Читать книгу Crowned At The Desert King's Command - Jackie Ashenden - Страница 11

CHARLOTTE DEVEREAUX DIDN’T often think about her death. But when she did, she’d hoped it would be when she was very old and tucked into bed. Or maybe in a comfortable armchair, quietly slipping away over a very good book.

She hadn’t imagined it would be of heatstroke and dehydration after getting lost in the desert trying to find her father.

He’d told her he was going to the top of the dune to get a better view of the dig site—nothing major. But then someone had mentioned that they hadn’t seen Professor Devereaux for a while, so Charlotte had decided to go and see if she could find him.

She’d gone to the top dune where he had last been seen, only to find it empty. As all the dunes around her had been.

She hadn’t been worried initially. Her father did go off on his own so he could think, and he was a very experienced and eminent archaeologist who’d been on many digs in his time. The desert was nothing out of the ordinary for him and the idea of him getting lost was unthinkable.

As her father’s assistant, she wasn’t entirely inexperienced herself when it came to a dig and finding her way around it, and yet somehow, when she’d turned around to go back to the site, it had vanished. Along with her sense of direction.

Again, she hadn’t been worried—her father had talked a lot about how the desert could play tricks on a person’s perception—so she’d strode off confidently the same way she’d come, retracing her steps, expecting to come across the site pretty much straight away.

Except she hadn’t. And after about ten minutes of striding she’d realised that she’d made a mistake. A very grave one.

Of course she hadn’t panicked. Panicking wouldn’t help. It never did. The trick, when you got lost, was to stay calm and stay where you were.

So she had. But then the sun had got so hot—as if it were a hammer and she was the anvil. And she’d known that she was going to have to do something other than stand there otherwise she was going to die. So she’d started moving, going in the direction she’d thought the dig site would be, yet still it hadn’t materialised, and now she was slowly coming to the conclusion that she was lost.

It was a bad thing to be lost in the desert.

A very bad thing.

Charlotte paused and adjusted the black and white scarf she wore wrapped around her head. She hated the thing. It was too heavy and too hot, and gritty due to the sand. It was also usually damp, because she was constantly bathed in sweat, but she wasn’t sweating now and that was also a bad thing. Not sweating was a sign of heatstroke, wasn’t it?

She squinted into the distance, trying to see where she was going. The sun was beating her to a pulp. A number of black dots danced in her vision. That was probably another sign of heatstroke too, because she was now starting to feel dizzy.

This was the end, wasn’t it?

The rolling golden sands were endless, the violent blue of the sky a furnace she couldn’t seem to climb out of. The harsh, gritty sand under her feet was starting to move around like the deck of a ship and there was a roaring in her ears.

The black dots were getting bigger and bigger, looming large, until she realised that, actually, they weren’t dots in her vision. They were people, a whole group of them, dressed in black and riding...horses?

How odd. Shouldn’t they be riding camels?

She took a shaky step towards them, hope flooding through her. Were they some of the assistants from the dig? Had they come to find her? Rescue her?

‘Hey,’ she yelled. Or at least tried to. But the sound escaped as more of a harsh whisper.

The people on horses stopped, and she must be in a bad way because it wasn’t until that moment that she remembered that the assistants didn’t ride horses and they certainly weren’t swathed in black robes, the way these people seemed to be. Neither did they wear... Oh, goodness, they were swords, weren’t they?

Her heartbeat began to speed up, and a chill was sweeping through her despite the intense heat.

Her father, who’d been managing the dig, had warned everyone about how close the site was to the borders of Ashkaraz, and how they had to be careful not to stray too far. Ashkaraz had closed its borders nearly two decades ago and the current regime did not take kindly to intruders.

There were stories of men draped in black, who didn’t carry guns but swords, and of people who’d accidentally strayed over the border and never been seen again.

Rumours about Ashkaraz abounded—about how it was ruled by a tyrant who kept his people living in fear, banning all international travel both out of and into the country. All aid was refused. All diplomats and journalists turned away.

There had been one journalist reputed to have smuggled himself into Ashkaraz a couple of years back, escaping to publish a hysterical article full of terrible stories of a crushed people living under a dictator’s rule. But that was it.

Basically, no one knew what went on inside the country because no one—bar that journalist, and plenty doubted that he’d even been there anyway—had ever been there and come back.

Charlotte hadn’t listened much to the stories, or worried about how close to the borders they were. Mainly because she had been enjoying spending time with her father and was more interested in the archaeology they were doing than in rumours about a closed country.

Now, though, she wished she’d paid more attention. Because if the people approaching her weren’t assistants from the dig, then they were people from somewhere else.

Somewhere frightening.

She squinted harder at the group on horseback. Oh, goodness, was that a...a person, slung over the back of one of their horses? It seemed to be. A person with distinctive pale hair...

Her heart constricted, recognition slamming into her. She’d recognise that hair anywhere, because her hair was exactly the same colour. It was a family trait. Which meant that the person currently slung over the back of that horse was her father.

Fear wound around her, as cold as the sun was hot. He must have got lost, like she had, and they’d picked him up. And now they’d found her too...

A tall figure in the middle of the group swung down off his horse—and it had to be a he, given that women weren’t generally built like Roman gladiators—the sunlight catching the naked blade thrust through the belt that wound around his hips, and the chill that gripped Charlotte intensified.

He came towards her, moving with the fluid, athletic grace of a hunter despite his height and build and the shifting sand under his feet. She couldn’t see his face, he was covered from head to foot, but as he came closer she saw his eyes.

They weren’t so much brown as a dense, smoky gold. Like a tiger.

And all at once she knew that her doubts had been correct. That this was definitely not a search party come to rescue her. A group of men draped in black with swords at their hips could only mean one thing: they were Ashkaraz border guards and they were not here to rescue her. They were here to take her prisoner because she had almost certainly strayed into the wrong country.

The man came closer, looming over her, his broad figure blocking out the hammer-blow of the sun.

But even the sun wasn’t as hot or as brilliant as the gold of his eyes. And they were just as relentless, just as harsh. There was no mercy in those eyes. There was no help at all.

You fool. You should have told someone where you were going. But you didn’t, did you?

No, she hadn’t. She’d just gone to find her father, thinking she’d only be a couple of minutes. It was true that she hadn’t been paying attention to where she’d been going, as she’d so often done as a child, lost in whatever daydream had grabbed her at the time, since that had been better than listening to the screaming arguments of her parents as they’d battled each other over her head.

Even now, as an adult, she found it difficult to concentrate sometimes, when she was stressed or things were chaotic, her mind spinning off into its own fantasies, escaping reality. Though those moments of inattention didn’t usually have such terrible repercussions as now, when she was left with the choice of either turning and running away from the terrible man striding towards her across the hot sand, or falling to her knees and begging for her life.

What did these guards do to people who strayed over the borders? No one knew. No one had ever escaped. She and her father were going to be taken prisoner and no one would ever hear from them again.

Running was out of the question. Not only was there nowhere to run, she couldn’t leave her father. Wouldn’t leave him. He’d had no one else but her since her mother had moved to the States nearly fifteen years ago—and, though he wouldn’t exactly win any father-of-the-year awards, his career and all the digs he’d taken her on had instilled in her a love of history and ancient peoples that the dreamer inside her found fascinating.

She had a lot to thank him for, so she’d follow him the way she’d always followed him.

Which meant that she was going to have to throw herself on this man’s mercy—if, indeed, he had any.

Fear gripped her tight, and darkness crawled at the edge of her vision. Her lips were cracked, dry as the desert sand drifting around her feet, but she fought to remain upright. She was an idiot for wandering away from the site, it was true, but she wasn’t going to compound her mistake by collapsing ignominiously at this man’s feet.

She would be polite and reasonable, apologise calmly, and tell him that she hadn’t meant to wander into his country by mistake. That her father was a professor and she only a lowly assistant, and they hadn’t meant any harm. Also, could he please not kill them, or throw them into a dungeon, or any of the rest of the things her over-active imagination kept providing for her?

A hot wind kicked at the black hem of the man’s robes, making them flow around his powerful thighs as he came to a stop in front of her. He stood there so still, as if he was a mountain that had stood for millennia, as enduring and unchanging as the desert itself.

Charlotte held tight to consciousness and something about his merciless golden gaze hardened her spine, making her square her shoulders and straighten up.

She tried to get some moisture into her mouth and failed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she forced out. ‘Do you speak English? Are you able to help me?’

The man was silent a long moment, and then he said something, his voice deep enough that she felt it in her chest, a subtle, sub-sonic vibration. But she didn’t understand him. Her Arabic was rough, and the liquid sounds bore no resemblance to the minimal words she knew.

She felt very weak all of a sudden, and quite sick.

The man’s golden eyes seemed to fill her entire vision, his stare hard, brutal, crushing utterly her hope of rescue and of mercy.

She would get neither from him and that was obvious.

‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ Charlotte whispered as the darkness gathered around her. ‘But I think the man you have on that horse is my father. We’re quite lost. Do you think you could possibly help us?’

Then she fainted dead away at his feet.

Tariq ibn Ishak Al Naziri, Sheikh of Ashkaraz, stared impassively at the small body of the Englishwoman collapsed on the sand in front of him.

Her father, she’d said. Well, that cleared up the question of who the man was.

They’d found him unconscious on one of the dunes. After finding him, Tariq and his border guards had then spotted the woman, and had been tracking her for a good twenty minutes. Her zigzag path and the way she’d blundered across the border straight into Ashkaraz made it clear she had no idea where she was going, though what she’d murmured just now clarified things somewhat. She’d obviously been looking for the man currently slung over Jaziri’s horse.

Tariq had been hoping she’d turn around and make her way back over the border again, ensuring that she wasn’t his problem any more, but she hadn’t. She’d spotted them instead and had just stood there, watching him approach her as if he was her own personal saviour.

Given that she was clearly suffering from heatstroke and advanced dehydration, she wasn’t far wrong.

He didn’t touch her just yet, though, because you could never be too suspicious of lost foreigners wandering over his borders—as the incident with the man who’d been armed and hoping to ‘free the people of Ashkaraz from tyranny’ had proved only the week before. One of his border guards had been severely injured and Tariq didn’t want that to happen again.

It was probably why Faisal—his father’s old advisor, who’d now become his—had been unhappy about Tariq approaching this woman himself rather than letting one of his guards do it. But protecting his subjects was his purpose, and he didn’t want another injury simply because one guard had been a little careless when dealing with an outsider.

Tariq knew how to deal with them; his guards generally did not.

Especially a woman. They could be the most dangerous of all.

Except this woman didn’t look very dangerous right now, crumpled as she was on the sand. She was dressed in a pair of stained, loose blue trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt, with a black and white scarf wrapped around her head, which was paltry protection from the desert sun.

She did actually seem to be unconscious, but since it could be difficult to tell, and Tariq was naturally suspicious, he nudged her experimentally with the toe of his boot. Her head rolled to the side, her scarf coming loose and revealing a lock of hair pale as moonlight.

Yes, very definitely unconscious.

He frowned, studying her face. Her features were fine and regular and, though he preferred women with stronger looks, she could be said to be pretty. Currently the fine grain of her skin was flushed bright red from the heat and burned from the sun, making the pale arches of her eyebrows stand out.

English, no doubt, given the sunburn. Certainly when she’d spoken he recognised that cut-glass accent, which meant the man they’d picked up was likely English too.

He gave her another assessing look. Neither she nor the man were carrying anything, which meant their camp, or wherever they’d come from, couldn’t be far away. Were they part of a tour party, perhaps? Although tour parties generally didn’t come this far into the desert—they stuck to the edges, where it was cooler, safer. From where they could easily get back to the air-conditioned luxury of their hotels and away from the sun and the heat and the rumours of a closed country where men patrolled the borders wearing swords.

‘Two foreigners in the same stretch of desert,’ Faisal said dryly from behind him. ‘This cannot be a coincidence.’

‘No, it is not. She saw the man on Jaziri’s horse. She said something about her father.’

‘Ah...’ Faisal murmured. ‘Then we can safely assume she is not a threat?’

‘We assume nothing.’ Tariq let his gaze rove over her, scanning for any concealed weapons just to be sure. ‘All outsiders are a threat, unconscious or not.’

And it was true—they were. That was why his father had closed the borders and why Tariq had kept them closed. Outsiders were greedy, wanting what they did not have and uncaring of who they destroyed to get it.

He’d seen the effects of such destruction and he would not let it happen to his country. Not again.

There were always a few, though, who thought it fun to try and get inside Ashkaraz’s famous closed borders, to get a glimpse of the kingdom, to take pictures and post them on the internet as proof of having got inside.

There were some who couldn’t resist the lure.

They were always caught before they could do any damage. They were rounded up and had the fear of God put into them before being sent on their way with tales of brutality and swords—even though his soldiers never actually touched any of the people they caught. Fear was enough of a deterrent.

Though not enough of a deterrent for this woman, apparently.

‘If she is a threat, she is not much of one,’ Faisal observed, looking down at her. ‘Perhaps she and her father are tourists? Or journalists?’

‘It does not matter who they are,’ Tariq said. ‘We will deal with them as we have dealt with all the rest.’

Which involved a stint in the dungeons, a few threats, and then an ignominious return to the border, where they would be summarily ejected into one of their neighbouring countries and told never to return again.

‘This one in particular might be difficult,’ Faisal pointed out. His tone was absolutely neutral, which was a good sign that he disapproved of Tariq’s decision in some way. ‘She is not only a foreigner but a woman. We cannot afford to treat her the way we treat the rest.’

Irritation gathered in Tariq’s gut. Unfortunately, Faisal was right. So far he’d managed to avoid any diplomatic incidents following his treatment of outsiders, but there was always a first time for everything—and, given the gender and nationality of the person concerned, Ashkaraz might indeed run into some issues.

England wouldn’t be happy if one of its own was roughly treated by the Ashkaraz government—especially not a woman. Especially not a young, helpless woman. The man they might have got away with, but not her. She would draw attention, and attention was the last thing Tariq wanted.

Then there was the issue of his own government, and how certain members of it would no doubt use her as ammunition in their argument on how closed borders didn’t help them remain unseen on the global stage, and how the world was moving on and if they didn’t have contact with it, it would move on without them.

Tariq didn’t care about the rest of the world. He cared only about his country and his subjects. And, since those two things were currently in good health, he saw no need to change his stance on reopening the borders.

His vow as Sheikh was to protect his country and its people and that was what he was going to do.

Especially when you’ve failed once before.

The whispered thought was insidious, a snake dripping poison, but he ignored it the way he always did.

He would not fail. Not again.

Ignoring Faisal’s observation, Tariq crouched down beside the little intruder. The loose clothing she wore made it difficult to ascertain visually whether she carried weapons or not, and since he had to be certain he gave her a very brief, very impersonal pat-down.

She was small, and quite delicate, but there were definite curves beneath those clothes. There were also no weapons to speak of.

‘Sire,’ Faisal said again, annoyingly present. ‘Are you sure that is wise?’

Tariq didn’t ask what he meant. He knew. Faisal was the only one who knew about Catherine and about Tariq’s response to her.

Given what that led to, he has every right to question you.

The irritation sitting in Tariq’s gut tightened into anger. No, he’d excised Catherine from his soul like a surgeon cutting out a cancer, and he’d cut out every emotion associated with her too. Everything soft. Everything merciful.

There was no need for Faisal to question him, because what had happened with Catherine would never happen again. Tariq had made sure of it.

Though perhaps his advisor needed a reminder...

‘Do you question me, Faisal?’ Tariq asked with deceptive mildness, not looking up from the woman on the sand.

There was a silence. Then, ‘No, sire.’

Faisal’s voice held a slight hint of apology. Too slight.

Tariq scowled down at the woman. Obviously, given Faisal’s clear doubts, he was going to have to deal with this himself.

‘I can get a couple of the men to have a look around to see where she and the other foreigner have come from,’ Faisal went on, perhaps hoping to assuage him. ‘We could perhaps return them both with no one any the wiser?’

It would be the easiest thing to do.

But Tariq couldn’t afford ‘easy’. He’d instituted the law to keep the borders closed and he had to be seen to uphold it.

A king couldn’t afford to be weak.

Hadn’t he learned his lesson there?

You should have listened to your father.

Yes, he should. But he hadn’t.

‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘We will not be returning either of them.’

He leaned forward, gathering the woman up and rising to his feet. She was so light in his arms. It was like carrying a moonbeam. Her head rolled onto his shoulder, her cheek pressed to the rough black cotton of his robes.

Small. Like Catherine.

Something he’d thought long-dead and buried stirred inside him and he found himself looking down at her once again. Ah, but she wasn’t anything like Catherine, And, anyway, that had been years ago.

He felt nothing for her any more.

He felt nothing for anyone any more.

Only his kingdom. Only his people.

Tariq lifted his gaze to Faisal’s, met the other man’s appraising stare head-on. ‘By all means send a couple of men out to see what they can discover about where these two have come from,’ he ordered coldly. ‘And get in touch with the camp. We will need the chopper to be readied to take them back to Kharan.’

He didn’t wait for a response, turning and making his way back to the horses and the group of soldiers waiting for him.

‘Perhaps one of the men can deal with her?’ Faisal suggested neutrally, trailing along behind him. ‘I can—’

‘I will deal with her,’ Tariq interrupted with cold authority, not turning around. ‘There can be no question about her treatment should the British government become involved. Which means the responsibility for her lies with me.’

There were others who remembered the bad times, when Ashkaraz had been fought over and nearly torn apart following Catherine’s betrayal, and they wouldn’t be so lenient with a foreign woman again.

Not that he would be lenient either. She would soon get a taste of Ashkaraz’s hospitality when she was taken to the capital of Kharan. They had a facility there especially for dealing with people who’d strayed into Ashkaraz, and he was sure she wouldn’t like it.

That was the whole point, after all. To frighten people so they never came back.

His men watched silently as he carried her over to his horse and put her on it, steadying her as she slumped against the animal’s neck. Then he mounted behind her and pulled her back against him, tucking her into the crook of one arm while he grabbed the reins with the other.

‘Continue with the patrol,’ he instructed Faisal. ‘I want to know where this woman comes from—and fast.’

The other man nodded, his gaze flickering again to the woman in Tariq’s arms. Tariq had the strangest urge to tuck her closer against him, to hide her from the old advisor’s openly speculative look.

Ridiculous. The doubts Faisal had would soon be put to rest. Tariq was a different man from the boy he’d once been. He was harder. Colder. He was a worthy heir to his father, though he knew Faisal had had his objections to Tariq inheriting the throne. Not that Faisal or the rest of the government had had a choice in the matter since his father had only had one son.

Still. He had thought Faisal’s scepticism long put to rest.

It is the woman. She is the problem.

Yes, she was. Luckily, though, she would not be a problem much longer.

‘You have objections?’ Tariq stared hard at the older man.

Faisal only shook his head. ‘None, sire.’

He was lying. Faisal always had objections. It was a good thing the older man knew that now was not the time to voice them.

‘As my father’s oldest friend, you have a certain amount of leeway,’ Tariq warned him. It would do him good to be reminded. ‘But see that you do not overreach yourself.’

Faisal’s expression was impassive as he inclined his head. ‘Sire.’

Dismissing him, Tariq nodded to Jaziri and a couple of the other guards in unspoken command. Then, tugging on the reins, he turned his horse around and set off back to base camp.