Seduced By Her Rebel Warrior. Greta Gilbert

the person of a woman.

      A Roman woman.

      ‘By Jupiter...’ The woman cursed in Latin and for a fleeting moment Rab felt the softness of her body against his.

      She was clad all in white—just like the camel—and had covered her hair with a shawl so ethereal and white it seemed to be made from the sheen of a cloud.

      ‘Apologies,’ Rab said, righting himself, then heard the sound of tearing thread. No, he thought, cringing. Not the shawl.

      The woman gasped. Her flowing headpiece had somehow become attached to the belt of his robe and had torn slightly.

      ‘Untether it quickly,’ she commanded, glancing behind her. ‘Lest my father see us.’

      ‘By the gods!’ Rab muttered, and in his efforts he somehow yanked the shawl from atop the woman’s head to reveal a cap of shiny auburn hair gathered into a tight, oiled bun. It was a practical coiffure—not meant to be seen—and Rab could not conceal his blush at having glimpsed it.

      ‘Forgive me,’ he said, freeing the damaged shawl from his belt and thrusting it at her. Their eyes locked and desire rollicked through his body. ‘I will pay you for it.’

      ‘There is no need to pay for the damage,’ she said. ‘It is an old shawl.’

      As she rearranged the garment on her head, Rab rearranged his wits, which seemed to have gone the way of the camel.

      The camel! Curses, he had forgotten about the camel. He spun around, fully expecting to see its humped silhouette bounding towards the horizon. But the beast stood calmly behind him, his little nephew perched high in the saddle. Both boy and camel wore the same placid grin.

      Rab smiled back. ‘Well done, Zaidu,’ he told his nephew. ‘You brought her to heel.’

      ‘It was not my doing,’ said Zaidu, glancing at the woman.

      The woman frowned and her strange beauty hit Rab like a hot wind. Mystic eyes, hooded and sad, perched above a nose so large and regal it might have belonged to Cleopatra herself. So much stern dignity—and almost totally undone by her lips, whose rosy extravagance brought to mind an abundance of cherries.

      ‘It appears that you have calmed my camel,’ he said.

      ‘Do you really think I could have any effect whatsoever on such a beast?’

      ‘Yes, yes, I do,’ Rab replied stupidly.

      ‘But how?’

      ‘Perhaps she was drawn to your white clothing? As you can see, she also wears white.’ It was the most ridiculous thing he had ever said and he was shocked to discover a smile traverse her lips.

      ‘May I touch her?’ she asked.

      ‘You are welcome to do so,’ said Rab—with far too much enthusiasm. What in the name of the Great God Dushara was the matter with him? The woman was Roman. Rab did not converse with Romans and he certainly did not allow them to touch his camels.

      But there she went, stroking the white beast’s nose, and he did nothing at all to stop her. Nor did he say anything when she began to coo softly in Latin. He only closed his eyes, as if she were whispering the sweet words to Rab himself.

      An angry voice split his reverie. ‘Daughter, why do you engage with these dirty Arabs?’

      A man in a purple-trimmed toga stepped forward. He pointed a bejewelled finger at Rab. ‘Can you not control your own camel?’

      Rab opened his mouth to respond, but no words came.

      ‘I am speaking to you!’ shouted the Roman. He gave Rab a mighty shove, sending Rab crashing against the camel’s middle. Zaidu shouted something from his perch in the saddle and the agitated camel thrust out her long leg.

      Rab could almost hear the Roman man’s bones splintering as the camel’s heavy foot pounded against his shin. He collapsed to the ground, his toga tumbling into the dust. ‘Father!’ the woman shrieked. She glanced up at Rab. ‘Please get help!’

      Rab staggered to his feet only to find two sets of hands seizing him by the shoulders. A fist crashed into his jaw, followed by a foot into his stomach. A throng of Roman guards was pouring into the circle and Rab watched in horror as several other guards wrenched his nephew from atop the white camel. ‘Zaidu!’ he cried, then felt a heavy blow against his side.

      ‘Take them to the fort!’ he heard a man shout. Rab could not find his breath. ‘And somebody call a litter! The Governor has been injured!’

      * * *

      At first, there was nothing but pain—sharp, mind-splitting pain and the memory of blows. Then there was the taste of blood inside his mouth and the hardness of stone beneath his head. A silken voice split the silence. ‘Awaken.’

      Rab opened his eyes to find himself surrounded on three sides by walls. Before him stretched the thick iron bars of a prison cell. Beyond the bars stood a figure bathed in torchlight—a vision of curves and white linen. A woman.

      She turned and he knew her instantly. It was the woman—the one from the camel races. He would have recognised her anywhere—her soft curves, her auburn hair, her strong, determined nose, so like his late mother’s. Her shadowy profile sent a strange pang of nostalgia through him, though when she neared his cell and squatted low that nostalgia quickly transformed into an unexpected lust.

      She pushed a water bag through the bars. ‘Drink,’ she said.

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘Water. You have been asleep for many hours.’

      He sensed a lie lurking behind her words, but he was too thirsty to refuse her. As he reached for the bag, her fingers grazed his. He nearly recoiled: they were as frigid as a corpse’s.

      ‘You are very cold,’ he remarked. Without thinking, he removed his head tie and pulled off his long white head cover. ‘Wrap my ghutrah around yourself,’ he said, pushing the garment through the bars. ‘It will warm you.’

      He seemed to have forgotten that she was Roman and thus did not deserve his charity. Still, her fingers had been terribly cold and her cheeks were bereft of colour.

      She gave the voluminous white headscarf a long, suspicious stare. ‘It is just a head cover. It will not bite you,’ he said.

      As a gesture of goodwill, Rab grasped the water bag she had offered him and took a long quaff. The liquid tasted vaguely of flowers.

      He held out his ghutrah once again. ‘Come now, you are obviously cold.’

      ‘How could I be cold?’ she clipped. ‘It is the middle of August in Arabia, by all the vengeful gods.’

      The absurdity of the comment struck them both at once and for a second their voices mingled in laughter, bouncing off the prison walls like two parts of a song.

      Her lips returned to frowning. ‘I am not cold,’ she repeated. She sprang to her feet and placed her hands authoritatively on her hips.

      ‘Why do you gape?’ she asked.

      ‘I do not gape.’

      ‘You are most certainly gaping.’

      ‘Hmm,’ grumbled Rab and looked away. He reminded himself that it was folly to engage with Romans. Their manners were bad, their greed never ending and their moods as changeable as the desert winds. Romans were, in a word, savages, no matter how lovely their frowning lips and curving hips.

      He returned the ghutrah to his head and fixed it into place with his head tie. He brushed the arms of his long grey robe and folded his legs beneath him. ‘Where am I?’

      ‘In a holding cell beneath the Roman fort at Bostra,’ she said, and when he did not respond, she added, ‘In