The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride

`Move and you’re dead,’ she snarled, her voice a raw, broken whisper.

For a moment there was stillness.

Then out of the darkness a large hand clamped onto hers. Fingers strong as a vice closed on her, shutting off the circulation till her hands throbbed.

But she wouldn’t let go. The knife was all she had to protect them.

`Quiet, little tigress.’ The voice came out of the gloom, deep and mellifluous. `We’re friends: here to help.’

Turning her head towards the voice, she saw the gleam of eyes close to hers. Now she felt the heat of his body too. She shivered at the sensation of power that emanated from him.

The pressure of his fingers strengthened just a fraction and she cried out. The knife clattered to the floor as stars exploded across her vision.

Immediately he released his grip, and blood pounded agonizingly into her fingers. She bit down on her lip, cradling her hands against her chest as she blinked back scalding tears of pain and fear and frustration.

There was a scraping noise, and the man who’d threatened Duncan scuttled out of reach, taking the knife.

The man at her side grabbed the torch, and she winced as light dazzled her. The beam swung down to illuminate her hands. There was a hiss of indrawn breath from across the room. And from beside her came the soft sound of swearing, furious and unmistakable, in unintelligible Arabic.

The light moved on, flicking over her briefly but comprehensively.

Then, mercifully, he put the torch on the floor, tilted once more towards Duncan, who still slept.

Ìt’s all right, Ms Winters.’ The man with the deep voice spoke again. Now she detected the hint of a lilting accent in his precise tones. `We’re here to rescue you.’

Rescue! Her head spun and she slumped back on her heels. Could it be true? She struggled to take it in.

A hand, large and warm, settled on her arm.

`You’ll be all right while we look after your friend?’ She nodded.

Ì‘m OK,’ she croaked:

He said something to his companion, who returned to squat beside the pallet, reaching out to Duncan. Now she realized he was searching for a pulse. A flood of relief washed over her as she realized it was true. These strangers were here to rescue them.

`Drink this.’ The man who appeared to be the leader of the pair held a canteen to her dry lips, tilting it so she could swallow a welcome trickle. Greedily she raised her hands to the canteen, tipping it further. Sweet water filled her mouth, ran down her burning throat.

`Steady,’ he warned. `Too much and you’ll be sick.’

She knew he was right. But she was desperate for more. It was only his unbreakable hold on the water bottle that pre-vented her from guzzling.

`That’s enough.’ His low voice burred near her ear.

If she’d had the strength she might have complained about his high-handedness. But her attack on his companion had used her last reserves of strength. She swayed drunkenly to one side.

Immediately the stranger put his big hands on her shoulders to steady her. Calluses scraped her bare sunburn flesh and she flinched. He cursed again.

Ì‘m sorry,’ she mumbled. Ì‘m a bit unsteady.’

It’s a wonder you’re even conscious.’ His voice was harsh but his hands were gentle. `Here.’ He pulled her towards him, taking her weight easily.

She had a brief impression of heat and strength. A tantalizing awareness of some unfamiliar scent: sun and salt and man. Then he lowered her onto a cotton blanket. `Lie still while we see how Mr.

MacDonald is.’

`You know our names?’ she whispered.

It’s not often we have kidnappings in Q’aroum. Much less the abduction of two foreign nationals. Of course we know who you are.’ His voice was grim. `There’s been a coordinated air and sea search for the pair of you ever since your boatman reported the abduction.’

He brushed her tangled hair back from her face and she shut her eyes, feeling absurdly close to tears at the tender gesture.

`Rest now,’ he murmured, and she sensed him move away.

She ached in every joint, and her throat was as painfully dry as the hot wind that swooped south towards them off the Arabian Peninsula. Her head pounded and she knew she’d reached the limit of her endurance.

But there was soft fabric against her cheek and under her body.

And the caress of that big callused hand had invested her with hope again. Hope and reassurance. She recalled his voice, low and velvety. Her body had tingled into feminine awareness at the sound of it, despite the extremity of her situation.

If this was a hallucination she didn’t want it to end. She could drift off happily now, resigned to her fate.