Lord of the Desert (14 page)

“I can understand that,” she said quietly, thinking how glad she was that Philippe was a diplomat and not a mercenary. “What about the ceremony?” she added reluctantly. “Shouldn't you postpone it?”

His dark eyes narrowed. “No,” he said at once. “That I will have, Brauer or no Brauer.” His gaze went down her body in the well-fitting safari outfit and his face tautened. “You should have worn an
aba,
” he said suddenly. “We'll appropriate one when we reach the oasis.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Not you, too,” she groaned.

“Me, too?” He scowled. Then he laughed. “I see. My father.” He shook his head. “His upbringing was extremely strict.” He pursed his lips. “So was mine, in many ways, when he brought me back here. I was a child of the streets, unused to restrictions or discipline. I learned both at his hands.”

Poor little boy, she was thinking. She almost said it aloud, but a cloud of dust up ahead stopped the words on her lips. The wide, sandy road was coming to the desert now, and she expected another party of vehicles to meet them. But as the swirling dust gave way to glimpses of white, she sat up straight and her lips parted on a startled breath. It wasn't a caravan of vehicles. It was a mounted regiment of white-robed men with rifles, on some of the most magnificent horses she'd ever seen in her life. Arabian horses.

The guns fired wildly, accompanied by hearty yells as the riders surrounded the Land Rover. Bojo stopped, chuckling, and Philippe got out as the leader of the approaching tribesmen jumped down from his horse. The two men exchanged greetings and embraced like brothers and spoke in an enthusiastic jumble of foreign words.

“Achmed,” Bojo said when he noticed Gretchen's curious stare. “He leads one of many tribes which owe allegiance to the Tatluk family. He is a blood relative of the
sidi,
sworn to fight to the death in his service.”

The man was almost Philippe's height. He was wearing robes that covered him entirely from head to toe, and he was indicating Philippe's manner of dress and speaking about it very loudly.

Philippe chuckled and said something back with a wave of his hand. The other man nodded, glanced toward the car, and grinned.

“What's that all about?” Gretchen asked Bojo.

He cleared his throat. “Just, uh, discussing the vehicle,
mademoiselle.
”

She wondered why he looked so amused. But Philippe came back and got in beside them as the tribal leader swung gracefully into the saddle and led his men back in the direction from which they'd come.

“Oh, look at them ride!” she exclaimed, breathless. “What magnificent horses!”

“Arabians,” he told her, amused at her rapt expression. “The finest blood stock in the world.”

She was spellbound, barely hearing him. “I've never seen anything like that!”

“Wait,” he murmured dryly. “I think you have many surprises in store.”

“What?” She wasn't really listening, she was still watching the riders in the distance. “Are they going where we are?”

“Yes. You can see the horses close up,” he added, amused at her eagerness.

“That would be wonderful,” she said dreamily.

He cocked an eyebrow and grinned at Bojo, who had to hide his face before Gretchen saw it.

 

The desert camp wasn't too unexpected. Gretchen had seen documentaries about the desert and its nomadic tribes. But she wasn't prepared for the luxury of the tents. She was taken to a separate one while some of the tribesmen set about erecting Philippe's. It was a sprawling, impressive affair, and expensive carpets were carried in one after another, along with ornate hanging lamps. She smiled as she thought of elegant Philippe “roughing it.” He looked as out of place here as a mink coat.

When the tent was finished, Leila took Gretchen inside and unpacked for her. She sprawled on the puffy cushions and looked around her, thinking how foreign a place it was to feel so much like home. She closed her eyes with a long sigh and only opened them when she felt Leila tug on her boots.

“The boots are better off, yes?” the Qawi woman said with a grin. “Are you tired, Lady?”

“Bone-tired,” came the weary reply. “I thought we were never going to get here, and I'm sure they never turned on the air conditioner once. Come to think of it, I haven't seen car windows closed anywhere in the Middle East.” She grimaced as the other boot came off. “I suppose I eat alone?”

“Yes, Lady,” Leila told her. “For tonight, at least. Tomorrow is the ceremony. Tomorrow night, you will not spend alone,” she added with a giggle.

Tomorrow. Gretchen felt as if she were in some sort of dream world, where nothing was as it seemed. She worried briefly about the wedding, about the uncertainty of the future. Even if Philippe could never be a husband to her physically, she loved him enough to accept him on those terms. But he would never agree. If he couldn't consummate the marriage, she had no doubt whatsoever that he would send her home to America without a second thought. If only there were something she could do, some way to help him…

Right, she thought whimsically. As if she knew anything about seducing men.

“You rest now,” Leila said gently, removing the boots to a far wall of the tent. “I will be back soon with food and water. Or would my Lady prefer coffee?”

“Oh, coffee, please,” Gretchen said.

“Very well.”

Gretchen stretched out and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Philippe was sitting beside her, his brooding eyes on her face.

She smiled up at him. “Hello.”

“You slept through the evening meal,” he mused. “Were you that tired?”

“I'm afraid so. I haven't really slept well in a long time. Not since Mama died,” she added, before he could think it was her new surroundings that kept her awake.

He searched her drowsy eyes. “Tomorrow we marry.”

She smiled. “Yes. Are you sure?”

He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it very softly. “I'm sure.”

“How late is it?”

“Bedtime,” he murmured dryly and chuckled at her blush. “No, my girl, not tonight. But hold that thought,” he added with a grin.

She smiled back, so comfortable with him even through the excitement. “My brother will never believe this.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “If there was time, I would have him flown here for the ceremony. But it will have to wait. Brauer is not far away and I have much planning to do.” He kissed her hand again. “Sleep well.”

“You, too.” She waited until he got up before she asked, “Where do you sleep?”

He chuckled. “Through there,” he indicated a compartment behind hers in the huge tent. “Leila will sleep at your door, as Hassan will sleep at mine,” he added. “So don't get any ideas about seducing me in my sleep.”

She laughed heartily. “I wouldn't dream of it!”

She watched him go before she got up and unwrapped her neat little bundle. She put the pistol under her pillow, along with the cartridges. She would pretend to sleep, but nobody was going through here to get to Philippe. She would protect him from any intruder.

 

She stayed awake most of the night, which gave her a drugged appearance the next morning and dulled her wits. She had time to hide the gun before Leila brought breakfast, and all too soon, she was being prepared for the wedding. Several tribes-women bathed and dressed her, hennaed her hands and feet, and veiled her face. When they finished, with her blond hair carefully concealed under the headdress and veil, she looked very mysterious, and very nearly pretty.

She was watching for Philippe as they walked through the alley between the tents toward the place where the ceremony would be performed. She didn't see him, not until she was brought to a stop before a little old man in white robes. And then, glancing up, she recognized the laughing black eyes of her husband under flowing white robes with a white head cloth secured by the
igal,
the doubled black cord that signified his rank. He was wearing a curved ceremonial dagger with a silver jewel-encrusted handle in a case carved of ivory. It was stuck in a sash around his lean waist, and he looked very dangerous for a city man.

While she was trying to reconcile this new look, the old man began to speak in an Arab dialect. Philippe gently led Gretchen through the ceremony, teaching her the proper words and when to speak them as the ritual continued. When it was over, their hands were briefly bound and then Philippe pulled out a scimitar and with a very professional sort of motion, he sliced a loaf of bread, handing part of it to Gretchen before he resheathed the sword.

“Another tradition,” he said gently. “Eat the bread.”

She obeyed, taking a small bite and praying that it wouldn't choke her. She washed it down with a sip of water.

“And we are,” he told her softly, “married.”

“Already?” she asked, glancing around at the beaming faces. “But you didn't lift the veil or kiss me.”

“That is done in private, Lady FIL-fil,” he chuckled. “Your face is now for my eyes only.”

She smiled wickedly. “We could make that binding both ways. You could wear a veil, too.”

He chuckled. “Only when I ride in sandstorms.”

Her eyes went over his tall form with pride. “You look very nice in those robes. Did you borrow them for the ceremony?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “We have a few minor misconceptions to clear up,” he began, and started to speak when a rider came barreling into the camp. He rode right up to the gathering and literally jumped out of the saddle. He knelt in front of Philippe and a frenzy of Arabic followed. Philippe questioned him curtly and listened to his answers before he threw up his hand and men started moving toward horses.

“Go into the tent, and stay there,” Philippe told Gretchen firmly, nudging her toward the tent. “Don't stick your head outside for any reason. Hassan!” he added, tossing orders to the bodyguard.

Hassan bowed, took Gretchen's arm, and led her to the tent and put her inside.

Leila shook her head at Gretchen's fury as she struggled to free herself from the bodyguard's grip. “They go to fight,” she told the American woman. “You must not be in the way of danger.”

“Danger!” she scoffed. “Philippe's the one in danger, and I promised his father I'd take care of him. I am not letting him ride into a war without backup! You tell ‘Elvis' to get out of my tent or he's going to be beheaded for watching me change clothes!”

Shocked, Leila obeyed, and as soon as Hassan left, before Leila could say another word, Gretchen was scrambling into her safari outfit with the pistol tucked in her belt and the cartridges in her pocket. Mindful of Philippe's status and her obligations, she threw an
aba
over the whole outfit, leaving her hat behind because it wouldn't fit under the hood. She ran out the back of the tent, the place where Hassan wasn't. There were many horses still in the camp. Far in the distance already, the tribesmen were throwing up clouds of dust as they rode furiously toward the horizon.

Grimacing, she looked around until she noticed one horse standing quietly near a tent, saddled. She hoped they didn't hang horse thieves in Qawi, but she really had no choice. She couldn't let Philippe go into a firefight alone. She'd pretend to be one of his men and keep an eye on him. The tribal leaders could do that, of course, but he was the sheikh and they might be too much in awe of him to keep close enough to protect him. Without counting the cost, she flung herself into the saddle of the horse, and took off after the cloud of dust that was Philippe and his men. In the doorway of the tent, Leila was yelling at Hassan, who went in search of a horse.

 

Even under the circumstances, riding an Arabian was the experience of Gretchen's life. She thrilled to its perfect motion under her body, to its speed and grace and stamina. She rode like the wind, her hair coming loose from its pins and wisps of it flying into her mouth. In the distance, she could see the column and she dug her heels into the horse's flanks, urging it on.

She had almost caught up to the end of the column when her mount stopped suddenly and reared up, unseating her. She landed in an undignified heap in the middle of a sand dune. She got to her feet a little gingerly. The hood had fallen back from her blond hair, and it shone like gold in the sunlight. While she struggled to regain her breath and catch the horse at the same time, a party of riders came over the dune from another direction. She stood very still, because it was immediately noticeable that these men weren't locals. They were wearing khakis and armed to the teeth. One of them, a redhead, laughed out loud and called something in a foreign language to another man, who rode her down as easily as if she'd been a stray calf.

He looped a hard arm around her waist and pulled her roughly up into the saddle in front of him. She fought, kicking and biting, but a sudden hard tap on the head with something hard put an end to her struggles. She went limp. The horseman turned and rejoined his party.