Page 28 of Kismet

“I’m a free woman! A subject of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. You cannot sell me like cattle, you bastard.”

She tried to free herself from Sheikh Shaheen’s firm, yet gentle, grip, but failed. Still holding her prisoner, he removed the knife from her hand and returned it to Nassar. Cruel amusement curled Nassar’s mouth.

“Bringing her to heel might require more than the gentle patience you believe is such an effective training tool, Newcastle. But then you English have always been a stubborn people, perhaps you’ll succeed after all.”

Nassar’s words made Allegra jerk her head in the direction of the man who’d just released her. Newcastle? Dear God. He wasn’t a Bedouin. He was English, and he’d bought her. The shock of what he’d done threw her back into the darkness of her past. It was such a long time ago, and yet the sharp, wrenching pain of it tore at her with the same intensity as it had when the horror of it had been new. He’d stolen her ability to choose. She’d been sold for the second time in her life.

“Jamal, take her to the horses,” Sheikh Shaheen said quietly.

She heard his words, but as though from a great distance. She was back at Madame Eugenie’s. Any moment now, she’d find herself drinking in the rank odor of sweet wine left standing overnight, cheap perfume, and stale tobacco. Shame and humiliation crawled through her until her stomach roiled from the onslaught. When had the present become the past?

In the course of just one day, she’d been reduced to the child she’d once been—helpless, unwanted, and devoid of any control over her future. Was it possible she’d been wrong all along? Was she incapable of forging her own destiny? No. She couldn’t believe that. She’d come too far from that pitiful existence in the East End of London to lose faith in her ability to overcome the worst of circumstances.

Still, the mortification was all too familiar. For Nassar to sell her in such a cavalier manner was despicable, but it was no more than she expected of a barbarian. But to have been bought by him—an Englishman—the thought sickened her. At least Madame Eugenie hadn’t lied about what she was. Trembling from shock, she didn’t move, and the man calling himself Shaheen narrowed his gaze in her direction.

“You have one of two choices, ma belle, you can go with Jamal or you can stay here. The choice is yours.”

He lied. He wasn’t offering her a choice. She didn’t hide her loathing for him as she tilted her head in a defiant manner. Although his expression revealed nothing, his narrowed gaze leveled a silent challenge to her. The feeling of helplessness returned, and she reluctantly followed Jamal out of the tent. Behind her, Nassar grunted with anger as he tossed a bag of coins to Sheikh Shaheen.

“The jahannam meshsh will not have you.”

She tossed a quick glance over her shoulder at both of the men and saw Sheikh Shaheen shrug.

“You may be right, but since she belongs to me now, that is my problem.”

If Nassar answered him, she didn’t hear. Blindly, she stumbled along behind the Bedouin called Jamal. God, how could he have been so casual about trading a horse and some gold for her. She flinched. Why hadn’t he simply demanded Nassar release her? Surely, the man wasn’t above the law in Morocco. She nibbled at her lip as she bit back tears. Nassar’s behavior showed him for what he was.A man of little character. But how could she have been so wrong about this Englishman who’d bought her without flinching?

From the moment they’d met she’d recognized the raw magnetism he possessed. He was the type of man she’d learned to avoid because they always presented the possibility of emotional entanglements. But she never would have thought him so callous, so dishonorable as to do what he’d done. She couldn’t remember ever being so wrong about someone before—a shudder ripped through her. God in heaven, she’d taken pleasure in kissing him. She’d found him desirable. Worse, she’d even thought he’d come to rescue her. Her throat swelled with tears.

No. She refused to cry. But, oh God, how she wanted to. She wanted to cry long and hard like she had this morning. Ahead of her, the man called Jamal came to a halt in front of a group of horses and several men. Unlike her new master, who wore black, these men wore white robes similar to what she wore. She saw one of the men look at her then speak to the man beside him and nod in her direction. Her hand automatically reached up to touch what was left of her hair.

Shame spiraled through her again as her fingers brushed over the short, stubby clumps of hair. It wasn’t until Rana and the other women had left the tent this morning that she’d allowed herself to succumb to tears. And she had sobbed until she had no tears left. She wanted to cry like that again. Cry until she fell asleep and this nightmare ended. A light touch on her arm made her jump, and she turned her head to see Jamal’s expression of concern.

“To cover your head, mademoiselle.” In halting French, he offered her a linen scarf.

The kindness of his actions made tears blur her vision. Crushing the desire to sob, she hastily wiped her eyes dry with the back of her hand as she accepted the offering. Not worried how it might look, she wrapped her head with the material. As she tied off the scarf, her neck tingled with a familiar sensation. Instinct cried out for her to turn and face him, but she refused to give in to the impulse.

He came to a halt beside her, but she kept her gaze averted determined not to look at him. With a low growl of displeasure, he moved to a chestnut stallion and swung himself up into the saddle. Nudging his horse forward, he extended his hand to her.

“Come helwa jahannam meshsh.”

Dear God, he actually expected her to ride with him. She shuddered at the thought. No, she couldn’t bear to be so close to him. Besides, if they gave her a horse to ride, she could possibly escape. Arthur had always said she rode as if born in the saddle. She would make use of that skill if she could. She shook her head fiercely.

“I know how to ride, let me have my own horse.”

“The only horses we have are the ones you see before you. I just traded my best horse for you.” With an impatient gesture, he snapped his fingers and stretched out his hand to her again. “Now come, or I’ll leave you here for Nassar to deal with you as he chooses.”

Anger whipped through her with the power of the afternoon heat. The last thing she wanted was to ride with him. Ignoring his hand, she turned and moved to where Jamal sat astride a quiet black Arabian. Although her options were limited, she preferred to ride with someone whose conduct toward her had at least been sympathetic.

“Monsieur?” she pleaded as she stretched up her hand to the dark-skinned native.

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the man on the horse behind her. The silence wrapped itself around her with a tense edge, but her eyes didn’t leave the face of the Bedouin. A moment later, Shaheen’s anger exploded over her head as he said something in Jamal’s native tongue. With a nod, the Bedouin stretched out his arm, helping her mount the horse. Relieved, she wrapped her arms around the man’s waist and scooted into place on the rear of the animal.

With a loud command, Shaheen wheeled his horse around and rode off, not waiting for anyone to follow him. Immediately, Jamal and the others urged their animals forward. As they rode after his dark-clad figure, the uncertainty of her position terrified her. She was relieved they were taking her away from Nassar. But the uncertainty of what lay ahead was no less terrifying.

Exhausted and unable to think clearly, she clung to Jamal’s waist. Mile after mile they rode across the sparse landscape. Unchanging and unforgiving, it stretched out in front of them, relentless in its barren form. They crossed one or two small riverbeds that were mere trickles of water, only stopping long enough to let the horses drink before they pushed onward. It was late afternoon before she realized the sun was behind them. When had they changed course? She was certain they had been heading north when they left Nassar’s camp.

Over Jamal’s right shoulder, she saw the Atlas Mountains in the distance, their rocky formation rising up into the sky. They were the only thing that stood between Morocco and the ever-encroaching Sahara desert. Her heart skipped a beat. Was he taking her back to Marrakech? She was certain it was in this direction. Hope crested inside her, easing some of her weariness. Straightening, she searched the horizon for signs of the famed city, but there was nothing to suggest a city at all. At that moment, one of the men released a loud, warbling cry and urged his horse into a full gallop. Turning her head she saw a cluster of tents spread out on the horizon, and her heart sank. He wasn’t taking her to Marrakech. Jamal prodded his horse to move faster as the entire party raced toward the tents.