‘Fine,’ she said through clenched teeth.
‘We’ll have to brush up on your acting skills but good enough for now,’ Zach whispered against her ear and got another whiff of camel. He grimaced and wondered whether she’d been rolling around with them.
‘You can’t get away. There’s a storm brewing.’
Zach had already clocked the incoming storm and his eyes scanned the camp. Many of the men were still filling their stomachs around the campfire and the remaining ones were busy securing the tents against the rising wind. ‘I know. Perfect cover.’
She stopped and he nearly ran into her. ‘I won’t do it,’ she hissed out of the side of her mouth.
‘Your father will mourn your death, no doubt.’
‘You won’t kill me.’
Zach crowded her from behind. ‘It would be a mistake to underestimate what I would or would not do right now. Have you forgotten who my father was?’
‘Pig.’ The word was spat towards the sand.
Exactly. Zach urged her forward. ‘I’m glad we understand each other. Now, walk and none of your men will die. Hopefully.’
* * *
Farah brushed at the strands of her hair that had come loose from her struggles with the prince and which now blew uncontrollably around her face. She was so angry with herself for being duped, she could spit. No doubt this would reinforce for her father that women were best left to domestic chores and had no place getting involved in the business of men. Right now she had to agree because it was her own stupidity that had got her into this mess. As if reading her mind, the hateful prince leaned in close again, his warm breath stirring the loose strands of hair at her temple. ‘Don’t feel bad about aiding my escape. If it had been anyone else, I would have been forced to kill him.’
That thought gave her little comfort. She had made a mistake and didn’t know how to fix things. And she always knew how to fix things. It was her calling card. Everyone in the village came to her when there was trouble. And now she’d caused the trouble—or at least exacerbated it before a solution could be found.
Focusing on the biting cold wind against her face, she willed one of the men around her to notice that something was amiss. Other than a cursory glance, they didn’t question her. They trusted her. Trusted her, and she was about to let them down. A well of emotion rose up in her throat and self-pitying tears filled her eyes.
‘Stop here.’
The prince’s words were low and with a start Farah realised they had already reached the horses. As if sensing her presence, her big stallion trotted over.
‘By Allah, he’s a monster,’ the prince murmured appreciatively.
One of the men had put him in a halter and blanket to ward off the cold and as soon as he reached them he stretched his nose out to her, as if seeking a treat.
‘Yours?’
She knew from the tone of his voice that he was going to steal him and she shoved at Moonbeam’s muzzle to try and push him away.
At the same time a cry went up from across the camp. It was Amir calling her name; the prince tensed. Relief flooded Farah and she pushed harder at Moonbeam to get him to go. Typically male, he didn’t listen so she yelled at him.
More shouts rung out around them and Farah could hear the heavy sound of feet pounding the sand as her father’s men rallied. Giving up all pretence that he was still captured, the prince shoved her through the gate, her scream lost on the driving wind. Then suddenly hard hands spanned her waist and her eyes snapped back to the prince’s. She saw a moment of indecision cross his face, then she was being lifted, and she instinctively raised her leg to swing it over Moonbeam’s neck before she thought better of it.
Seconds later the prince vaulted on behind her and kicked her stallion into action. Being herd animals, the remaining horses fretted and the prince used this to his advantage, wheeling around behind them and forcing them out of the gate.
Before she knew it they were in full flight and all Farah could do was grab Moonbeam’s mane as the prince reached around her for the halter and raced them straight into the dark heart of the incoming storm.
Hours later, wet, filthy and exhausted, the prince stopped the now plodding horse. Farah would have slipped from Moonbeam’s back if the man behind her hadn’t tightened his arm around her waist, the steel-like muscles bunching beneath her breasts as they had so often done over the past few hours.
Some time ago, when the storm had hit hard, he had stopped and pulled off his shirt to tie around Moonbeam’s eyes and nose to shield him from the worst of the swirling dust. He’d then cut the bottom of her tunic to make two coverings to keep as much of the sand off their faces, as well.