The Sheikh's Disobedient Bride

Tally caught the pillow again and clutched it to her chest.

He’d never put himself first, not when others are in danger.

As she’d been in danger.

Tally felt the prickle start inside her, in her chest, and then her throat, working from the inside out until her forehead had the same tingling and her heart beat faster, harder, beat with a strange sense of awareness, an awareness that hadn’t been there until a moment ago. But now that the thought was there it wasn’t going away…

And she didn’t know what to think.

Could Tair have sent her away, not because he didn’t love her, but because he did?

Goose bumps covered her arms, the fine little hairs standing and everything inside her seemed to be turning inward, listening. Listening to her heart.

Listening to instinct, because wasn’t that what Tair had taught her? Not to listen to the voice of fear, but the voice of calm inside her? The voice of strength?

He didn’t not care for her.

He did.

He did.

She jumped up from the sofa, crossed the floor in long jerky strides, arms folded over her chest and tears hot and cold burned her eyes.

It hit her. Hit her so hard. Tair sent her away because he didn’t want her hurt. He sent her away because he was afraid he couldn’t protect her. He sent her away because he couldn’t bear to have her hurt.

My God.

Why hadn’t she seen it before? Understood?

Tally stopped at the loft window overlooking the street. It was a Sunday afternoon and traffic was light. No football game at the Seahawks stadium, no crowds, summer tourists gone. Just late afternoon sun breaking through the bank of clouds, splinters of long gold light and the green and yellow trolley traveling between all-brick buildings.

Here she was, safe in Seattle, just the way Tair wanted. But how was he? Where was he? What was he doing?

Tally stood at the window a long time, long enough to watch the clouds clear and the sun set, and the gold and red colors of autumn give way to burnt-orange and purple of dusk.

When it was dark, the sun gone, sunlight replaced by street lamps, Tally knew what she had to do. Knew where she had to go. Knew it wouldn’t be easy but she was Tair’s woman and she had to be where he was. It wasn’t an option. She had no choice.

Two long flights, one terrifying helicopter landing, and a camel ride later, Tally had to admit that things were going badly.

She’d only been back in Ouaha twenty-four hours and she’d already been robbed, and left for dead. Not an auspicious return. Not exactly the homecoming she’d envisioned. She’d imagined well…not this.

And this was sand. Just lots and lots of sand. And this time Tair didn’t even know she was back. Tair didn’t know she’d decided to return. There’d be no daring rescue now.

Tally exhaled, and pulled a strand of hair from her eyelashes and tried to get more comfortable on her shirt which was protecting her from the burning grains of sand.

This was not the place to be.

She was parched, so thirsty she’d begun to see mirages in the sand. Dancing girls. Swaying palm trees. Robed warriors with swords and whips.

And guns. Or more accurately, one gun.

Tally blinked, looked up against the dazzling sun, head aching from the heat. A man stood in front of her, armed, fierce. Hideous. She frowned irritably, lifting a hand to block the sun and erase the mirage. “If you’re not real, go away.”

She heard a sigh, a very long drawn-out exasperated sigh. The kind of sigh only a man who is very long-suffering can make. “I’m real, and I’m not going away.”

Tally tried to leap up but she wobbled and nearly fell, courtesy dehydration and a nasty case of sunstroke.

With a muttered oath, Tair lifted her in his arms, dropped her on his horse and climbed into the saddle behind her. They rode for an hour or more—Tally couldn’t tell, didn’t even really care—and then they arrived to the most pitiful desert camp Tally had ever seen.

“This place is still pathetic,” she said as Tair swung her out of the saddle and onto the ground.

“We didn’t have time to pick flowers or hang new gingham curtains,” Tair said, circling Tally’s wrist with his hand and pulling her after him.

Tally spotted Tair’s old Berber servant and went to lift a hand in friendly greeting. Tair shot her a hard look. “Don’t,” he snapped. “I’m not in the mood.”

Once in his tent, with Tally sitting on cushions on the carpeted floor Tair demanded an answer. Only he didn’t put it quite that nicely. His request came out more like, “What the hell are you doing here?”