

      Her heart clutched at the memory, then warmth filled her as she slipped into a dreamless sleep.

      She was totally oblivious to the man who turned in the bed and propped himself up to watch her through the night, his brows drawn together in a frown.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      THE moon rose as Amir rode with Mustafa and his followers through the winding gully back to the encampment.

      They’d been out since dawn, occupied by a full day of hawking and riding events designed to entertain and display the prowess of the tough mountain men who gave Mustafa their allegiance. A day designed to exhaust anyone not born to the gritty life of a fighter.

      It had been a ploy to give Mustafa the upper hand in the negotiations to come.

      He’d miscalculated.

      Mustafa knew, of course, about the scandals that had dogged Amir. Who his parents were, his early years of luxury in foreign lands where men weren’t men but had grown soft and lazy. Unpromising beginnings for a prince in a land where uncompromising grit and honour were prized.

      But his host, like so many before him, hadn’t done his homework thoroughly. He’d assumed that old story summed up the Sheikh of Tarakhar.

      He hadn’t bothered to discover that although Amir’s past had shaped him into the man he was today it had made him tougher, stronger, more determined, more focused than any of the so-called warriors surrounding them.

      It was Mustafa who sat swaying in his seat, surreptitiously wiping his forehead and growing ill-tempered while Amir rode easily, shoulders straight and mind keen. He could have ridden through the night, still alert and more than capable of dealing with an overblown bully like Mustafa.