Сара Морган – Bella's Disgrace (страница 3)

‘I’m sorry,’ she moaned, leaning forward and burying her burning face in the mare’s mane. ‘I don’t care about me but I’m really sorry I’ve done this to you. Why aren’t you fitted with sat nav? Stop walking. There’s no point. We might as well just give up.’

The horse gave a snort of disapproval and continued to walk. Bella was too weak and exhausted to do anything about it.

She was going to die.

Her body was going to be buried under the sand and discovered centuries later by archaeologists digging for relics.

Despite her dizzy, dehydrated state the inevitable headlines flashed into her head: Bad Bella Balfour Disappears from Desert Retreat.

Perhaps they’d think she’d drowned herself in herbal tea.

Perhaps they wouldn’t even care.

She gave a weak moan and tried to say something to the horse but by now her mouth was so dry it was difficult to speak. The pain in her head was so severe she felt as though someone was attacking her with an axe and her vision blurred.

The last thing she saw before she slid from the horse was an ominous black shadow emerging through the golden haze.

Death, she thought dizzily, and landed on the sand unconscious.

CHAPTER TWO

ZAFIQ sprang from his horse and issued a low command. The stallion immediately threw up his head proudly and stood still, his tail held high.

Taking in the identity of the other horse, Zafiq’s initial shock turned to raw, undiluted fury. ‘Amira—’ His voice gentle, he approached his favourite mare, hand outstretched, his anger ruthlessly contained. ‘What are you doing all the way out here?’ The horse allowed him to take the reins and he swiftly tied the animal to the saddle of his own mount.

Later, he promised himself with icy focus. Later, there would be a price to pay for this. For now, his priority had to be the girl.

She was the most unlikely looking horse thief he’d ever seen.

One glance at her thin cotton clothing was sufficient to tell him that she knew nothing about surviving in the harsh, unforgiving desert, and his mouth tightened as he bent over her inert body.

A pink baseball cap lay in the sand some distance from where she’d fallen but apart from that one small concession to the heat of the sun she appeared to have nothing in the way of protection.

Zafiq’s lip curled in contempt. After all the threats and warnings, this was who’d they sent to kidnap his most valued horse?

Impatience mingling with anger he glanced around for a rucksack, or something that indicated the girl had packed liquid, but there was nothing.

Muttering under his breath he stooped and lifted her, the breath hissing through his teeth as her blonde hair trailed over his arm like a shaft of light from a single sunbeam. Sand dusted her flushed cheeks and his eyes rested on her dry lips.

Unable to look away from the generous curve of her mouth, Zafiq felt a dangerous heat explode inside him and he stared down at her beautiful face, momentarily forgetting everything except the woman in his arms. And then her eyelids flickered upwards and he found himself staring into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. They were eyes that reminded him of a summer sky, of the azure blue of the Arabian Sea, of the cerulean silk that was sold in the souks of Al-Rafid. But despite the intense colour those eyes were dull, dazed and her lips parted and she whispered something—nothing that made sense; something about herbal tea—and then her eyes closed and she didn’t say another word.

Aware that he was still staring down at her face, Zafiq felt a rush of anger.

What sort of a man was he?

The girl was unconscious.

She was half dead, and he was thirsting for her as she was no doubt thirsting for water.

Dehydration, he thought savagely, holding her easily as he walked back to his stallion and removed a bottle from his saddlebag. He’d seen it before, too many times.

‘Drink,’ he ordered harshly, but she gave no sign that she was able to obey his command.

Questioning what crime he’d committed to be saddled with an unconscious girl at a time when he was supposed to be enjoying solitude, Zafiq splashed a small amount of water over her lips and watched with grim satisfaction as her tongue flickered out. At least he wasn’t dealing with a corpse.

He wanted her to live so that she could face justice for trying to steal his horse. She would pay the price for her crime.

In order to keep her alive, he needed to get her out of the sun and cool her down. And the only place he could do that was in his own camp.

Resigning himself to the inevitable, Zafiq swung her limp body onto his horse and supported her while he vaulted on behind her. Drawing her lifeless body against the power of his own, he closed his legs on the stallion’s flanks and urged him forwards, glancing over his shoulder to check on the mare.

It took less than twenty minutes to reach the shelter of his remote desert camp—twenty minutes during which he discovered to his frustration that he was able to become aroused by an unconscious woman.

Dismounting in a fluid movement, Zafiq gritted his teeth as he lifted her once again into his arms.

Perhaps he should have left her in the desert.

Turning the horses loose to find shade and water in the small oasis, he carried the unconscious girl towards his tent, breathing through his mouth in order to block out the tantalising floral scent of her hair. He dumped her gently on the mat that served as a bed and frowned impatiently as she lay still, not moving.

Torn between concern and exasperation, Zafiq leant forward and placed his fingers on her forehead. Registering the dry, burning heat, he realised that if he didn’t cool her down, he was going to have a serious problem on his hands.

‘I don’t know who you are, but you clearly have more beauty than sense,’ he growled, striding across the tent to fetch a bowl of tepid water and a piece of cloth.

So much for a week of peace, solitude and quiet reflection.

Zafiq dipped the cloth in the water and bathed her face and neck. Knowing that her recovery was dependent on cooling and rehydration, he reluctantly unfastened the buttons of her long sleeve shirt. Peeling it away he bathed her slender arms, keeping his eyes averted from the pretty lace bra that was now the only barrier between him and her body. He left her arms and body damp, allowing the water droplets to cool her overheated skin.

At this rate he was going to need the cool water himself, he thought, seriously unsettled by the effect she had on him. With haste and clinical efficiency he tugged her white cotton trousers past the curve of her hips and down her long legs.

‘Atif?’ She murmured a man’s name and Zafiq frowned sharply, wondering whether there had been someone else out in the desert with her.

Of course. She must have had an accomplice. A plan to kidnap his horse couldn’t have been executed by one lone woman, could it?

Wondering what had happened to his usual clarity of thought, Zafiq dropped the cloth back into the bowl and raked her flushed cheeks with an impatient gaze, but this time his impatience was directed towards himself. Since when had he ceased to think logically?

Driven by concern and the pressing need to extract information, he scooped her up and pressed the cup of water to her lips. ‘Drink,’ he ordered, and although her eyes remained closed she obediently parted her lips and swallowed. ‘And more.’ He continued to encourage her to drink and then laid her gently back against the pillows and bathed her once again.

Shaded by the tent and cooled by the water she started to revive.

Only when he judged that she was able to answer, did Zafiq scoop her up once again and voice the question that was troubling him.

‘Who was with you?’ His voice was rough—rougher than he intended—but even so she didn’t respond. Trying to ignore the softness of her skin against his arms, Zafiq tried again. ‘Were you alone?’

Her eyes slid to his and she looked at him with those stunning blue eyes that were undeniably designed to drive a man to distraction.

‘Horse—’ she croaked, and Zafiq felt the tension ripple across his shoulders.

‘I know about the horse. What about humans?’

Her tongue moistened her lower lip, slowly, as if speaking were the hardest thing she’d ever done. ‘Is the horse OK?’

She was lying half dead in his arms and yet she was asking about the horse?

Momentarily thrown by that surprising fact, it took Zafiq a moment to realise that she obviously had a vested interest in the animal’s welfare. ‘She is fine, although no thanks to you. You will not be profiting on this occasion.’

‘Profiting?’

‘There are many questions which you will answer in time, but first tell me about Atif. Who is he?’

Her eyes closed again but not before he’d seen tears glistening and the dull sheen of despair.

‘Please don’t make me go back.’

‘Go back where?’ Accustomed to receiving an immediate answer to any question he posed, Zafiq found this laborious process of dragging information from her unspeakably tedious.

What sort of man would leave it to a woman to steal a horse?

Or had she seduced someone to achieve her objective?