The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride

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 silted, puffy eyes into the glare.

A group of men strode towards them from the huge helicopter.

Two of them she recognized. 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.

Ì 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.

Ìt’s good to see you again,’ she said.

Ànd you, Ms Winters. It’s a great relief to see you safe and sound.’

His gaze slid from hers to Rafiq’s.

Èr, 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. Àllow me to introduce you, Ms Winters, to Sheikh Rafiq Kamil Ibn Makram al Akhtar, Sovereign Prince of Q’aroum.’

CHAPTER THREE

Rafiq nodded to the guard posted outside Belle’s hospital room.

`Your Highness.’ A doctor hurried forward. Ì‘m afraid Ms Winters is sleeping now. You may wish to return later.’

`Then it will be a short visit,’ Rafiq replied, moving forward as the guard opened the door.

He didn’t pause to analyze this compulsion to see her.

All day he’d done his duty. Touring sites on the outer islands hit by the cyclone. Organizing the deployment of resources for disaster relief. Meeting with the Cabinet and national security advisors to assess the political fall out from the kidnappings and receive briefings on the search for those responsible. Each meeting, each need, more urgent than the last.

Now he did something purely for himself. Something he’d wanted to do ever since he’d relinquished Belle Winters into the charge of the medics on the helicopter. He breathed deeply and entered her room.

Shutters softened the late afternoon light, reinforcing the quiet.

Immediately his gaze fixed on the narrow, hospital regulation bed in the centre of one wall. Bright blonde hair framed a face that was far too pale. Her eyes were closed and she lay unmoving under the white cotton sheet.

Rafiq’s heart thudded hard against his ribcage. Surely she was too still? He couldn’t discern any movement, not even her breathing.

He strode across the room as the doctor murmured from behind him, `She’s been asleep for hours, Highness. She may not wake until tomorrow. We can contact you when she does.’

Rafiq stopped at the bedside, hands clasped tight behind his back.

It was a gesture he’d learned years ago from his grandfather. There were times when a man needed to take action. But a royal sheikh must always appear calm, unmoved.

So Rafiq schooled his expression as he stood looking down at her, skimming his gaze over the form that seemed so fragile, so unprotected, beneath the starched sheet. Finally he discerned the gentle rise of her chest as she inhaled, and the tension gripping him eased a fraction.