Читать книгу Captive of the Desert King - Donna Young - Страница 7

She felt the pain, thick and hot. It rolled through her head and down to her chest—forced her to inhale deep. But with the oxygen came the stench of death, clouded with dust, tinted with blood. It caught in her throat and clogged her lungs.

She gagged, coughed, then gagged again before she pushed it all back with a shudder.

Blinking hard, Sarah Kwong focused through the blur and grit that coated her eyes. The pain was still there, jarred free with her short, jerky movements. She touched her temple, felt the wet, sticky blood against her fingers.

Slowly, she lifted her head and took in the damage surrounding her.

The nose and cockpit were no more than gnarled steel buried deep under sand. The pilot, Ramon, lay slumped against the instruments of the plane. The windshield had shattered on impact. Shards of glass covered the pilot’s head and upper body.

“Ramon?”

Blood matted his gray hair and coated his forehead and face in a wide, crimson mask.

She hit the release button on her seat belt and slid to the space between their seats. Vertigo hit her in waves. She stopped, caught her breath, calmed the nausea.

At sixty, Ramon had three decades on her. But with a forthcoming smile and easy banter, the pilot formed an instant rapport with her on their flight from Morocco.

She scooted forward and placed her fingers against his neck.

His pulse was weak and fluttery. Still, he had one.

Carefully, she pulled him back into his seat. Blood soaked his polo shirt, turning the navy blue a crimson black. A shard of glass, the size of her forearm, protruded from his chest. Sarah’s gut tightened in protest over the bits of bone and jagged skin that clung to its toothed edges.

The sun beat down on the plane, thickening the air to a rancid oven heat. Sweat stung her eyes. Impatiently she wiped it away, then glanced around for something to stem the flow of his blood.

Fear tightened her chest, forcing her to exhale in a long, shaky breath. “Don’t you dare die on me, Ramon,” she threatened, hoping her words would jar the injured man awake.

She’d dressed in cream-colored cotton pants, a matching long-sleeved blouse and—aware of convention in a foreign country—a camisole beneath for modesty sake.

Quickly, she unbuttoned her blouse, slipped it off, then ripped the material down the back and into two pieces.

She placed the first half under his head and pressed the second against the flow of blood from his chest.

“Don’t touch it.” The command was weak and raspy with pain.

But her relief came swift, making her voice tremble enough to draw the pilot’s gaze. “Don’t talk,” she warned, while her fingers probed lightly, judging the depth of his chest wound. “Save your strength.”

Ramon struggled to keep his leather-brown eyes on her. Blood ran from his mouth, dripped from his chin. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Don’t talk like that,” she snapped, the harshness more from fear than irritation or anger. “I just need to stop the bleeding—”

“It’s too late.” The words struggled past the moist rattle that filled his chest.

Ramon’s hand slid to his side. He pulled his gun from its holster. “Take this. Protect yourself,” he gasped. He shoved it at her until she took the pistol. “Grab the survival kit. Run.”

“Run from who?”

“Roldo.” He grasped at her arm. Blood made his fingers slick, while the loss of blood made his grip weak. “Go now.”

“I can’t leave—”

“Tell the king I’m sorry.”

Before Sarah could answer him, Ramon’s hand fell to the floor, limp.

Sarah had seen death before. Many times. But always behind yellow crime scene tape with a microphone in her hand and a camera over her shoulder.

Her fingers fluttered over his cheek, then closed his eyes.

Never had death brushed this close, or been this personal. The finality left her cold and empty.

Sarah swore and pressed her fingers into her eyes, averting the prick of tears, easing the throb of pain.

Suddenly, a horse whinnied to the right of the plane.

Sarah grabbed the gun and thumbed the safety off.

“Ramon.”

She aimed the pistol at the door. “Come through that door and it will be the last thing you do,” Sarah yelled.

“Don’t shoot, damn it. It’s Jarek, Sarah.” The sharp voice came from the outside—a command not a question. Only one man had a voice like that—the deep, haunting timbre, the edges clipped with a hint of a British accent.

When the passenger door slammed open, she was already lowering the pistol. “Your Majesty, this is a surprise.”

Coal-black eyes swept over her, taking in her slender frame, the pale skin.

She knew what he was thinking. Delicate. Reserved. Harmless. That’s what most people thought.

What he’d thought all those years ago. Before he got to know her.

“Are you injured?” He nodded toward the blood-soaked camisole.

“No.” She lied without qualm, her eyes studying the man. He hadn’t changed much over the past eight years. Leaner, more rigid, maybe. He dressed casually in tan riding breeches, a white linen shirt and black riding boots. The clothes were tailored and fit snugly over his broad shoulders, lean hips and long, masculine legs.

He certainly had the look of a desert king: an indigo scarf wrapped around his head, his sharp angled features, his skin bronzed from the sun and slightly grooved from the elements.

His eyes narrowed as they met hers.

Something shifted inside her. Fear? Relief? “Ramon is dead.”

Jarek glanced over at the pilot, but the king’s features remained stiff, emotionless. Only the slight tightening of his jaw gave away the fury beneath the indifference. Sarah realized she would have missed it if she hadn’t been studying his features so intently.

Then quickly, before she could react, he caught her chin, turned her head and examined her wound. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“No,” she lied again, resisting the urge to touch her temple. Telling Jarek about her headache wouldn’t change the situation.

She looked beyond his shoulder and through the door to the empty desert. “Any others coming?”

“No.” He released her. “Just myself. And Rashid.”

“Rashid?” Sarah repeated, surprised. “The prince is here?”

“Yes.” His mouth flattened to a hard, almost bitter line. A mouth, she remembered, that heated with passion or curved wickedly with humor.

“We have very little time. I didn’t see any jeeps with the Al Asheera. Only horses. But that doesn’t mean they don’t have them,” Jarek added. He took Ramon’s gun from her grip, then pulled her from between the seats.

“Behind you is the survival kit. Water, rations, first aid. On the floor…” he pointed under the seats “…flares.”

“Got it,” she answered, but the first thing she snagged was her purse—a brown, leather hobo bag that had seen better days.

“Forget your purse. Take what’s important. Water first.”

“My purse is important. It won’t get in the way.” Quickly, she slipped it over her neck and one shoulder. She grabbed the survival kit and the extra sack of water. It took her a moment to find the flares hidden under a broken passenger seat in the back. She shoved several into her purse, along with a loose flashlight and gloves.

Jarek leaned over and checked the pilot’s pulse. After a moment, he cupped the older man’s cheek. “May Allah keep you always, my friend.”

Sarah turned away, uncomfortable with her intrusion. She stumbled from the plane, nearly landing face-first in the scrub and sand.

“Great,” she muttered. Impatient, she reached down and broke the heels off her shoes, trying not to think about how much the cost of the tan slingbacks had set back her budget a few months earlier.

“Miss Kwong?”

All boy. That was Sarah’s first thought as she looked at Rashid. His eyes were big and wide and black as midnight. Almost too big for the small body, the baby-soft features.

“Your Highness.”

He dressed like his father in the riding pants and boots. His scarf, just a tad off center, revealed sooty black hair spiking in sweaty strands against his cheeks and ears.

“I am glad to see you are unharmed,” the little boy greeted her in a quiet voice. Those big eyes looked past her shoulder to the plane even as he helped her with the supplies.

“Is Ramon safe?”

Sarah knelt down in front of him and laid her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Sarah explained, gently. “Ramon did not survive.”

“I see,” he whispered. His throat worked spasmodically against tears. “My father?”

“He’s saying goodbye.”

Jarek stepped out to the sand. In one hand, he carried a scarf—Ramon’s head scarf—filled with more supplies. In the other hand, he carried Ramon’s pistol. “Rashid—”

“I know, Papa. Miss Kwong explained.” The words were quiet, but resolute. Sarah saw the tears swell in the young prince’s eyes and how he bit his lip to keep them from falling.

Sarah stood, but left her hand on the boy’s shoulder long enough for a gentle squeeze of encouragement.

“There is nothing we can do for Ramon,” Jarek added, his gaze narrowing over her gesture. “Please let go of my son, Miss Kwong.”

The emotions punched hard, an angry swipe at her solar plexus. Resentment. Humiliation. Rage. She fought them all as she dropped her hand.

Eight years of denial fell away, lying like broken chains at her feet.

She’d come three thousand miles to see. To finally know. And now she did.

Nothing had changed.

“Miss Kwong, have you ridden?” Jarek asked briskly, his gaze now on the horizon.

“Yes. But it’s been a long time.” Too long, she added silently and resisted the urge to rub her temples where the pain was centered.

“You’ll ride Ping.” He nodded toward the gray mare. “Give me the backpack. You can keep your purse.”

He tied the scarf and supplies to Ping’s saddle. “Rashid, come hold the horse steady.”

“It’s okay, girl.” The little boy held the bridle and stroked the horse’s nose.

“Grab the pommel,” Jarek ordered Sarah, then glanced down at her foot. Noticing the broken heels, he raised an eyebrow in question.

“They’re styled to make a great impression, not for an afternoon hike in the sand.”

“I assure you. You’ve always made an impression. Without the shoes,” he murmured, then motioned her to lift her foot.

She placed her heel in his palm, felt the slight dusting of his thumb against her ankle. Her toes curled, but her back stiffened.

“Don’t,” she snapped, low and mean.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t tell me not to touch your son one minute, then stroke me the next.”

“Rashid and Ramon were very close,” Jarek replied, his answer matching the hushed tone of hers. “If you had comforted him for much longer, the tears would’ve taken over and made things more difficult. My priority is his protection. We will have time for grief, but only after we are safe.” Then, almost deliberately, his thumb grazed her ankle again. “Now. Are you ready?”

Before she could reply, he boosted her into the saddle.

Ping bristled against the weight, stomping her front foot for a moment before a few murmured words from Rashid settled her down.

Quickly, Sarah adjusted her purse across her back and out of her way.

“Here you are, Miss Kwong.” Rashid handed her the reins.

When the boy turned away, Ping took a step forward, causing Sarah to lock her thighs on the saddle. “Whoa, girl.”

“Are you going to be all right?” Rashid asked, his small brow knitted with concern.

“I’ll be fine, Your Highness. It’s like falling off a horse, right?” Sarah winked.

The little boy smiled. A big smile that revealed a dimple in each cheek.

A small rubber band of emotion snapped inside her chest. She knew in that moment, if she wasn’t careful, she’d be a sucker for those dimples.

“Ping will follow Taaj, Miss Kwong. So all you have to do is stay in that saddle,” Jarek ordered. “If you hear gunshots, don’t look back. Do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“And keep up.” Jarek lifted Rashid onto Taaj, then swung up into the saddle behind him.

“Papa, look,” Rashid shouted.

A long line of dust clouds rose over the horizon behind them.

Sarah raised her hand to shield the sun. “What is it? A sandstorm?”

She’d read about the dangers of the desert—scorpions, vipers, raging winds of sand, but didn’t think she would ever experience any firsthand.

Jarek swore and reached for his binoculars.

“The Al Asheera. The same who gunned down the airplane. They’ve spread out and are approaching at a full gallop.”

Suddenly the sand exploded no more than fifty feet in front of them.

Ping reared back and spun herself away. Sarah grabbed the pummel and held her seat. “Whoa!”

“Rockets,” Jarek warned and pointed to the west. “Head toward those cliffs. We can hide in the caves.”

“Away from the city?” Sarah exclaimed, her head still ringing from the explosion.

“They’ve blocked our route back to the palace. Go!”

Another blast hit fifty feet to their side, narrowly missed the king and his son.

In an instant, both horses raced across the dunes. Sarah leaned close to Ping’s neck. The horse was breathing hard but Sarah didn’t dare slow her down.

“They’re deliberately driving us farther into the desert,” Jarek shouted.

Gunshots burst through the air, causing little explosions that nipped at the heels of their horses.

The Al Asheera’s cries shot across the sand. Their red robes brazen in the sunlight, the rifles raised against their shoulders.

“They’re gaining on us, Ping,” Sarah warned the horse, then gripped the saddle tighter to keep her seat.

Suddenly, Jarek pointed toward an outcropping of jagged, black stones jutting up from the sand. “Head for the rocks!”

“Come on, girl!” Sarah urged. The horse raced through the dunes and scrub to the field of rock.

Jarek pulled Taaj to a halt at the edge and checked the wind. “It’s blowing in the right direction. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

Sarah offered a brief prayer of thanks when Ping stopped alongside Taaj. “They’re coming, Jarek.” Without realizing it, Sarah said his name. He stiffened beside her, but otherwise didn’t say anything.

He slid off Taaj and gave the reins to Rashid. “Get as far into the field as you can, then wait for me. Go slow enough so the horses can find footing. The last thing we need is for them to break a leg.”

Bullets strafed the rocks a few yards behind him.

“Did you grab the flares from the cockpit?” Jarek asked.

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Four.”

“Give them to me.”

She dug into her purse until her fingers touched plastic caps. “Here.”

He tucked the end of the scarf over his face, then snapped the lids off two flares and struck the ends against a nearby rock. “Go!”

Sarah followed Rashid over the broken bits of stone. “What is he doing?”

Sparks shot from the flares. Jarek tossed one, then another toward the edge of the rock bed.

“Look.” Rashid pointed to the edge of shale.

Almost instantly, a fire fluttered over the ground in an orange haze of heat.

“That’s not big enough—”

“Watch,” Rashid responded, cutting her off.

Within moments, smoke rose from the flames, dense with sulphur, black with oil, until it stood twenty feet high—and more than thirty times that in length.

“The smoke is too thick for them to see the ground,” Rashid explained, but the young boy’s eyes never left his father.

“They can’t bring their horses in over the rocks without risking injury.”

“They could walk them through,” Sarah answered, her eyes never wavering from Jarek.

“It would take too long. They would pass out from the fumes.”

The dark cloud gathered strength, rolling over the rocks as it grew in girth. Jarek scraped the last two flares against the stone, turned and was swallowed whole.

Sarah held her breath. The fumes stung her nostrils, coated her lungs.

In the distance they could hear horses scream. Men yelled obscenities. Gunshots bounced behind them, too far to cause damage.

Jarek. Sarah’s mind screamed his name, willing him to reappear.

Suddenly, he broke from the darkness, running after the horses.

Within moments, he swung up behind his son. His scarf was gone from his face. Black streaks smudged his cheek, across his forehead. But otherwise he appeared no worse for the experience.

“That was close.” She exhaled slowly, hoping to settle the pounding in her head, the queasiness that slapped at the back of her throat. He was safe. They were safe.

“You think we’re safe?”

Startled, she realized she’d spoken the words out loud.

“Yes.” She glanced back. The river of fire and smoke had widened the distance between them and the Al Asheera. “Safer than we were a few moments ago.”

Jarek’s gaze flickered over her. “Do you know how to pray, Miss Kwong?”

“Yes.” Hadn’t she just done that very thing for him?

“Then I suggest you start,” Jarek answered grimly. “Because this only delayed them. Next time, they’ll be more prepared.”