Desert Rogue (5 page)

“
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.”