Page 22 of Kismet

It had been dark and rainy. The normal stench of the streets had evaporated in the downpour, leaving nothing but the damp, musty smell of slick brick walls and cobblestones. The expression on her mother’s face was shadowed except for the occasional flashes of light thrown out by the lightning overhead. Whatever looks her mother had once had were gone, replaced by a world-weary hardness that made her look old and beaten.

Desperate to understand what was happening, she’d pleaded to know where they were going. When the light had flickered over her mother’s face, the look of haggard stoicism had terrified her. Whatever her mother had planned, she would see it to fruition. It had been the familiarity of the street that had alerted her to the horror to come. Four years earlier they’d come this way. It was the last time she’d seen her sister. She was going to her death, just like Elizabeth had. She moaned as her tears mixed with the sweat on her face, and succumbing to the deadly heat she fell into oblivion once more.

Loud warbling cries penetrated the confines of the carpet, jarring her awake. The wagon she was in came to a halt, and someone lifted her up like a sack of potatoes. Panic swept through her, and she tried to cry out past the gag in her mouth. The guttural sound lingered in her throat as someone placed her on the ground and rolled her out of the carpet. Rough, calloused hands removed her gag, and fresh, sweet air filled her lungs as she inhaled a deep breath.

She dragged her hand across her eyes to remove the sand and grit layering her eyelids. Blinking what was left of the dirt out of her eyes, she stared up at the early evening sky. The stars were just beginning to glow overhead as the light faded. Fear gnawed at her as she slowly sat up to take in her surroundings.

More than two dozen men and women encircled her, and their voices filled the air with chatter. The fury of the sound made her wince. Out of the chaos, a strong voice spoke sharply. The demand in the man’s voice indicated he was asking for something, and he was far from pleased with the answers he received.

The gathering parted quickly to make way for a man dressed in the fine robes of a wealthy Bedouin Sheikh. The man’s voice was sharp and angry as he gestured at the men who’d kidnapped her. Dehydration had weakened her considerably, and she didn’t move from the carpet. The Sheikh made a hissing sound of anger and issued a sharp order that sent a man rushing toward her. A moment later, her hands were untied and the man lifted her to her feet. She swayed slightly, but managed to remain on her feet as she gently massaged the tender spots on her wrists where the rope had chafed the skin.

Stepping forward the Bedouin leader touched first his heart and then his forehead. “Ssalamū ‘lekum, Miss Synnford.”

“You. . . know. . . my name.”

She winced at the raw dryness of her throat and licked her lips. God, she was so thirsty. Anger twisted the man’s face as he snapped another order. Almost magically, a bag of water was placed at her lips. She drank eagerly from the vessel. She couldn’t remember the last time something had tasted so good. Her thirst quenched for the moment, she lowered the water bag and stared at the man in front of her. He bowed slightly.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sheikh Yusuf Nassar. One of your many admirers.” He spoke in English, each word enunciated in the clipped, precise tones of someone who was fluent in a language that wasn’t their native tongue.

He was a handsome man. Black, lush eyebrows arched over brown eyes. They were a stark contrast to the swarthy complexion of his face. The black beard and moustache he wore were trimmed close and neat to his face. Despite his good looks, there was a slightly cruel twist to his thin mouth. He wouldn’t tolerate challenges to his authority.

“I must apologize for my men,” he said in his precise English. “The fools were supposed to escort you here, not treat you like a common whore.”

Refreshed somewhat by the water, she stiffened at the man’s arrogant statement. “Escort? Where I come from they call it kidnapping.”

“Ahh, but this is Morocco, my dear. We do things differently here.”

“I don’t care what you do here,” she snapped in a hoarse voice as fear gave way to anger. “As a subject of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, I’m protected under agreements between the French and British governments.”

“Ah, but I’m not French,” he said as his lips curled upward in a feral smile. “The moment I saw you disembark from the boat in Safi, I knew I had to have you.”

“Have me? I’m not a piece of property for you to do with as you please,” she grounded out through clenched teeth. “It’s uncivilized and barbaric.”

She didn’t flinch under his cold gaze. Something about his manner said it would be unwise to show anything but strength in the face of his harsh examination. He would use whatever weakness he saw in her to his advantage.

“Are you suggesting that I’m a barbarian?” His eyes were flat like a reptile’s, and she dodged answering the question by changing the direction of the conversation.

“You obviously brought me here for a reason, monsieur. I’d like to know why and how long you intend to hold me against my will.”

“Why?” He laughed, clearly amused by her reply. “Because I intend to enjoy the pleasures of your body, my dear Allegra.”

“I see. Are there so few women in Morocco who welcome your attentions that you must kidnap one to service you?”

His laughter died a quick death, and inside she cursed herself for letting her tongue get the best of her. She knew better, but her brain was sluggish. She needed to remember to control her anger or it would bring the man’s wrath down on her head. He narrowed his eyes as he sent her a cold look.

“None as special as you, ma chérie. It is said you have the ability to drive a man mad with desire. I intend to experience that.”

“Your expectations are high, monsieur.”

“So the rumors of your skill are greatly exaggerated,” he said smugly as if certain she would take umbrage at his snide statement. He made another comment in Berber to the men, which provoked their laughter. The sound angered her.

“My skill is not in question, monsieur. It is a question of choice.”

“Choice?” he snorted with amused disgust. “You have no choice here.”

“Ultimate pleasure is a mutual exchange. Without choice there can be no such exchange,” she said with quiet determination.

The fury rolling across his face sent an icy finger down her back. He stepped forward until there were mere inches between them. The flat expression in his eyes reminded her of men she’d seen in Madame Eugenie’s, men who took their pleasure in ways that appalled even the more jaded members of the brothel. She forced herself not to flinch or look away from his malicious stare. To show fear was to show weakness, and weakness was something she could ill afford in her current circumstances. He narrowed his gaze at her.