The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride. Annie West

cradle her against his torso.

      His lips moved against her hair, whispering words of reassurance as she cried out her pain. He rocked her slowly. The heat of his body seeped into the chill of hers and the scent of him, of sea and musk, banished the lingering taste of rancid horror from her mouth. His heart was steady beneath her ear, calming, powerful.

      Finally the storm of grief and pain eased.

      Belle felt herself float, boneless and weightless, in his embrace. She hiccoughed, and the tears eventually subsided, and still he held her, murmuring in that magnificent velvety voice that filled her senses.

      She never wanted to move again. She could stay here for ever.

      Then 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.’