She may even have dozed. The low murmur from the two men as they investigated Duncan’s injuries was as soothing as the sound of waves lapping on a beach.
She frowned, registering through the muddled haze of her thoughts that the wind was still picking up. Palm fronds slapped against the roof and there was a dull roar in the distance, like a freight train heading towards them.
Opening her eyes, she looked blearily at the strangers. A second powerful torch added light to the scene. She recognized the pattern of desert-colored camouflage gear and heavy boots. Army? Or perhaps mercenaries? Right now she didn’t care, as long as they were here to rescue them. Then the guy with the grey hair moved to one side, and she sucked in an astonished breath as she saw the second man in the light for the first time.
She’d been rescued by a pirate!
Belle shut her eyes, realizing it was some trick of the light and her tired brain. But when she opened them to stare again there was no mistake.
His black hair was combed back ruthlessly, revealing a fighter’s grim face: one of stark, slashing lines. Despite its severity his was one of the most breathtaking faces she’d ever seen. Every inch was hard and uncompromising, from his long, commanding nose to his solid jaw and the deep grooves bracketing his mouth. Every inch except for that mouth, which in repose spoke of sensual knowledge.
The angle of the torch highlighted the fanning lines at the corners of his eyes: the telltale sign of a man who spent his hours outdoors in this hot climate.
But, despite his army issue gear, the man deftly bandaging Duncan’s leg to a professional-looking splint was definitely in no one’s army. A heavy-looking hoop of gold caught the light at one earlobe as he moved. And behind his head she glimpsed hair pulled back in a ponytail. Absolutely not army regulation.
Abruptly he raised his face to meet her gaze, and she sucked in a stunned breath. For a long moment they watched each other. Long enough for her to imagine a pulse of something hot and knowing in his eyes.
He looked like a buccaneer who’d just spied a trophy ship. She swallowed at the frisson of something very like fear, staring back into his ruthless face.
Abruptly he gave an order to his companion, who moved immediately to her side, holding out the canteen. It was only as she reached gratefully for it that the leader of the pair looked away, and she felt the tension that had spun tight round her dissipate.
She propped herself up on an elbow and drank, careful this time to take it slowly. The man with the scarred face nodded approvingly and murmured something encouraging. He too looked as if he belonged on a tall masted ship where the rules of civilized society didn’t apply.
Hell! She must be weaker than she’d thought. Maybe heat and stress and lack of water were making her delusional.
One of her rescuers looked like a typecast villain and the other as if he’d stepped out of some swashbuckling fantasy. It had to be a trick of the poor light.
Reluctantly she handed back the water bottle, then let her head sink to the cushioning blanket. Soon, perhaps in a few hours, she’d be back in the Kingdom of Q’ aroum, receiving the best of modern medical attention.
The two men packed their medical supplies. And still Duncan slept. Ìs he all right?’ There was a telltale quiver of fear in her voice that brought the buccaneer’s gaze up to meet hers.
It’s a bad fracture,’ he replied. Ànd he’s lost a lot of blood. But he should recover quickly once we get him to hospital.’ His eyes narrowed. `He doesn’t seem to be dehydrated. You’ve done a good job looking after him.’
And not such a good job looking after yourself, his stare seemed to say. But what else could she have done? Drunk all the water and left Duncan in need?
`He’s still asleep,’ she said. Òr unconscious?’ Surely the pain of bandaging his leg should have woken him?
I’ve given your colleague a strong painkiller that’s knocked him out for the moment. It’s best if he doesn’t wake while we move him.’
Belle nodded, knowing he was right. But she’d be relieved to see Duncan conscious again. He’d drifted in and out of delirium for too long now.
She watched, heavy-eyed, as the men conferred in Arabic. The older one, with the scar, pointed to Duncan and herself. And all the while the wind gusted and swirled, making the shack’s walls creak and the roof shudder. Then the conversation was over. The younger man spoke once, decisively, and it seemed they were in agreement.
They turned to the hut’s rough wooden door, working together: the older one heavy-set and methodical, the younger man lithe but broad-shouldered and strong. It only took a few minutes to get the door off. Then they laid it beside the pallet, ignoring the whirling gusts that hurled sand through the gaping doorway.