How To Seduce A Sheikh. Marguerite Kaye

away his hand, which was resting on her shoulder.

      He moved swiftly as she made to walk away, pulling her hard up against him, breast to chest, thigh to thigh. Heat flooded her at the shocking nearness, at the overwhelming maleness of him, his solid muscle and sinewy strength. A warrior. And a very potent man. ‘Laissez-moi!’

      He laughed. ‘Release you? Into the desert and no doubt into the hands of another set of slave traders? You do not wish that.’

      ‘No. I mean yes. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.’

      ‘As you have shown by your appearance today.’

      Silenced, she ceased struggling. ‘Who are you? Why won’t you let me go if you don’t want me?’

      ‘I am Prince Zafar al-Zuhr of the Kharidja.’

      Her heart began to hammer in her breast. He held her so closely that she could feel the slow, steady beat of his. One hand slid down her spine to her waist. The other slid up her arm. There could be no doubting the heat in his gaze. There could be no doubting his intent as he bent his head towards her. He was going to kiss her. She braced herself and at the same time she tilted her face, parting her lips invitingly, only to find herself released as suddenly as she had been caught up against him. Mortified by her contrary behaviour, Colette staggered. ‘You have not answered my question, Prince Zafar,’ she said.

      His eyes flashed. Drawing himself up to his full height, he eyed her disdainfully. ‘I am Prince Zafar al-Zuhr of Kharidja. I answer to no one. You would do well to remember that.’

      Chapter Two

      Zafar strode off towards his caravan, forcing the Frenchwoman to break into a trot to keep up with him. He was appalled at how close he had come to surrendering to the desire to kiss her. No matter that she seemed to think him a savage, Colette Beaumarchais was under his protection, and he would never violate that trust.

      Rattling out a stream of orders to Firas in the vain hope that the man would be too taken up with obeying him to comment further on his prince’s aberrant behaviour, Zafar was all the time conscious of the woman at his side wrapped in his bisht who was now, legally if not morally, his property. His responsibility. His, under the ancient custom of the land, to do with as he liked. It was a custom he wished he could outlaw, but so far progress in Kharidja had been slow, and resistance by his people—or the men, at any rate—strong.

      He cursed himself inwardly. What in the name of the gods was he going to do with the woman! He had bid on impulse, intent only on saving her, without actually considering how he would do so. He had not expected gratitude, yet her attack on his honour, though completely natural under the circumstances, had hurt. It angered him that she had so misjudged him, that she had had the nerve to question his intentions. It pleased him to think how abject her apologies would be when he obtained a safe passage home to France for her. It would be no simple matter to do so, for there were few he could trust to escort her to Egypt, and he had no idea what the diplomatic situation was in Cairo. No, the best thing would be to take her to Kharidja and to make proper arrangements from there. This too would allow Madame Beaumarchais plenty of time to reassess her opinion of him, something that he was strangely set upon her doing. Later, when they set up camp, he would inform her of his plans and she would thank him. For now, though, he would allow her the time to repent of her attitude. Satisfied, Zafar nodded to himself and turned his attention to Colette. ‘Have you ever ridden a camel?’

      She stared at him blankly. Her eyes were smoky blue, the colour of the midnight sky over the endless desert. Dark shadows spoke eloquently of long, sleepless nights. The full, sensual lips he had been so intent on kissing were dry. He remembered the angry sunburn on the delicate skin of her body and cursed himself for being a thoughtless fool. How long had she been captive? Such a tender specimen as this with such pale European skin must find the heat of his beloved desert almost unbearable. ‘Come,’ he said gently, holding out his hand to her. ‘There is shade and water aplenty where my caravan is being readied for the journey home to Kharidja. My kingdom is three days’ ride away, over the desert.’

      ‘Kharidja. I have never heard of that place. Why are you taking me there?’

      She was clasping her hands tightly together, holding the folds of his cloak closed. Despite the burnish of the sun, her face had an ashen pallor. Even as he noticed this, Zafar saw her legs buckle and leapt forward to catch her, but she struggled to right herself. As her legs buckled again, he swept her into his arms, ignoring her flailing arms and protests. ‘Stop struggling. You must save your strength.’

      ‘For your bed, you mean.’

      She was as stubborn as a mule! Zafar tightened his grip. ‘For the camel,’ he said curtly.

      * * *

      Colette clung to the high sides of the strange saddle, which swayed alarmingly. The ground was a lot farther away than it was from horseback. The animal smelled so different, too, and the constant bleating noises it made, as if in protest at being forced to carry an extra load, were most disconcerting. She fixed her eyes firmly on the horizon for fear of being sick. The dusty, stony track was giving way to sand. The sun was past its peak, and the headdress, one of Prince Zafar’s own, was really most effective in keeping her cool, though she had protested at first, thinking it would make her much hotter.

      A strong arm snaked around her waist and held her firmly. ‘Do not resist it,’ Prince Zafar said. ‘If you let yourself be taken by the movement, you will find it easier.’

      Nervously she eyed the reins, which were threaded with gold and decorated with little tinkling bells. ‘I am perfectly well.’

      ‘Forgive me, but you look far from well. Now, let go of the saddle. Feel the movement of the camel as you would the movement of the sea on the deck of a ship.’

      Tentatively, she did as she was bid, letting her body move with the motion of the saddle. ‘You are right,’ she said in surprise some moments later.

      ‘You will find that I almost always am.’

      ‘I doubt that,’ Colette replied. ‘More likely it is that no one dares tell you that you are wrong.’

      She knew as soon as the words were out that she had been not only rude but disrespectful, but he surprised her. ‘That is very true, Madame Beaumarchais, none dare. I wonder why you do?’

      It was beyond foolish of her, but there was something about this man that made her want to challenge him. His unconscious assumption of power that was no doubt well deserved, that was part of it, but there was, too, his determination not to explain himself, an aloofness that she wanted to break down. And then there was her own challenge to him. She would not allow him to break her spirit. Attack was the best form of defence. Papa’s favourite maxim; it would serve her as well as any other. ‘When one has nothing to lose,’ she replied, ‘one dares anything.’

      ‘I wonder, would you have been more conciliatory were I one of the other bidders?’ Prince Zafar asked, his voice suddenly cold.

      Colette bit her lip, reminding herself of the many tales she had heard, of the fact that this man, no matter how civilised he may appear, was a desert sheikh who had bought her. Had she misjudged him? ‘You must understand, my experience of your countrymen has not exactly been pleasant,’ she said warily.

      ‘The men who captured you were Turks.’

      Another faux pas, obviously. ‘I would find it easier to trust you if you would tell me what you intend to do with me.’

      ‘That very much depends on whether you trust me or not.’

      ‘My papa would call that a non sequitur. It means—’

      ‘I know perfectly well what it means.’

      ‘I beg your pardon. Your command of my native language is most impressive.’

      ‘For a barbarian, you mean.’

      ‘For anyone, I mean!’ Colette snapped. ‘You are determined