How To Seduce A Sheikh. Marguerite Kaye

His man bowed low and scuttled off to do his master’s bidding.

      * * *

      Colette Beaumarchais pulled the ruins of her bodice around her to cover her nakedness and struggled desperately to hold her shattered nerves together. Nearly two weeks in captivity, snatching sleep in short bursts, acutely aware that at any moment her captors might turn on her, had taken a severe toll. When she realised the brigands had decided not to molest her for fear of reducing her value, her relief had been extremely short-lived. No one who had lived as she had, travelling with the French army across Egypt and Syria, could be ignorant of the fate that awaited a female sold into slavery.

      Leon had been forever warning her of the dangers of straying far from the camp, as had her dear papa. Both her husband and her father were dead now, and for the first time she discovered she was glad of that. They would never know the fate that befell her. Which was not, at least, going to be determined by the evil-looking man who had been defeated at the last minute.

      It made no difference, she told herself. The outcome would still be the same. But surreptitiously eyeing the man who had bought her, she could not suppress the tiniest little surge of relief. That he was rich, she had no doubt, for her basic grasp of Arabic had allowed her to follow the bidding. That he was powerful was also indisputable, for there was an indefinable air of authority about him—not arrogance but confidence. A man used to complete and unquestioning obedience.

      His tunic and the cloak he wore over it, which she had learned to call a bisht, were an immaculate white. His headdress, too, white and what looked like silk. The igal, the band that held it in place, was threaded with gold, and the curved sheath of the sabre he wore at his waist was studded with what looked to be emeralds and rubies. Rich and noble, if the way the people were bowing and scraping around him was anything to go by. Yes, there was something extremely attractive about him, in the fluid way he moved, like a prowling predator, both graceful and lethal. A warrior? There was that, too, in his face, which had not Leon’s classical good looks but had that hewn, hard-planed look of the battle-hardened soldier. His skin was tawny, the colour of the sands at dusk, and his eyes were dark, hooded. A man who gave nothing away. He wore no beard. His mouth was strikingly sensual. Her captor. Her owner. The man who now held her life in his hands.

      He turned away from the slave trader just then and met her gaze for the first time. Colette inhaled sharply. Under other circumstances, it was true she would find him most attractive, intriguing even, but these were not other circumstances. Sacré bleu, what was she thinking! This man had just purchased her like some chattel. He could—and without doubt would—do with her what he wished. Bien, she was not a general’s daughter for nothing. Garnering all her courage, Colette straightened her shoulders and stood proud, meeting the man’s gaze defiantly, knowing full well how offensive such a gesture could be perceived from a mere woman. ‘Monsieur,’ she said unwaveringly, ‘you may have purchased my body, but I must warn you, you will never break my spirit.’

      She spoke in her native language, not expecting him to understand, the words uttered as a boost to her flagging courage rather than from any desire to antagonise. Her purchaser’s eyes, however, a curious colour, amber or gold, flashed fire. His brows were drawn together in a fierce frown.

      ‘You should be very glad, mademoiselle,’ he replied in perfect, softly accented French, ‘that it is I and not one of the other bidders who prevailed today. Be assured that having paid such an exorbitant amount, they would take great pleasure in breaking both your body and your spirit.’

      He was clearly furious, yet his fists remained unclenched, and he made no effort to close the short distance between them. Did he mean that he would not try to break her, or that the breaking of her would give him no pleasure? ‘Why?’ Confused, Colette asked the question uppermost in her mind. ‘Why did you pay so much for me? I am sure a man such as yourself could have purchased any number of slaves more beautiful than I for such a sum.’

      He surveyed her, not lasciviously but as her father was wont to survey the strategy board when planning a battle. ‘Why do you think, mademoiselle?’ he asked.

      Confused, she could only stare. On one level she was afraid, but another part of her was inclined to doubt his intentions. A warrior he may be, but he was no violator. Her instincts told her she could trust him, but she knew better than to trust instincts when her mind was affected by the intense heat, her fierce thirst and, above all, the trauma of the past few weeks. ‘I think you paid such an exorbitant sum merely for the pleasure of winning, monsieur,’ she said. ‘I cannot imagine that you wish such a—a meagre example of womanhood as I in your harem.’

      ‘Meagre?’

      ‘Skinny,’ Colette replied warily. Horribly conscious that her meagreness was barely covered, she tightened her grip on the tattered remnants of her gown before recalling how pointless it was, for he had already seen for himself during the bidding the smallness of her breasts, the narrowness of her waist. Leon used to tease her about her slimness on the occasions when they shared a bed. ‘I had as well married a schoolboy,’ he had said once as she lay beneath him, eyeing her breasts in a disappointed way. It had hurt, though she had tried not to show it, for he had never pretended that he married her for love of her person.

      En fait, she should be glad that her person was so unwomanly, for it may yet be her saving. Colette let go of her bodice, deliberately baring herself. ‘As you see, monsieur, I have none of the attributes that would make me fit for your harem.’

      Cursing low under his breath in Arabic, he unfastened his cloak and threw it over her shoulders, pulling it close to cover her nakedness. ‘The first law of the harem, mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘is that a concubine should be seen only by her master.’

      His fury took her aback as much as his protectiveness confounded her. The silken folds of the bisht caressed her bare skin as it swathed her. She had never worn anything so luxurious. Colette pulled it closer around her, as if it could form a barrier between her and the crashing reality of the situation. She had little fight left in her, but there was still some. ‘You will be disappointed,’ she said. ‘I warn you, I am no virgin.’

      Now his fists did clench. ‘The men who captured you?’

      Hastily, Colette shook her head as she saw the direction of his gaze, towards the slave-driver. ‘Non! My husband.’

      ‘Your husband! He cannot be much of a man to have allowed his wife to be captured.’

      ‘He is dead, monsieur. But if he were alive, he would assure you that I am not—that I know nothing of the arts of love,’ she said desperately. ‘You will be disappointed in me. I am not fit for your harem, but I have other skills. If you will allow me to work, I can—’

      ‘You think I will set you to work?’

      ‘I am much stronger than I look,’ Colette said, defensive in the light of the stark disbelief in his tone. ‘I can clean and cook and sew, and I am an excellent organiser. Papa always said so. Also, I can nurse. In the field hospital, I was—’

      ‘Enough!’ He held his hand up as if to fend off her words. ‘I have no need of slaves, and my kingdom is not at war, mademoiselle—madame. I wonder what kind of man were you married to, that he made you so certain of your lack of womanly charms?’

      The distance between them had not changed, but Colette shivered under his heated gaze as if he had touched her. Fear warred with a flicker of excitement low in her belly. It was wrong to feel this way. She licked her cracked lips. ‘My husband was a soldier,’ she said.

      ‘Your husband was a fool.’ He reached out to touch her, smoothing his hand over the fall of her hair. The flicker of excitement tightened into a knot. ‘What is your name?’ he asked.

      ‘Beaumarchais. Colette Beaumarchais.’

      ‘Madame Beaumarchais, you should not be so quick to leap to conclusions.’

      Cat’s eyes, like a tiger, she thought, mesmerised, trying to ignore the way her skin was heating as he brushed her hair away from her face, his fingers feathering over her cheek, down the column of her neck.