The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride. Annie West

she heard it. The rhythmic thud in the distance. The swell of unmistakable sound as a helicopter approached. Safe in Rafiq’s arms, she listened to the noise grow louder and closer, knowing it meant rescue but strangely feeling neither relief nor exhilaration.

      Now the roar was directly overhead. Swirling sand bit into her bare legs. She struggled to raise her heavy head, to pull herself out of Rafiq’s arms. But he held her close.

      ‘Shh, little one. No need to move yet.’

      And it was easier to subside against him. She felt as if every ounce of strength she’d ever had, even the dogged determination that had kept her going through the last terrifying days, had drained away.

      The chopper blades cut out into a silence that reverberated with their echo. Rafiq straightened against her, though still he held her close.

      She should move. Reluctantly she lifted her head, peering through slitted, puffy eyes into the glare.

      A group of men strode towards them from the huge helicopter. Two of them she recognised. Dawud, looking even more villainous than he had last night, with his burgeoning grey-flecked stubble and piercing dark eyes. And a younger man in pale trousers and a jacket. The British Consul to Q’aroum. She’d met him when she’d arrived.

      There was no Australian Consul on the islands. But Duncan was British, and his government had supported the international marine expedition, eager for closer ties with the small oil-rich nation.

      Dawud spoke rapidly in Arabic. She read urgency in his gestures, felt the answering tension in Rafiq’s muscled frame. He barked out a query, and another, then was silent.

      Finally David Gillham, the Consul, stepped forward. ‘Your Highness, may I express—?’

      ‘Highness?’ Belle’s interjection was muffled within Rafiq’s embrace.

      David Gillham paused, eyes serious. ‘Ms Winters, you remember me?’

      She nodded, struggling to sit upright in Rafiq’s hold. His arms were like solid metal, binding her close.

      ‘I remember you, Mr Gillham.’ At last Rafiq’s arms relaxed and she sat straighter. Immediately she wished she hadn’t, feeling every man’s gaze on her.

      ‘It’s good to see you again,’ she said.

      ‘And you, Ms Winters. It’s a great relief to see you safe and sound.’ His gaze slid from hers to Rafiq’s.

      ‘Er, it seems a little formality may be called for?’ He watched her companion, as if seeking approval.

      Rafiq nodded once, sharply.

      David Gillham cleared his throat. ‘Allow me to introduce you, Ms Winters, to Sheikh Rafiq Kamil Ibn Makram al Akhtar, Sovereign Prince of Q’aroum.’

      CHAPTER THREE

      RAFIQ nodded to the guard posted outside Belle’s hospital room.

      ‘Your Highness.’ A doctor hurried forward. ‘I’m afraid Ms Winters is sleeping now. You may wish to return later.’

      ‘Then it will be a short visit,’ Rafiq replied, moving forward as the guard opened the door.

      He didn’t pause to analyse this compulsion to see her.

      All day he’d done his duty. Touring sites on the outer islands hit by the cyclone. Organising the deployment of resources for disaster relief. Meeting with the Cabinet and national security advisors to assess the political fall-out from the kidnappings and receive briefings on the search for those responsible. Each meeting, each need, more urgent than the last.

      Now he did something purely for himself. Something he’d wanted to do ever since he’d relinquished Belle Winters into the charge of the medics on the helicopter. He breathed deeply and entered her room.

      Shutters softened the late-afternoon light, reinforcing the quiet. Immediately his gaze fixed on the narrow, hospital regulation bed in the centre of one wall. Bright blonde hair framed a face that was far too pale. Her eyes were closed and she lay unmoving under the white cotton sheet.

      Rafiq’s heart thudded hard against his ribcage. Surely she was too still? He couldn’t discern any movement, not even her breathing.

      He strode across the room as the doctor murmured from behind him, ‘She’s been asleep for hours, Highness. She may not wake until tomorrow. We can contact you when she does.’

      Rafiq stopped at the bedside, hands clasped tight behind his back. It was a gesture he’d learned years ago from his grandfather. There were times when a man needed to take action. But a royal sheikh must always appear calm, unmoved.

      So Rafiq schooled his expression as he stood looking down at her, skimming his gaze over the form that seemed so fragile, so unprotected, beneath the starched sheet. Finally he discerned the gentle rise of her chest as she inhaled, and the tension gripping him eased a fraction.

      Of course she was alive. What had he thought? That the medical staff didn’t know their jobs? Exhaustion, they’d said. Exposure and dehydration. But not severe enough to be life-threatening.

      She’d been lucky.

      Rafiq considered the bandages on her wrists, the blistered skin of her shoulders, the drip attached to her arm, the vulnerability of her slight form.

      His hands clenched into tight fists as a surge of adrenaline flooded him. Hot fury twisted low in his belly as he contemplated the men who’d done this to her.

      Lucky!

      She was indeed lucky to be alive. Lucky her captors hadn’t returned to the island for a little sport. Lucky they’d decided to let their victims die an ugly, lingering death from thirst rather than finish them off with a blade to the throat. Or worse.

      Lucky the gang’s ringleader hadn’t taken part in the kidnapping personally. Selim al Murnah was a connoisseur of cruelty. A man who wouldn’t miss an opportunity to indulge his sick whims on such a lovely woman.

      The idea of Belle at Selim’s mercy was revolting. The bitter taste of bile rose in Rafiq’s throat as he recognised how narrowly she’d escaped death and torture.

      His gaze roved her features, so familiar after such a short time. Her golden hair, her straight, determined nose, the sculpted, bone-deep beauty of her face. Her lips: cracked and dry, but undeniably seductive. A mouth created to please a man. A courtesan’s mouth. A mouth that had tempted him, haunted him, since he’d first seen her in the glare of the torchlight—half naked, beyond exhausted, and heartbreakingly brave.

      ‘Highness?’ The murmured word made him start. He turned his head to meet the worried frown of the doctor.

      ‘Very well.’ Rafiq inclined his head. ‘I see you’re doing all you can for Ms Winters. Be assured of my gratitude. She and Mr MacDonald are important guests. Keep me informed of their progress.’

      The doctor nodded. ‘Of course, Highness.’

      As Rafiq turned to leave something caught his eye. A tentative movement against the stark sheet. He looked across to see her brow pucker, her eyes slowly open. Something caught at his throat, restricting his breathing, as he watched recognition spark in her gaze, her eyes widen.

      ‘You came,’ she whispered, her voice a hoarse whisper. At the sound of it some of the stiffness across his neck and shoulders melted.

      He reached down and took her hand in his, squeezing gently, as if he could transfer some of his strength to her. Her hand was slim, cool, frighteningly limp within his grasp.

      ‘Of course I came, little one. You didn’t think I’d abandon you?’

      She didn’t answer, just stared up at him from those mesmerising azure eyes. The impact of that look struck him in the solar plexus, sending a jolt of sizzling sensation through him. Then her eyelids flickered shut and her hand went lax in his.

      ‘If