Читать книгу The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride - Annie West - Страница 6

THE maelstrom buffeted them, almost knocking him to the ground. How he managed to steer a course for whatever shelter he’d found, she couldn’t imagine. But his arms held her in a grip of steel as if he’d never let her go.

She buried her head into the base of his neck, shielding herself from the stinging sand. His skin was wet, slick, and scented with something she suspected was unique to him. The heavy thump of his heart, regular and strong, tempered the fear that crowded in on her.

He lowered her on her back into what felt like a hollow in the sand. As she settled in the dip he lay down above her. He was taller, broader, more solid than she. He covered her completely, a barrier against the terrifying wind that roared through the night. It was difficult to draw breath with him pressing down on her. Sand clogged her nostrils and her breathing came in rapid pants. She had to calm herself, slow her breathing.

She had to get free. She moved to slide her hands over his head. Immediately one large hand clamped hers.

‘Leave them.’ His lips brushed her ear. ‘Less likely to be separated.’

The wind escalated to a scream, and through the din she thought she heard another sound, a heavy thud beside them.

The man above her flinched and sagged onto her, heavier than before. For a moment he was limp, squashing her down into the sand. Then he gathered himself and lifted his torso just enough so she could breathe again.

‘Are you all right?’ she yelled in his ear.

‘Just hold on tight, Ms Winters.’

The formality was absurd in the circumstances. He was all that stood between her and possible death. This stranger who’d appeared when she was at her weakest: injured, desperate and almost despairing. He’d shared his strength, giving her hope when she most needed it.

And now, wearing nothing but a swimsuit and a pair of manacles, she lay as close to him as any lover. His bulk pressed down on her—a shield against the storm’s savage fury. In the process she was discovering the unique imprint of his body, learning the impressively hard planes and lean muscles of this superbly built stranger.

And she didn’t even know who he was.

She opened her mouth to ask his name, then shut it. He wouldn’t be able to hear her over the tumult.

Instead she did what little she could for the man who risked his life for her. She spread her fingers over the back of his head, hoping to protect him from flying debris. Then she turned her face towards his, finding primitive comfort in the haze of his breath against her skin.

Rafiq felt the moment she surrendered to the inevitable and lay quiet beneath him. The rapid beat of her heart slowed to something closer to normal and her fierce rigidity lessened. But she didn’t relax her hold. Her hands splayed protectively over his skull, as if to ward off hurt.

His lips twisted at the absurdity of the gesture.

Ms Isabelle Margaret Winters, twenty-five, of Cairns, Australia, was a remarkable woman. A fighter, determined to push herself beyond the limits of normal endurance if she had to. She didn’t give up, no matter what the odds.

She’d even tackled Dawud with his own knife!

He smiled at the memory. If they got out of this alive he’d enjoy using that piece of information.

Dawud was an old friend, but sometimes he forgot that he couldn’t make Rafiq’s decisions. He’d even tried to argue that he should stay behind with Isabelle Winters. Dawud should have known better. Rafiq was responsible for her. He knew his duty. He’d learned early to shoulder his responsibilities and face every challenge head-on.

He shifted his weight, trying to ease the searing pain in his shoulder where something had sheared through the air and slammed into him. The movement only made him more aware of her soft body cushioning him. With her arms over his shoulders, her high breasts tilted against him. Her hips cradled him in a way that made him think of bedroom pleasures. The intimate touch of her lips against his chin made him wonder what her kisses would be like.

He was aware of her with every sense. Could feel her femininity against his hardness. Despite the grit in his nostrils, he inhaled the intriguing scent of her skin. Could imagine the taste of her on his tongue.

And he could sense her confusion and desperate fear.

He dragged his brain back to their predicament, furious at his weakness. To be distracted by a beautiful woman now, in this extremity! It was beyond all logic.

Would flying debris be the worst they’d have to endure? Or would the atoll be washed away?

It was in the hands of destiny.

The thought made him recall his grandfather. The old man had firmly believed in the force of destiny. Even when he’d lost his son, Rafiq’s father, he’d remained as proud and stiff-necked as ever, saying that his son’s fate had been written and blaming no one for the accident.

If the old man were alive, he’d say it was Rafiq’s fate to be on this outlying isle with Isabelle Winters.

After all, she wouldn’t be here but for Rafiq. He’d made it his business to approve personally the members of the marine survey expedition, expediting visa arrangements. Without his agreement she wouldn’t be in his country.

And now this. Guilt seared him. She was an innocent pawn in a political scheme of which she knew nothing.

The storm would delay Dawud’s return to the main island. He wouldn’t arrive before the deadline for payment of the kidnap ransom. And Dawud couldn’t send a message ahead from the inflatable with news. The radio was dead. A malfunction due to the storm or to sabotage?

Without word that the captives were safe, no one would dare countermand Rafiq’s initial order to pay the ransom if the hostages weren’t found in time.

Much as it had galled him to give in to the demand, Rafiq had known immediately that Isabelle Winters and her companion were in great peril. He knew who was behind the kidnapping. And he knew that without the ransom one or both hostages would be killed.

He refused to have that on his conscience.

He’d bring the ringleader to justice. But it would be too late to save the kidnap victims. So he’d bargained for time. Q’aroum didn’t need the international notoriety that the kidnap and execution of foreign nationals would bring. His country had a reputation for stability, for being a place where it was safe to do business. That couldn’t be jeopardised.

So right about now, according to his instructions, the outrageous ransom demand was being paid. And there’d be no keeping it secret. Not in a place like Q’aroum, where news spread with the speed and inevitability of the desert wind.

By morning the whole island nation would know that the Peacock’s Eye, the most revered and coveted family heirloom in the world, and one of his country’s national treasures, had been paid for the life of the woman in his arms.

Belle woke to the dull pounding of the surf.

So. She was alive.

Experimentally she shifted her legs, gritting her teeth as abrasive sand scratched the raw skin of her ankles. Fiery circlets of pain ringed her feet, throbbing in time with her pulse.

At least she had a pulse. Last night she’d wondered if she’d see another dawn.

If it hadn’t been for him she might not have survived. He’d protected her with his body as the cyclone tore the night apart. The din had stunned her, and nothing had existed beyond the barrage of sound and his weight on her. And the steady beat of his heart that had kept her hope alive.

Who was he? Where was he?

She squinted up through gritty eyes. A stab of bright sunlight blinded her and the ache in her head ignited into a flame of agony that kept time with the pulse of pain in her legs. Tentatively she moved her hands. Sharp pins and needles shot through her. She’d spent the night with her arms wrapped around his head. Now her shoulders had set.

Belle clenched her jaw as she dragged down protesting arms, rolled over and levered herself up onto her knees. Her bones had surely calcified, unwilling to permit movement. She braced herself on her hands and opened her eyes again. Blearily she focussed on the ugly manacles.

She remembered the hulking brute who’d locked them round her wrists. His satisfaction as he’d watched her struggle against their unforgiving weight.

Suddenly she understood with nauseating certainty that lack of funds hadn’t prevented the kidnappers using modern, lightweight handcuffs. Those men had bristled with an arsenal of automatic weapons. The manacles had been a deliberately sadistic choice. Anger surged through her. Searing fury at her helpless sense of violation.

But they hadn’t won. She hadn’t given up fighting.

She forced herself to stand, ignoring the silent scream of protesting muscles. For a moment she swayed. Then she planted her feet wide, found her balance and straightened. She narrowed her eyes against the glare. A black bank of cloud marked the distant horizon, but overhead the grey was broken by patches of bright light.

The sea was high, rough and threatening. The island wasn’t familiar any more. Its boundaries had changed in the night, reshaped by the gouging sea. Slowly she turned. During the night the force of the wind and water had eaten into the island, carving a sheltered, almost enclosed inlet at its centre.

There! Was that where the hut had stood? She shuddered as she saw the remnants. It had collapsed, a death trap of tumbled walls that would have crushed anyone inside.

Her next desperate breath bruised her lungs. Her eyes swam and she stumbled. Frantically she scanned the debris for any shape that looked human.

Something dropped hard in the pit of her stomach at the possibility he might be injured. Or worse.

Slowly she turned.

And there he was.

Her unsteady legs gave way and she collapsed abruptly onto the sun-warmed sand. Her eyes widened in disbelief.

He rose like some bronzed deity from the water. Naked. Elementally masculine. Potently desirable.

Her pulse thumped a rapid tattoo in her throat and a spiral of feminine excitement coiled tight within her, making her gasp at its intensity. Thank goodness he had his back to her and couldn’t read her stunned reaction.

She’d watched him in the wavering torchlight. She’d spent the night clasped in his arms, learning at first hand the tough masculine planes and bunched muscles that comprised his body. But still she hadn’t been prepared.

His wide shoulders tapered through a strong torso to a lean waist. Slick jet-black hair splayed down over his neck and reached his shoulders. His skin was smooth and glistening. Belle’s fingers clenched into tight fists.

Her gaze strayed lower. The curve of tight, round buttocks. The weight of muscled thighs. Innate strength and endurance. He stretched his arms out and she stared, mesmerised, at the movement of muscles in his back.

He dropped his hands to his sides and shook his head, flicking diamond droplets of water from his hair. He was about to move. And here she was, playing voyeur!

Belle stumbled to her feet and turned away. He’d looked so…elemental. An embodiment of masculine power that would both thrill and frighten any woman.

A sudden blast of need rocked her. Melting awareness. Choking heat. The desire to have those strong arms shelter her again. But this time his body would warm her in different ways and his hands would caress her.

She shook her head. This was absurd. She’d survived the ordeal of a lifetime: violence and pain, threat and terror. How could she even think about sexual attraction?

Had something fused in her brain? Or was this a primitive reaction to her near-fatal experience?

The urge to escape, to be alone with her confused emotions, was overwhelming. But there was nowhere to go. She was a prisoner here with her buccaneer.

Rafiq yanked the trousers up his wet legs and watched her stare out to sea, seeking some sign of rescue.

She looked lost and alone, her slender body held upright only by the steely determination he’d seen in her. Her hair was a matted nimbus around her head, not like the sleek style in her passport photo. Rings of bruised, bloody skin marked her ankles where the irons had bitten.

She should look pathetic, an object of sympathy, he told himself as he hauled his shirt on and strode towards her. Yet he saw only the streamlined perfection of her toned body. The inviting flare of her hips that had cradled him through the night till he’d thought he’d go mad, resisting urges that were nigh on irresistible. He read tensile strength in the set of her shoulders, in her wide-planted, honey-tanned legs.

He thrust aside the subtle voice of temptation.

‘Ms Winters.’ He saw her tense, but she didn’t turn. ‘How do you feel this morning?’

‘Glad to be alive.’ She half turned her head. ‘And you?’ There was strain in her profile, at odds with her determined chin and the strength of her neat, straight nose.

‘All in one piece,’ he responded, injecting a lightness into his tone that he didn’t feel. ‘We’ve had a lucky escape. Your colleague, Mr MacDonald, will be glad to see you.’

She nodded. Despite his better judgement, he allowed his gaze to slip down over her azure swimsuit. Her slim, perfect body dried his mouth. Sweat prickled his palms.

He wanted to erase the memory of last night—of her terror—in the simplest, most effective way. With pleasure. Carnal pleasure.

But eventually her rigid stillness penetrated his racing brain. Realisation hit and guilt flooded him.

No wonder she wouldn’t turn to look at him! She was embarrassed, wearing a skintight swimsuit in front of a man she barely knew. That explained the high set of her shoulders, the tension humming through her every muscle.

She could only feel vulnerable after what she’d been through. Who knew what trauma she’d experienced?

A leaden weight settled in his belly as he thought of her, alone with a band of kidnapping thugs. He wanted to reach out and comfort her. But that would be a mistake.

As if to confirm it, she shifted, edging away.

‘A rescue team will be on its way as soon as possible,’ he assured her.

She nodded, but stood aloof. She looked as fragile as spun glass. It wouldn’t take much to shatter her.

A ray of sunlight illuminated her golden hair and limned her sleekly curved body. Something caught at his breath, deep down in his chest. He frowned. He’d known more beautiful women. Had more beautiful women. Gorgeous, consciously seductive women. But Isabelle Winters stirred his blood in a way he’d never experienced.

Was it her incredible inner strength? Her bravery? Or the way she carried herself—like royalty—despite the barbarous manacles and her state of undress?

Or perhaps it was because she was the only woman he’d ever lain with all night and not made love to.

She swayed and he bit back an oath, registering her trembling knees and the stress lines that tightened her lips. Pain and reaction were finally taking their toll.

Rafiq grabbed her upper arms, tempering his hold to a gentle, sustaining pressure. He ignored the frisson of awareness that skimmed his palms at the contact, the skirl of heat that ignited in his gut.

Carefully, touching her as lightly as possible, he helped her to sit. Bending down close, he saw the pupils dilate in her wide blue eyes. She was in shock.

‘You need to get warm.’ Already he was unbuttoning his shirt. Her jaw was set as if against a chill, and her hands were clenched, white-knuckled together. He saw a tremor ripple right through her.

Her nipples pebbled against the thin blue fabric. And his lower body tightened in a telltale response that made him grit his teeth.

‘I’m not cold,’ she protested. ‘We’re in the tropics!’

‘Nevertheless.’ He dragged the shirt off his shoulders and draped it round her. She smelt warm and enticingly female. Awareness of her vulnerability tugged at his senses and he straightened, stepping away from her.

‘You’re hurt!’ She’d seen his shoulder. Something had smashed into him last night and gashed him.

She raised her hands, pointing, and he sucked in his breath. She looked like a suppliant, kneeling at his feet. Ultra-feminine in his oversized shirt, breasts tilted up towards him by the movement of her arms.

She could have been some sexy modern-day slave, begging.

And in that instant, staring down at her, he felt a hot, primitive force surge in him. The instinct to reach out and grab. His blood quickened, his body hardened at the sensual image. At the idea of making her his. At the ruthless need to conquer and possess.

Generations of al Akhtar blood ran in his veins. Generations of fighters, leaders of men, pirates. His ancestors had been renowned for their rapacious passion and the single-minded pursuit of what they wanted.

Who could fight centuries of conditioning?

Already he could taste her sweetness like a drug on his tongue. Every muscle tensed like iron and his pulse drummed hard in anticipation. He remembered the feel of her beneath him, the combination of softness and strength, and knew she’d be perfect for him.

He only had to reach out. To take.

And then he registered her wide stare, the confusion in her eyes. Reality crashed upon him. He shook his head, trying to clear the miasma that fogged his brain.

‘You’re injured,’ she said again.

‘It’s nothing.’ His voice was brusque.

Her hands dropped to her knees, her clear bright gaze slid from his.

He was the worst kind of savage. Ill-tempered because compassion, the rules of civilised society, his sense of responsibility, all proclaimed she wasn’t for him. He shouldn’t want her. Not so elementally, so viscerally.

Yet it was so.

The first time he’d looked into her eyes sizzling fire had blasted through him. It scorched him still.

But he had an obligation to protect her.

‘Let me see how badly you’re hurt.’ His voice was low, brushing across her sensitive nerves like the stroke of plush fur on bare skin. Belle darted a look up and found him still watching her.

Instead of dark eyes to match his black-as-night hair, his eyes were a deep, clear green. An exact match for the enticing crystal water where she’d dived this past week.

She stared, enthralled by a flicker of heat in those cool, sexy eyes.

Yet his face was hard, its strong lines set with disapproval. Had he guessed her secret thoughts? Recognised the delicious thrill that shivered through her as he towered over her? Or her rush of excitement as he’d stripped off his shirt to reveal that powerful, muscular chest?

It took all her will-power to keep her gaze fixed on his face, not follow the arrowing line of dark, masculine hair that invited her attention down his belly.

With his superb fitness, his air of supreme competence and control, he must belong to some élite rescue squad. The sort called in when things got really tough.

And with those looks he probably had adoring women throwing themselves at him with monotonous regularity.

No doubt he was hoping the wreck of a woman he’d just saved wouldn’t follow suit.

Embarrassment heated her cheeks as she watched his mouth firm into a narrow line. He knew what she felt, all right, but he was gentleman enough to ignore her weakness. If she was lucky he’d dismiss it as a product of post-traumatic stress. As she intended to.

‘Ms Winters.’ In one supple move he sat before her and reached out one hand, palm up. ‘Let me see your wrists.’

Wordlessly she complied, sucking in a long, calming breath as he took her hands in his and concentrated his attention on her torn, bruised skin. She already knew the touch of those long, capable fingers, the brush of calluses against her flesh. But familiarity didn’t prevent the melting sensation that spread through her.

‘It’s Belle,’ she said at last, her voice uneven.

‘Belle.’ He paused, her name on his tongue, and fire shot down to the centre of her being. He lifted his head to meet her eyes. ‘And you must call me Rafiq.’

She nodded. ‘Rafiq.’ She should have guessed even his name would be sexy.

‘Your hands are knocked about, but with antibiotics to ward off infection they should heal.’ He opened his hands and she slid hers out of his hold.

‘Let me see your ankles now.’ He reached down and lifted her foot in one hand, gently brushing the sand away.

‘Not too bad, considering,’ he said finally, after a close inspection. ‘If you’re lucky you’ll only have minimal scarring.’

Belle nodded, relieved when he released her. His nearness, even the whisper of his warm breath against her skin, set her senses reeling. She was so utterly attuned to him she was sure he could read the longing in her gaze.

‘Do you have any other injuries?’ Was that a thread of tension she detected in his tone?

She turned from her contemplation of the empty ocean to find his attention fixed on her thigh. A large, multicoloured bruise marred her leg—unmistakably the mark of a massive hand.

Belle shuddered as she remembered getting that bruise. Heavy, thickset men, rank with the smell of sour sweat and excitement. Cruel eyes that told her they’d enjoyed maiming Duncan, would enjoy hurting her. For an instant she was sucked back into the nightmare, confused and fighting the choking panic that threatened to take hold.

She blinked, forcing herself to put aside the memory. There were more sore spots round her waist. Tentatively she touched them and winced.

‘A couple of bruises,’ she said, aiming for a matter-of-fact tone and failing. ‘They’ll heal in time.’

A burst of guttural Arabic, savage and uncompromising, broke across her words. Startled, she raised her eyes to see a look of such fierce emotion on Rafiq’s face that she flinched. It was as if he’d transformed into a stranger. An intense, deadly stranger.

Then his eyes met hers and the impression was dispelled, his face smoothing out into the familiar mask of cool control.

‘Forgive me, MsWinters—Belle.’ He paused, and she noticed the rapid tic of his pulse at the base of his throat. Not so calm, then.

He gestured abruptly to the livid bruise on her leg. ‘This is untenable. That my countrymen have treated you in this way—’ He bit off the words and drew in a breath that made his broad chest heave. ‘Apologies are insufficient for such a crime. But, for what it’s worth, you have mine.’

She shook her head, bemused. ‘It’s not your fault, Rafiq. You rescued us. Put yourself in danger to help.’

A single slashing movement of his hand cut her off.

‘It sickens me that you have suffered violence at the hands of these men. Abduction and harm. When you are on the mainland, have no fear, you will be given the best of medical service. Counselling—whatever is appropriate.’

She watched him stretch out his fingers in a deliberate movement of forced relaxation. It was totally at odds with the tension in his big frame.

‘And while you recuperate your attackers will be brought to justice. They will not long escape their punishment.’ The stormy light in his eyes sent a thrill of apprehension skittering down her spine.

He paused. ‘We have extremely competent female doctors who can take care of you and discuss your…experiences.’

He turned his gaze from her as if to give her privacy. And in that moment she realised why he’d been so outraged at the sight of her injuries. Embarrassment warred with relief and the need to reassure him.

‘Rafiq,’ she said, reaching out to touch his hand before she could change her mind. His fingers curled round hers and a jolt of blazing energy shot through her.

‘They didn’t…’She hesitated. ‘They only hurt me to get me to move, to obey them. They didn’t…’

‘Rape you?’ His voice was a husky murmur.

‘No.’

She was fine. Really. She’d survived. Her injuries were minor. So why did the recollection of her kidnappers’ avid eyes upset her? Why did she choke on the bitter taste of tears that blocked her throat and prickled her eyes?

‘Habibti,’ Rafiq murmured, touching her cheek in a feather-light caress that loosened her hold on her welling emotions even further. ‘You’ve been through so much. There’s no need to fight yourself as well. There is no shame in feeling upset.’

She responded to the sound of his voice, rich and warm, as much as to his words. Blindly she nodded, instinctively leaning towards the comfort of his solid frame. His hands closed round her arms and her rigid control slipped another notch. She felt as if she were unravelling, the very core of her loosening, unwinding, fraying. The dam that held her emotions in check splintered. Relief and remembered terror roiled within her in great, sickening waves.

For a long moment he held her at a distance, his hands supportive, bracing. The first sob rose in her throat, raw and wretched. And with one decisive movement of superb strength he lifted her, pulling her into his arms to cradle her against his torso.

His lips moved against her hair, whispering words of reassurance as she cried out her pain. He rocked her slowly. The heat of his body seeped into the chill of hers and the scent of him, of sea and musk, banished the lingering taste of rancid horror from her mouth. His heart was steady beneath her ear, calming, powerful.

Finally the storm of grief and pain eased.

Belle felt herself float, boneless and weightless, in his embrace. 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 slitted, puffy eyes into the glare.

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

‘I 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.

‘It’s good to see you again,’ she said.

‘And you, Ms Winters. It’s a great relief to see you safe and sound.’ His gaze slid from hers to Rafiq’s.

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