Читать книгу Desert Rogue - Erin Yorke - Страница 7

Almost two hundred miles south of Cairo, Victoria, deposited as she was in the lowest part of the falucca, could feel the boat turning. She twisted her slender frame until she could look upward and see the sky beginning to show signs of evening, the sun cooling off to trace soft lavenders and blues across the heavens.

In the bottom of the boat, protected from sight and any possibility of a cooling breeze, the young Englishwoman knew only suffocating heat and discomfort.

This morning, though, just before dawn, the men had drawn the craft into shore in an uninhabited stretch of the Nile, beached it and allowed her a modicum of freedom, if not privacy, to care for her needs before resuming their rapid flight upriver. While they did not pamper her, neither could they afford to have their prisoner die of thirst or malnutrition.

As hard as Victoria tried to keep from surrendering to her fear, concentrating instead on Hayden’s inevitable pursuit, every mile they sped from Cairo increased the apprehension she sought to bury. Had her mother recalled the unfamiliar falucca she’d pointed out that night and associated it with her disappearance? If she had, was it not possible that the authorities might overtake these villains at any moment?

Straining her ears for unusual noise, the slender blonde was disappointed to hear only the rustle of rushes against the boat and the soft scraping of the sand as its hull touched bottom.

A heavy splash sounded suddenly, accompanied by a violent rocking. Someone jumping overboard to pull the boat in, she supposed, hopefully the tall, foul-smelling fellow.

Then the movement stopped altogether and the pudgy Arab loomed over her, reached down and grabbed her arm, pulling her awkwardly to her feet.

Unable to voice her disgust at being manhandled, Victoria shrank away from the man, her muscles stiff from being in one position for so long.

“Soft lady,” muttered her captor, supporting her weight against him as he ran his callused hand over her hair, bringing coarse fingers up to stroke her cheek.

Had Victoria been able to, she would have spit in his face. Who did he think he was to touch her so freely? No one, not even Hayden, touched her without permission, and that was something she did not often give.

“I wager the rest of her is just as sweet,” said the odorous one, stepping forward to pull open her blouse. He’d been too long without a woman and here was this one, available, if not willing. “Let’s have a look at her.”

Unwilling to tolerate his impudence, Victoria didn’t stop to think, but swiftly wrenched her body free of the first man’s grasp with such force that she lost her balance, falling sideways against the hull and banging her head in the process.

“What are you ignorant dung-eaters doing?” bellowed a voice from outside the falucca. All at once the boat shook as their leader regained the deck, coming to stand between his men, scowling at the fallen Victoria. Even in a fit of temper, he spoke in English for the captive’s benefit. It was time she knew her destiny. “We have strict instructions. She is not to be touched or you will pay with your lives.”

“And you as well, Muhammed, not that you haven’t been wearing out your eyes staring at her curves.”

“But I am not jackal enough to use the merchandise before it is sold. English or not, unless she is pure, the slave market at Khartoum will not get top price, and our master Zobeir’s scheme will go awry. Remember, we will share the profit yielded by his cleverness. No bothering her!”

At the others’ reluctant nods, he relaxed his hold on the fearsome knife at his waist and motioned toward Victoria.

“Lift her carefully and bring her ashore to relieve herself. Farouk, fill the water jugs. Hurry so we can sail again.”

A short while later, when her gag was removed and Victoria was seated beside the apparent organizer of the group, she had prepared her arguments. Ignoring the goat cheese and dry bread he placed before her, Victoria chose to speak for freedom.

“See here, you said you were taking me to the slave marts at Khartoum. My family will pay you handsomely to take me home instead. You saw their lands. You must know they are wealthy,” she pressed. “A thousand pounds...two thousand. How much can a slave trader offer you?”

“Much more for a woman with blue eyes like yours, especially if she keeps her mouth shut,” he snarled, spitting out the pit of an olive. “Eat now or you will go hungry.”

“If you insist on selling me, you should know that you will never live to spend your fee,” said the blonde, refusing to consider the possibility of such an occurrence taking place. Hayden would come to rescue her long before they ever reached Khartoum. “Whoever your master is, he cannot possibly escape Queen Victoria’s forces.”

“The good Queen means nothing in Khartoum. It is outside her province,” chuckled the native, briefly tempted to take the woman’s money. Still, he would die more painfully and much more slowly if he disobeyed Zobeir, the slave trader. No, the female would be delivered as ordered. Rising to his feet, he looked down at the girl. “Money is the only power in that city, and you cannot pay what Zobeir will receive for your lovely white skin. Eat now. We leave in five minutes.”

Biting back her disappointment, Victoria took a sip of the wine he had provided. The fool had rejected the salvation she had offered, so there was nothing to do but wait for the British army to overtake them or at worst to invade Khartoum. It was regrettable an international incident could not be avoided, but she could do no more. There was absolutely no doubt Hayden would rescue her.

* * *

On the fourth day of their forced excursion out of Cairo, Ali could see no reason to celebrate. Instead of holding his head up proudly, running his shop and bringing honor to his family, he had been ignominiously linked to this rowdy foreigner until the ransom for the English girl was paid, an issue that never should have involved Ali Sharouk.

Where the American viewed this journey as merely another exciting chapter in his quixotic existence, Ali sorely missed his own bed, his loving wife, and even the tiresome chores associated with his livelihood. His only consolation was that since they had begun their pilgrimage, Kincaid had become a man whose only vice was dedication to his mission. Yet the foreigner’s very intensity made him as fearsome sober as he had been drunk.

Still, they had made excellent time on the Nile considering the current, one sleeping while the other maneuvered the craft. Now, however, the overland trek was about to begin.

“Enough sleep, American,” he announced abruptly, using his foot to nudge the dozing figure, successfully resisting the urge to kick more forcefully. “It is time we must go.”

“The only thing you must do is to quit telling me what to do,” snarled Jed, thoroughly aggravated by his unwanted companion. He wasn’t a native to the Egyptian desert, but Jed had spent enough time in it to learn the tricks of survival. Besides, being bred in the city of Cairo, Ali probably knew less than he did. “I’ve told you a dozen times already, go home and let me see to my business my way.”

“Our business, Kincaid, much to my misfortune.”

“But it was my idea to deliver the ransom. Hell, without me, you’d be rotting in jail—”

“Without you, I would have no reason to be in jail. You started this whole sorry mess by landing on my coffee set whose design took weeks to hammer—”

“We’ve already been through this—”

“And then you tried to escape responsibility—”

“All right. I’ve heard it all at least a hundred times—”

“And struck a police officer—”

“I’m going to beat the tar out of you if you don’t shut your mouth,” yelled Jed, jumping to his feet. To his amusement, the other man stood his ground. Giving the Egyptian a look of pure malice, Jed laughed and began gathering his gear. “Let’s get one thing straight, Sharouk. I am no happier to be stuck with you than you are with me. In fact, I’m a damned sight unhappier—”

“Impossible,” muttered Ali.

“I told you to go home and wait for my message, but you wouldn’t hear of it.”

“That is not the honorable thing to do.”

“But it’s a hell of a lot more practical! Without you, I could have been halfway to the oasis already, but you insisted on wasting extra hours packing supplies—”

“It is only prudent to be prepared. It makes a long journey safer,” retorted Ali, folding the canvas shelter he had erected against the sun.

“It makes a long journey longer,” snorted the dark-haired American, running a hand across his ever-increasing beard. Ali was a novice at this, Jed reflected, mounting the larger of the horses Ali had hired near where they had traded the falucca.

“Enough talk. Let’s ride,” Jed ordered, determined to reach the oasis as quickly as possible now. The thought of surrendering five thousand pounds to unknown villains with no guarantee of the girl’s safety still irked him, but perhaps another option would evolve. It would depend on the situation south of the wadi. If the girl was there, well... No man would say Jed Kincaid couldn’t accomplish what he set out to do, regardless of the wishes of the authorities or puppets like Hayden Reed.

* * *

Miles spent on horseback over almost imperceptible routes through the desert didn’t mellow the Egyptian’s stubborn resistance to Jed’s leadership. After a hard day of riding, they’d reached the oasis and Ali wanted nothing more than to turn over the ransom and head back. Jed, however, had other notions.

“By the life of the Prophet, American, you are magnun, crazy! Risking our lives for a woman we did not know was insane, but we had no choice once you opened your mouth to Reed. This new scheme of yours, however, makes no sense. No matter how you threaten me, I will not agree. Your foolishness will not cost me my life,” muttered Ali as they lay in the sand, watching the small camp in the oasis for signs of movement.

Well removed from the most frequented trails across the desert, this small haven of shade and water had seen no arrivals since they’d begun their vigil in late afternoon. Clearly the kidnappers had known what they were doing when they chose it. Indeed, from what Jed could discern, they hadn’t even set a guard, though that didn’t mean a trap wasn’t laid within the oasis.

“Reed said we were to work together,” complained Ali. It was not that he wanted to venture into the camp himself, but he could not justify Jed’s acting alone, nor could he trust the dangerous gleam lighting his companion’s eyes.

“Reed is an unqualified jackass,” answered Jed, hard put to respect even those of legitimate authority. While there was the smallest chance of success, he could not let it pass. “Look at it this way, Sharouk, if it is a trap and we go in together, who will be left to report what happened to Hayden Reed?”

“But if they think you are alone—”

“They may be careless and give me the chance to save the girl and the money—”

“No! You swore you were not going to try that,” protested Ali, jumping up and pulling his knife. “I will cut you myself before the others have a chance if you are so foolhardy as to risk our lives so you can be a hero—”

“All right, all right. No heroics, but I am going in alone to deliver the money.”

“Why you? I am perfectly capable of doing as Reed ordered, handing over the English pounds while you sit here with the flies buzzing in your ear and the fleas biting at your—”

“I give the orders, damn it! Don’t you know the only reason Reed sent you was to prevent me from taking off with the cash? Regardless of your fine opinion of yourself, you’re nothing but a glorified watchdog.”

“And you would trust such a lowly dog to guard your back? How do you know I won’t put a knife in it instead?” challenged the Egyptian. Had he known what his brass coffee set would cost him, he would have long ago forgone its price.

“You’re too blasted concerned with your good name and your shop to do anything so disreputable, which is what got you into this fix in the first place. Besides, if you ever thought to cross me, I would sense it and you’d never live long enough to make your plans a reality. Stop your complaining and listen,” ordered the American. “If you hear trouble, come in fast, ready to toss that knife.”

“If I don’t hear trouble, you mean. Death in the desert is swift and silent,” warned Ali grudgingly.

Nodding at the advice, Jed slung the money pouch over his shoulder and moved stealthily through the darkness, determined to see what he could before he himself was seen.

A thousand yards from where Ali waited, a single man sat by a small campfire, smoking and drinking from a jug. The low tent behind him had a lantern shining within, so doubtless there was at least one more kidnapper around. The only question remaining was whether or not Victoria Shaw was at the oasis, as well. In all likelihood, they were holding her elsewhere, but Jed couldn’t afford to risk the young woman’s life on a miscalculation. In truth, he was surprised at the concern he felt for this female he’d never set eyes on, but given her attachment to Hayden Reed, she surely deserved his sympathy, if not his condolences.

He had to admit that as Ali suspected, he would like nothing better than to return the money and Reed’s fiancée unharmed, just for the satisfaction of making the Englishman apologize.

Hesitating in the inky shadows, Jed weighed his options. If he did rush the camp, he might take them by surprise, but that would count for nothing should he be greatly outnumbered. Then, too, he had promised Sharouk not to give in to heroics, no matter how tempting it might be. Instead, he would learn what he could before he surrendered the ransom. But, if he stood here much longer, nothing would ever happen. The American secreted the money bag beneath his shirt and stood up.

“Salam habib. Greetings, friend, could you spare a smoke?” he called, strolling casually into the light of the campfire. “I find myself fresh out of my brand.”

The Arab was on his feet at once, calling for help even as Jed raised his hands in the air and gave a short chuckle.

“Stepped into a viper’s nest, have I, then? Well, let me assure you, this American doesn’t intend any harm,” he drawled, deciding he would learn more feigning ignorance of Arabic than speaking it. “You got somebody around who knows English?”

“Amerikani, are you?” asked a voice from the open tent where a second man stood watching, a rifle ready as he moved forward to confront the stranger. “Far from home, wouldn’t you say?”

“I can’t deny it, but then you haven’t met my missus,” Jed lied jokingly, noting the modern weapon was expertly handled by the Arab, despite his unsophisticated appearance. “The farther I am from that woman, the better I like it. I don’t suppose you have a more accommodating female around here? I’d pay well.”

For a moment the Arab’s eyes narrowed as he considered whether the dusty, unkempt male before him might be the Shaws’ messenger. Then he shook his head at the improbability of it. No lone man would be so bold as to blithely step into his enemies’ camp. No, this was only some eccentric American who would be dead before he left the desert.

“I’m afraid not, but if you want to share a drink or two, I’ve some zabeeb you might enjoy,” he offered, motioning the other to relax his guard. “Hammud’s the name.”

“Jed Kincaid. My horse turned up lame a few miles out and I had no choice but to shoot her. Any chance you could spare one? I fear it’s a long way to the nearest village.”

“There again I’ll have to disappoint you, American. Once we have concluded our business, we head to Khartoum. We only have horses for ourselves,” explained the Sudanese, pouring liberal tots of the native liquor.

“Khartoum? What’s down there?” Jed pressed, playing with his drink as he watched the others empty their cups in short order. “Other than miles and miles of savannah, I mean?”

“He wants to know why we go to Khartoum,” the leader translated for his cohort.

“High prices for blond English women,” snickered the guard in Arabic. “Zobeir pays well.”

“Yes, and he’s shrewd, too. While we keep the ransom for our efforts, he’ll sell the girl and line his pockets,” reminded Hammud, his caution gone as he refilled their glasses.

“It’s just too bad we couldn’t have enjoyed the merchandise before the bill was paid,” complained his associate. “But our job was to be here while Farouk and the kidnappers took the girl to Khartoum.”

“We trade there,” said Hammud, reverting to English. Dealing in white slavery was a serious matter and he belatedly remembered he must take all possible precautions not to be caught. Still, if the American had understood what they’d said, he would have reacted. “What’s your business in the desert?”

“I’m looking for Victoria Shaw,” Jed answered calmly, grabbing the rifle from where it rested against the tent and turning it on the unresisting kidnappers.

“That’s unfortunate,” announced another man from behind him. “She’s not here, and you are about to be very sorry you are.”

Even as Jed wheeled around and fired, a knife whizzed through the still night air, moonlight glinting off its silver blade as it aimed straight for Jed’s heart. Hearing the two Sudanese chuckle as it embedded itself in his chest, Jed turned to direct a bullet at one of them as their compatriot fell in his tracks, victim of the first shot.

Pulling the knife from where its point had landed smack in the depths of that tightly packed wad of British notes resting against his chest, Jed threw it at the last man, now brandishing a scimitar. The American’s aim, as always, was true.

“Kincaid, you need help?” called Ali, stepping out of the darkness.

“See if that one is still alive, will you?” suggested the American casually in Arabic. “Maybe he’ll tell us where in Khartoum we can find Vicky Shaw.”

“He’s dead. Khartoum? Kincaid, you promised—” protested the shopkeeper. Surveying the two other bodies, he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, but if they went to Khartoum, when would he see Fatima again? “You swore you wouldn’t do this!”

“I guess I got carried away,” chuckled Jed, upending the fallen bottle of zabeeb. ”Want a drink?”

Shaking his weary head at the American’s nonchalance, Ali accepted the bottle and raised it to his lips. He was not experienced with alcohol, but somehow he felt in this instance, Allah would understand. Traveling with Jed Kincaid would drive any man to drink. Besides, if his fate consigned him to be this infidel’s companion, maybe he had better learn his ways. The Egyptian sighed, surprised at the sudden burst of warmth in his gut. In the meantime, he would pray that the road on which he journeyed with the American would not be quite so fiery.

* * *

Though Victoria Shaw had also invoked the heavens, she was perturbed that her prayers had not as yet been answered. At the moment, in the gentle light of morning, she wore her impatience for all to see as she paced the boundaries of the women’s quarters at the home of Zobeir, the slave trader, under the man’s watchful eye.

He was concerned by the behavior of the Englishwoman so recently delivered to him. Despite her desperate circumstances, condescension toward her new masters marked her as a woman of spirit. Although her imperious attitude had prompted him to keep her from the slave pens where she could start an insurrection, the rotund Zobeir had yet to decide whether or not to beat the pretty female into submission. After all, her proud, uncowed demeanor could very well raise her asking price, he mused, aware that there were many who would pay an exorbitant amount for the chance to tame so wild a creature.

Still, Zobeir concluded, witnessing the blonde issue a haughty denial to the servant who had brought her fresh garments to replace her own attire, she had to be gentled somewhat. No man would part with gold for a shrew, no matter how exquisite her looks.

Watching the woman continue her graceful caged walking to and fro, Zobeir wished he could afford the luxury of humbling her himself. But with a sigh, the slaver put such thoughts aside. One did not get rich by giving in to temptation. To steal Victoria Shaw’s virginity or to mar her delicate flesh with whips would only lower her price along with her pride. No, she would be disciplined, to be sure, but in more subtle ways.

Signaling to the serving girl who still stood holding the sheer harem garments, Zobeir approached his newest acquisition.

“Perhaps you failed to understand that after bathing you were to don these,” he said, fingering the indecently transparent pantaloons. “Put them on now.”

“I most certainly will not!” Victoria proclaimed, her frosty tones an indication that she considered the man her inferior.

“Yes, you will, or you will regret it,” Zobeir stated with a dangerous softness.

“I hardly think that likely,” Victoria scoffed.

“Ah, but you underestimate the power I hold over your destiny,” Zobeir replied, his cheeks growing rounder in the wake of his odious smile. “Do as I say and you will be sold to a kind master. There are those with whom you would not fare well.”

“I will not be sold at all,” Victoria said emphatically, though these last few days her belief in that statement had started to waver. “The Europeans living in Khartoum will not allow such an atrocity to be visited upon one of their own.”

“And have you seen any of them since your arrival?” Zobeir asked with a chuckle. “With auctions of slaves as private as they are, no one will ever be aware you have been in Khartoum.”

“I have already told you that I am a British citizen and the daughter of a wealthy man,” Victoria announced, tilting her chin defiantly. “I am worth more in ransom than any price you could ever hope to fetch for me in the slave market. If that is not enough to sway you, perhaps the idea of my fiancé’s terminating your vile life will change your mind.”

“Do not try my patience, English flower, or I will see you transplanted into a garden not fit for dogs, rather than into one containing blossoms as delicate as yourself,” the slave trader threatened. He had no inclination to explain to the girl that she had been marked for death by the powerful figure who had charged him and his men with her abduction. It was only the result of his own greed and the fact that the one to whom he answered was miles away that he had dared to defy his orders and keep her alive at all. However tempting returning her to her father for reward was, Zobeir knew it was an option that he did not have—not if he wanted to live.

“See here, I have already traveled endlessly bound in the bottom of a falucca, only to find myself carted into your despicable city under a pile of blankets. I survived that. Your talk doesn’t frighten me.”

“But my description of the sort of master to whom you could be sold will make an impression. Do you know how a man can treat a woman when he wishes to be cruel? Do you realize how he can tear into her body so that he rips at her very soul? If you do not fear pain, perhaps the idea of indignities will move you to do as I bid.” When the Englishwoman did not react, Zobeir decided to offer her details.

“I can sell you to a man so slothful that he will not waste his time arousing you, not even so that you may bring him pleasure. There are those who have the female they have selected for the night held down by eunuchs while the other women of the harem inflame the chosen one until she is ready for her master. Should you think the women would refuse to do such a thing, realize that there are those in every large harem so starved for physical joy that they would find such a duty a treat. They would relish bringing their victim to the brink of ecstasy so that their master had merely to enter her with no more finesse than a rutting ram in order to find his own satisfaction. Do you think you would like to belong to such a man? Does the idea of other women kissing and caressing your most private parts excite you?”

“How dare you talk to me of such things?” Victoria whispered fiercely, face pale but her voice still drenched with contempt.

“Ah, it is not the talking you will come to fear,” Zobeir said, his fingers stroking his straggly beard. “Do as I ordered and change your attire.”

“You will find that Englishwomen have more backbone than you suspected. I am not frightened by your disgusting threats.”

“Put on this clothing or I will beat you now!” the slave merchant thundered, his patience at an end.

“You wouldn’t,” Victoria retorted with a contemptuous laugh. “Lay one filthy finger on me and your life is over.”

“Your bravado is almost commendable. Still, if fear doesn’t move you, I will have to persuade you to submission by other means. Clothe yourself in those garments now or I will beat this woman.” With that, he reached out to grab the serving girl by the hair and pulled her to him, striking her repeatedly about the face and head.

Victoria couldn’t decide which sound she detested the most, the slap of fist upon flesh or the girl’s piteous cries. Unable to think of an option that would end the sobbing woman’s torment, Victoria Shaw reluctantly agreed to do as she was told.

“All right. Give me the clothing! Just stop hitting her!”

“I thought you would see logic eventually,” the slaver said smugly, casting the other woman aside. “And realize that the only reason I did not forcibly dress you myself is that I do not want any marks on your fair skin when you mount the block.”

“Do you promise to leave that girl alone if I do as you ask?” Victoria inquired in a calmer voice than Zobeir had expected.

“I swear before Allah that if you but wear the things I have given you, I will not touch the slave again...at least not in anger,” the man said with a wicked laugh.

“Leave, then,” Victoria directed, reverting to her usual position of authority despite her circumstances. But even as she held out her hands to receive the diaphanous garments, she vowed that this would not be the first step toward surrender.

If only Hayden would arrive, she thought, her eyes boring into Zobeir’s retreating back. Surely her fiancé’s failure to materialize was the result of inordinate caution, caution prompted by his great love for her and his reluctance to act too precipitously. But didn’t he realize that if he didn’t rescue her soon, she might experience injury, anyway?

True, she was English and would do her best not to let down the side, she mused, the skin of her thigh cringing at the cool caress of the indecent pantaloons as she stepped into them. Still, how much could any British subject be expected to endure? Victoria wondered, garbing herself in the scant jeweled jacket that barely covered her breasts.

The sound of Zobeir’s return echoed in the hall a few brief moments later. Present danger was what she had to concentrate upon now, the young socialite reminded herself as she stood awaiting the slave peddler’s entrance.

“Disobedient slave!” came his outraged cry when he beheld her. “Do you still think to defy me?”

“I have kept my part of the bargain,” Victoria said smugly.

“You are a liar, like all your race,” Zobeir bellowed, hard put not to throttle this troublemaker. It was only his vision of the profit she could bring that stopped him.

“English honor is revered the world round,” Victoria replied coolly. “I am as honorable as any of my countrymen.” With that she lifted the hem of her skirt to reveal the harem garb beneath her own clothing. “You told me to put these things on. I have done as you asked, and I expect you to keep your promise.”

“Do you think to outwit me?” Zobeir asked in rage. He should have had his men kill the girl as he had been ordered to do. “Time in the slave pen will do you good. And if you are not truly humbled by tomorrow, I will come up with something that will amuse me more than you have angered me at this moment. Perhaps you are not the virgin I suppose you to be. A physician’s certificate attesting to your purity might be in order.”

“If you or anyone else comes near me, I will kill him and then myself,” Victoria stated with deadly coldness.

“Take the woman out,” Zobeir ordered in exasperation. “Place her in the pens!”

Though Victoria held her head high as she walked away, her heart cried out, Oh, Hayden! Where are you?