Desert Rogue (11 page)

Then he was treading water beside her and Ali was no longer her burden, but one they shared.

“Come on. Shore is straight ahead. I'll manage Ali. You conserve your energy so you can call me names when your feet touch dry land,” suggested the American, a hint of a chuckle in his voice.

With that, he struck out for the bank, trusting she would follow. Already the
falucca,
caught by the current, was some fifty feet away from them and she was alone. Damn the man! It seemed he could anticipate her reactions to him.

Before she expected it, her feet struck bottom, and she quickly rose to find the water level barely to her waist. There was no one about, and she lost no time wading the rest of the way to the grassy bank where Kincaid waited with the Egyptian.

“If you're going to complain, do it quickly, because we have to press on in a few minutes. Out here, moonlight reveals too much for anyone looking for us,” he cautioned.

Instead of replying, Victoria bent down, took hold of the sodden hem of her
gallabiya,
pulled it up over her head and threw the watery mass at him. Unfortunately, the weight of the water made it land with a loud splat two feet in front of her target.

“You made me take off my shoes so I could swim, but you never gave a thought to that ton of heavy material dragging me down.
That
would have been the practical thing to remove!”

“You're undoubtedly right, but I never thought of it,” Jed said innocently. “Now that you mention it, however, wouldn't you be more comfortable taking off your skirt and blouse, as well? They must be just as wet.”

“You would just love that, wouldn't you, Kincaid? The chance to ogle another man's half-naked fiancée? Well, dismiss the notion at once. I'll wring out the skirt and it will be fine.”

“For heaven's sake, Vicky—”

“Vic-toria!”

“Even if you take off that layer, you're probably wearing a chemise, if not a corset. Judging from the undergarments I've removed from women, it's not as if I would see a whole lot of skin—”

“No!” cried the blonde anxiously as she recalled what
was
under her skirt and blouse, the practically transparent harem garb she had donned at Zobeir's insistence. Realizing from Kincaid's expression that her reaction had been too excessive given his comments, she took a calming breath, lifted her chin high and assumed her iciest tones. “You are wasting time with your boyish fantasies, Kincaid, so shouldn't we move on?”

Shrugging his shoulders at missing what might have been a delightful sight, Jed moved forward a few steps, bent down and picked up the
gallabiya.
Quickly he wrung it out.

“We can't leave it here, on the chance Zobeir's men might find it,” he explained, hoisting Ali over his shoulders as a shepherd would carry a sheep. “Since you are ready, let's go. We're heading for those cliffs, probably about an hour's walk.”

And then he moved off, his lengthy stride leaving Victoria hard-pressed to keep up with him. Soon she abandoned the effort, content to keep his unkempt figure in sight as her tender feet protested their mistreatment by the coarse sand over which they trod.

He had said it was only a mile or two, she reminded herself. After all, Kincaid was carrying the Egyptian, twelve or more stone, and not objecting. She could certainly be responsible for herself. She had no other choice as he had so rudely pointed out. Then suddenly Kincaid disappeared into the cliffs and she forgot her aching legs and ran to catch up with him.

There, between two slabs of granite, was an opening a few feet across, wide enough for men and horses to slip through easily. They had arrived, she realized thankfully.

She saw immediately that the American was making the Egyptian comfortable. But before she could sink down to the ground and relax, Kincaid's voice barked authoritatively.

“You can rest after we've seen to Ali. Take the wood over there and start a small fire. The cliffs should hide its light, and I'll need some boiling water to cleanse my knife and his wound. Well, what are you waiting for?”

“I can't start a fire, Kincaid, even a small one. I don't know how. Besides, I thought you were the expert at everything.”

“I was going to check the horses and unpack some of the supplies so we can eat,” explained Jed, his voice tight with annoyance as he started to slam the wood together in an irregular pile. Why did everything become more complicated with her around? “All right, you can see if the animals have enough water. They're farther back, and the water buckets are behind the rocks.”

“I—I don't particularly like horses. They make me nervous.”

“How did I not know that?” quizzed the American, running his hands through his hair and shaking his head in exasperation. She
would
have to be a prima donna, he frowned. “Very well, then, Miss Shaw, I'll see to the horses after I light the fire and before I extract Ali's bullet. Do you suppose
you
could manage to open the large sack over there and find the bandages? Bring one of the sleeping rolls over here for Ali.”

Still she hesitated, looking at him questioningly.

“What now?”

“You don't think there are scorpions in the bags, do you?”

“For pity's sake, woman, if you are not going to make yourself useful, you should have stayed in that damned slave pen! I didn't rescue you to be your blasted nursemaid!”

Storming away from her, Jed moved rapidly to where the horses were hobbled. They sensed his anger and whinnied anxiously, backing away from his approach. In an instant, he had slowed his pace and softened his movements, speaking to them gently, stroking their necks, reassuring them. They still had water, but he added fresh to their temporary drinking trough and reflected that he could be kind to a dumb beast but upbraid a frightened woman. The idea filled him with remorse.

But, damn, Victoria Shaw got under his skin in ways he hadn't expected. She was so prim and proper, she acted as though he had crawled out from under some nearby rock. Did she even know the sensuality she possessed? There was a beckoning aura about her that could make a man forget all that was honorable. Incredibly, her woman's body cried out to be touched and his yearned to oblige her. Unless he maintained a distance from her, he feared it would be difficult to fight the unreasoning attraction she was beginning to hold for him.

“Kincaid!”

Until she opened her mouth, he amended, figuring that, with her propensity for doing that, he should be safe enough during their sojourn in the desert.

“Here, Vicky, I'm coming—”

It was a snake that had her panicked this time, a small nonpoisonous snake, no more than a foot long, but it had her pressed to the granite walls as if she could melt into the rock and escape.

Biting back a laugh, he approached the offending creature, quickly stomped on its head and flung it into the fire.

“Did you find the bandages?” he asked, squatting down to hold his knife over the flames. “Or did that monster deter your search?”

“I, yes,” she answered when she could find enough moisture in her mouth to permit a reply. “Here are the bandages and a bottle of liquor you might want.”

“Good idea, honey.” Before she could object, Kincaid took the bottle from her hand, opened it and began drinking. “Want some?”

“I meant for it to cleanse Ali's wound.”

“Oh, I'll share, but a few drops will keep my hand steady,” Jed assured her, perversely pleased by her disapproving look. “Be a good girl and find a candle. You'll hold it while I operate.”

“I am not good when it comes to blood,” warned Victoria, extricating a candle from the nearest saddlebag.

“Then don't look while I'm cutting,” he instructed. “Now, hold his head while I pour some alcohol down his throat.”

“Isn't he Muslim?”

“Yes, but he told me Allah understands that in emergencies a man sometimes needs extra courage,” Jed explained, recalling the number of nights Ali had announced there
were
emergencies. Fatima might not recognize the man he was bringing back to her, a man who had been tested and found himself stronger than he had ever dreamed.

A soft cough recalled Jed from his contemplation of Ali's future and he lowered the bottle, waiting for Victoria's rebuke. Surprisingly it did not come.

“Are you ready?” she asked instead, holding out a pan of steaming water and the white cloth that would serve as bandages.

“As much as I'll ever be, sugar. This is one part of adventuring I would gladly avoid,” he confessed. He wet Ali's
gallabiya
and lifted it gently from the wound. Then, with a quick jerk of his hands, he tore the cloth, exposing the reddened area. “Here, sit behind him and support his body.”

Carefully the American sponged away the dried blood and ran his fingers along the fleshy area behind the shoulder where the bullet probably was lodged. Remembering the many men he had seen cut open over the years, Jed closed his eyes a moment and cleared his mind of everything but Ali and his welfare. Hesitating but an instant, he motioned Victoria to hold the candle closer and swiftly lanced the skin, praying Ali would not die at his hands.

It took longer than he'd hoped, and a few times Jed thought he might lose Victoria, if not Ali, too, but finally the bullet was out and he stitched the Egyptian closed. He made a few quick tucks in the muscles he'd had to invade. Then came uneven but effective stitches on the outer flesh and he sat back on his heels, totally spent. Moving his hand toward his eyes to wipe away the sweat clouding them, he was startled to feel Victoria's hand stay his.

“You are full of blood,” she said softly. “Use this to sponge your face and your hands.”

She had the light touch of an angel, Jed noticed when she placed the material in his outstretched palm. Involuntarily, his lips turned up as he appreciated her thoughtful gesture of concern. Perhaps she wasn't quite as spoiled as he had suspected.

“Now, what was it you said about something to eat?”

“What?”

“Ali is as comfortable as you can make him for the time being and I'm hungry. Aren't you?”

“I don't suppose you know how to cook or make coffee?” Jed inquired without any real hope.

“Of course not. At home, we have servants for that.”

“In that case, you'll have to make do with the dried meat and flat bread in the largest saddlebag. It'll hold us until we can reach an oasis on the caravan route.”

“You don't plan to move Ali, do you?”

“We have to be on our way, Vicky—”

“Vic-toria!”

“I don't think there's any doubt that Zobeir's men will be looking for you, and we're still too close to the Nile to be safe.”

“But I'm exhausted,” the blonde protested.

“Would you rather be exhausted or back on the slave block?” he challenged cruelly. “Believe me, I would love to sleep for ten or twelve hours, especially with you next to me,” he added in an attempt to get her to leave him alone.

“Kincaid!”

“Don't worry. I'll forego that particular pleasure for tonight. Here, eat this and then rest a while.”

It was useless to argue, Victoria realized, and he
had
brought them this far safely. As unlikely at it seemed, maybe Kincaid did know what he was doing. Without further discussion, she ate the meager meal he apportioned and stretched out, anticipating a swift sleep, despite the cold night air.

Yet, as weary as her aching body was, Victoria was too overwrought to relax. Unbidden memories of Jed's arrogance warred with irrational mental images of him as a hero.

Probably because of her utter exhaustion, his firmly muscled chest lingered in her mind as broad and impenetrable as a knight's armor, reminding her that Kincaid had risked his own life first to rescue her and then Ali. Her logical nature dismissed these foolish fantasies, yet the high-pitched emotions that had controlled the day would not stop churning about. Jed's undeniable presence haunted her. Only the realization that
he
and possibly Zobeir's men would hear her stilled her urge to scream aloud.

Finally, after much tossing and turning, Victoria rolled over on her back, folded her arms beneath her head and admitted to herself that any attempt to find sleep was doomed. She would abandon all thoughts of it and concentrate instead on her life-to-be with Hayden.

Hayden! He was truly her hero, the man to whom she had pledged her troth. She had last seen him for luncheon the day she had been abducted and he had been ever so attentive. As usual, he had been singled out by many of the other diners at Shepheard's Hotel. He was a man who was noticed, a dependable man with a good future ahead of him.

However, even attempting to distract herself with visions of Hayden, so dapper and gentlemanly, Victoria couldn't help but contrast his polished demeanor with that of the roguish American. Never would Hayden be caught needing a shave, let alone unwashed and barefoot. His clothing was always immaculately tailored to skim his shoulders, presenting the perfect image of a solid, responsible government employee.

Kincaid, the Englishwoman realized with a start, didn't need to worry about his image. That was the difference between the two of them. The American had no pretensions. He looked exactly like what he was, an independent, amoral renegade, perhaps as dangerous to her as Zobeir, but in a different way. Kincaid beleaguered her privately, in the depths of her heart.

Whereas Hayden, though he cared for her deeply, waited in Cairo, Kincaid didn't hesitate to act, even crushing a snake under his bare heel. As much as she should have been repelled by the idea, Victoria found herself wondering how he would behave if aroused.

Once again, her roving mind turned traitor as she imagined being caught up in Kincaid's fierce embrace and crushed against his broad chest. Though her slender fingers would protest, pushing him back, his head would lower itself to hers, his hand lifting her chin ever so gently. Then, too quickly for her to object, his rough lips would possess hers, arrogantly taking her response as his due. She would struggle futilely against his hard manhood, outraged at the intimacy of his claim on her, while her body began to yield. At the vision she had conjured, Victoria's heart began to beat faster and her breathing to grow more shallow. He was so very manly in a brutish sort of way—