'Oh, shut up!' she cried bitterly, seeing that his smile was full of wry mockery.
He laughed, pushing back his white headdress to expose thick sleek black hair. 'You are contrary, it seems, Miss Brinton. Are you tired of the excitements of Arab life already?'
She longed to burst into tears, but determined to show him no weakness. She sensed that any hint of fear would make him despise her, so she had to pretend to a courage she did not possess.
He moved away, searched in the cupboard and came back with a long woollen garment like a tent. 'Put this on…'
'Why?' she asked dubiously, eyeing it without favour. It was a grey-white colour, crudely woven and shapeless.
'Miss Brinton, don't argue. Put it on. If you do not obey me instantly whenever I give you an order I shall be forced to render you unconscious, and I am sure you would not wish me to do that.'
She stared into his face, finding it as grim as carved stone, the dark eyes unyielding.
Reluctantly she lifted the garment and let it fall over her head and down to her feet. Inside it she was very warm. 'I feel like a tent,' she said sullenly.
He grinned wickedly. 'You look like one. No man will look twice at you now.' He put a hand to the back of the garment and lifted an all-enveloping hood over her head so that only part of her face could be seen. 'Now! You could be any Arab woman.'
'Thanks a lot!'
He laughed. 'You sound like a sulky child.'
'I detest you,' she muttered under her breath, half afraid to let him hear.
His strong fingers gripped her wrist. 'Come,' he said. 'We must leave now. The desert night is cold. You will be glad of your tent-like clothes later.'
He led her out of the back door into a close-set palm grove and along a winding path to the back of a low stable. An Arab boy in a dirty white djibbah sat on the floor asleep, his bare heels together, his legs loosely crossed. He jumped up, blinking sleepily, as they approached.
Speaking in Arabic, her captor gestured to the stable. The boy nodded and darted inside. Marie heard the jingle of harness, the stamp of horses' feet. After a few moments the boy led out two horses, saddled ready for a journey. She was lifted on to one of them, a fine spirited little white mare. For a moment she thought of galloping away to escape, but her captor read her thoughts and gave her a cool, tormenting grin.
'I would catch you up in two minutes, Miss Brinton,' he said softly. 'And I would beat you with my riding crop until you begged for mercy.'
She glared at him from below the hood of her garment, saying nothing.
He laughed and leapt into the saddle of the other big black horse with a grace and agility which she could not help admiring. Devil though he was, he had a physical appeal she could not resist. She had always admired men who rode well.
They rode away under the sweeping fringe of palms leaving the boy staring after them. There were a few scattered houses on the outskirts of the little town, most of them surrounded by palm trees, a sandy road running between them and winding out inland towards the darkness of the desert.
'We shall ride towards Wadi Aquida,' he said.
Marie was surprised that he should name the place to her, but already she knew him well enough to guess that knowing the name would be of no help to her anyway.
The moonlight showed her an emptiness ahead, an emptiness so bleak and yet so beautiful that it took her breath away.
The horses rode silently over the soft, flat sand. The cool night air was gentle on her face, blowing through her loose garment and refreshing her. The moonlit sand seemed without shadows so that there were no landmarks for her to pinpoint. She wondered how he knew which way to go. The horses occasionally snorted, the saddles creaked. To the east she saw the dark outline of a low line of hills, and once the horizon was specked by a small ring of palm trees circling a gleam of water, lit by the smoky flame of a camp fire.
'Bedouin!' he remarked, nodding as he saw her stare in that direction.
She was growing tired. They seemed to have been riding for so long, and she was longing for her bed. Her back ached, her hands were icy cold on the reins.
Suddenly she saw a swelling ridge ahead which seemed to have sprung up out of the ground. They were riding straight towards it, and soon the horses began to climb it, their feet slipping and sliding on blown sand.
As they crested it, she saw another ring of palm trees and the faint, illusory gleam of water under the moon.
'Wadi Aquida,' he said, riding down towards it.
When they reached the palm trees Marie saw that the sand around the water was well trampled, and a kicked-out camp fire still smouldered. For a moment her captor squatted, studying the ashes. Then he looked at her calmly.
'Bedouin. They probably left here an hour ago—the ashes are still warm. Find some scrubwood.'