The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride

‘It’s Belle,’ she said at last, her voice uneven.

‘Belle.’ He paused, her name on his tongue, and fire shot down to the centre of her being. He lifted his head to meet her eyes. ‘And you must call me Rafiq.’

She nodded. ‘Rafiq.’ She should have guessed even his name would be sexy.

‘Your hands are knocked about, but with antibiotics to ward off infection they should heal.’ He opened his hands and she slid hers out of his hold.

‘Let me see your ankles now.’ He reached down and lifted her foot in one hand, gently brushing the sand away.

‘Not too bad, considering,’ he said finally, after a close inspection. ‘If you’re lucky you’ll only have minimal scarring.’

Belle nodded, relieved when he released her. His nearness, even the whisper of his warm breath against her skin, set her senses reeling. She was so utterly attuned to him she was sure he could read the longing in her gaze.

‘Do you have any other injuries?’ Was that a thread of tension she detected in his tone?

She turned from her contemplation of the empty ocean to find his attention fixed on her thigh. A large, multicoloured bruise marred her leg—unmistakably the mark of a massive hand.

Belle shuddered as she remembered getting that bruise. Heavy, thickset men, rank with the smell of sour sweat and excitement. Cruel eyes that told her they’d enjoyed maiming Duncan, would enjoy hurting her. For an instant she was sucked back into the nightmare, confused and fighting the choking panic that threatened to take hold.

She blinked, forcing herself to put aside the memory. There were more sore spots round her waist. Tentatively she touched them and winced.

‘A couple of bruises,’ she said, aiming for a matter-of-fact tone and failing. ‘They’ll heal in time.’

A burst of guttural Arabic, savage and uncompromising, broke across her words. Startled, she raised her eyes to see a look of such fierce emotion on Rafiq’s face that she flinched. It was as if he’d transformed into a stranger. An intense, deadly stranger.

Then his eyes met hers and the impression was dispelled, his face smoothing out into the familiar mask of cool control.

‘Forgive me, MsWinters—Belle.’ He paused, and she noticed the rapid tic of his pulse at the base of his throat. Not so calm, then.

He gestured abruptly to the livid bruise on her leg. ‘This is untenable. That my countrymen have treated you in this way—’ He bit off the words and drew in a breath that made his broad chest heave. ‘Apologies are insufficient for such a crime. But, for what it’s worth, you have mine.’

She shook her head, bemused. ‘It’s not your fault, Rafiq. You rescued us. Put yourself in danger to help.’

A single slashing movement of his hand cut her off.

‘It sickens me that you have suffered violence at the hands of these men. Abduction and harm. When you are on the mainland, have no fear, you will be given the best of medical service. Counselling—whatever is appropriate.’

She watched him stretch out his fingers in a deliberate movement of forced relaxation. It was totally at odds with the tension in his big frame.

‘And while you recuperate your attackers will be brought to justice. They will not long escape their punishment.’ The stormy light in his eyes sent a thrill of apprehension skittering down her spine.

He paused. ‘We have extremely competent female doctors who can take care of you and discuss your…experiences.’

He turned his gaze from her as if to give her privacy. And in that moment she realised why he’d been so outraged at the sight of her injuries. Embarrassment warred with relief and the need to reassure him.

‘Rafiq,’ she said, reaching out to touch his hand before she could change her mind. His fingers curled round hers and a jolt of blazing energy shot through her.

‘They didn’t…’She hesitated. ‘They only hurt me to get me to move, to obey them. They didn’t…’

‘Rape you?’ His voice was a husky murmur.

‘No.’

She was fine. Really. She’d survived. Her injuries were minor. So why did the recollection of her kidnappers’ avid eyes upset her? Why did she choke on the bitter taste of tears that blocked her throat and prickled her eyes?

‘Habibti,’ Rafiq murmured, touching her cheek in a feather-light caress that loosened her hold on her welling emotions even further. ‘You’ve been through so much. There’s no need to fight yourself as well. There is no shame in feeling upset.’

She responded to the sound of his voice, rich and warm, as much as to his words. Blindly she nodded, instinctively leaning towards the comfort of his solid frame. His hands closed round her arms and her rigid control slipped another notch. She felt as if she were unravelling, the very core of her loosening, unwinding, fraying. The dam that held her emotions in check splintered. Relief and remembered terror roiled within her in great, sickening waves.

For a long moment he held her at a distance, his hands supportive, bracing. The first sob rose in her throat, raw and wretched. And with one decisive movement of superb strength he lifted her, pulling her into his arms to cradle her against his torso.

His lips moved against her hair, whispering words of reassurance as she cried out her pain. He rocked her slowly. The heat of his body seeped into the chill of hers and the scent of him, of sea and musk, banished the lingering taste of rancid horror from her mouth. His heart was steady beneath her ear, calming, powerful.

Finally the storm of grief and pain eased.

Belle felt herself float, boneless and weightless, in his embrace. She hiccoughed, and the tears eventually subsided, and still he held her, murmuring in that magnificent velvety voice that filled her senses.

She never wanted to move again. She could stay here for ever.

Then she heard it. The rhythmic thud in the distance. The swell of unmistakable sound as a helicopter approached. Safe in Rafiq’s arms, she listened to the noise grow louder and closer, knowing it meant rescue but strangely feeling neither relief nor exhilaration.

Now the roar was directly overhead. Swirling sand bit into her bare legs. She struggled to raise her heavy head, to pull herself out of Rafiq’s arms. But he held her close.

‘Shh, little one. No need to move yet.’

And it was easier to subside against him. She felt as if every ounce of strength she’d ever had, even the dogged determination that had kept her going through the last terrifying days, had drained away.

The chopper blades cut out into a silence that reverberated with their echo. Rafiq straightened against her, though still he held her close.

She should move. Reluctantly she lifted her head, peering through slitted, puffy eyes into the glare.

A group of men strode towards them from the huge helicopter. Two of them she recognised. Dawud, looking even more villainous than he had last night, with his burgeoning grey-flecked stubble and piercing dark eyes. And a younger man in pale trousers and a jacket. The British Consul to Q’aroum. She’d met him when she’d arrived.

There was no Australian Consul on the islands. But Duncan was British, and his government had supported the international marine expedition, eager for closer ties with the small oil-rich nation.

Dawud spoke rapidly in Arabic. She read urgency in his gestures, felt the answering tension in Rafiq’s muscled frame. He barked out a query, and another, then was silent.

Finally David Gillham, the Consul, stepped forward. ‘Your Highness, may I express—?’

‘Highness?’ Belle’s interjection was muffled within Rafiq’s embrace.

David Gillham paused, eyes serious. ‘Ms Winters, you remember me?’

She nodded, struggling to sit upright in Rafiq’s hold. His arms were like solid metal, binding her close.

‘I remember you, Mr Gillham.’ At last Rafiq’s arms relaxed and she sat straighter. Immediately she wished she hadn’t, feeling every man’s gaze on her.

‘It’s good to see you again,’ she said.

‘And you, Ms Winters. It’s a great relief to see you safe and sound.’ His gaze slid from hers to Rafiq’s.

‘Er, it seems a little formality may be called for?’ He watched her companion, as if seeking approval.

Rafiq nodded once, sharply.

David Gillham cleared his throat. ‘Allow me to introduce you, Ms Winters, to Sheikh Rafiq Kamil Ibn Makram al Akhtar, Sovereign Prince of Q’aroum.’

CHAPTER THREE

RAFIQ nodded to the guard posted outside Belle’s hospital room.

‘Your Highness.’ A doctor hurried forward. ‘I’m afraid Ms Winters is sleeping now. You may wish to return later.’

‘Then it will be a short visit,’ Rafiq replied, moving forward as the guard opened the door.

He didn’t pause to analyse this compulsion to see her.

All day he’d done his duty. Touring sites on the outer islands hit by the cyclone. Organising the deployment of resources for disaster relief. Meeting with the Cabinet and national security advisors to assess the political fall-out from the kidnappings and receive briefings on the search for those responsible. Each meeting, each need, more urgent than the last.

Now he did something purely for himself. Something he’d wanted to do ever since he’d relinquished Belle Winters into the charge of the medics on the helicopter. He breathed deeply and entered her room.

Shutters softened the late-afternoon light, reinforcing the quiet. Immediately his gaze fixed on the narrow, hospital regulation bed in the centre of one wall. Bright blonde hair framed a face that was far too pale. Her eyes were closed and she lay unmoving under the white cotton sheet.

Rafiq’s heart thudded hard against his ribcage. Surely she was too still? He couldn’t discern any movement, not even her breathing.

He strode across the room as the doctor murmured from behind him, ‘She’s been asleep for hours, Highness. She may not wake until tomorrow. We can contact you when she does.’

Rafiq stopped at the bedside, hands clasped tight behind his back. It was a gesture he’d learned years ago from his grandfather. There were times when a man needed to take action. But a royal sheikh must always appear calm, unmoved.

So Rafiq schooled his expression as he stood looking down at her, skimming his gaze over the form that seemed so fragile, so unprotected, beneath the starched sheet. Finally he discerned the gentle rise of her chest as she inhaled, and the tension gripping him eased a fraction.

Of course she was alive. What had he thought? That the medical staff didn’t know their jobs? Exhaustion, they’d said. Exposure and dehydration. But not severe enough to be life-threatening.

She’d been lucky.

Rafiq considered the bandages on her wrists, the blistered skin of her shoulders, the drip attached to her arm, the vulnerability of her slight form.

His hands clenched into tight fists as a surge of adrenaline flooded him. Hot fury twisted low in his belly as he contemplated the men who’d done this to her.

Lucky!

She was indeed lucky to be alive. Lucky her captors hadn’t returned to the island for a little sport. Lucky they’d decided to let their victims die an ugly, lingering death from thirst rather than finish them off with a blade to the throat. Or worse.

Lucky the gang’s ringleader hadn’t taken part in the kidnapping personally. Selim al Murnah was a connoisseur of cruelty. A man who wouldn’t miss an opportunity to indulge his sick whims on such a lovely woman.

The idea of Belle at Selim’s mercy was revolting. The bitter taste of bile rose in Rafiq’s throat as he recognised how narrowly she’d escaped death and torture.

His gaze roved her features, so familiar after such a short time. Her golden hair, her straight, determined nose, the sculpted, bone-deep beauty of her face. Her lips: cracked and dry, but undeniably seductive. A mouth created to please a man. A courtesan’s mouth. A mouth that had tempted him, haunted him, since he’d first seen her in the glare of the torchlight—half naked, beyond exhausted, and heartbreakingly brave.

‘Highness?’ The murmured word made him start. He turned his head to meet the worried frown of the doctor.

‘Very well.’ Rafiq inclined his head. ‘I see you’re doing all you can for Ms Winters. Be assured of my gratitude. She and Mr MacDonald are important guests. Keep me informed of their progress.’

The doctor nodded. ‘Of course, Highness.’

As Rafiq turned to leave something caught his eye. A tentative movement against the stark sheet. He looked across to see her brow pucker, her eyes slowly open. Something caught at his throat, restricting his breathing, as he watched recognition spark in her gaze, her eyes widen.

‘You came,’ she whispered, her voice a hoarse whisper. At the sound of it some of the stiffness across his neck and shoulders melted.

He reached down and took her hand in his, squeezing gently, as if he could transfer some of his strength to her. Her hand was slim, cool, frighteningly limp within his grasp.

‘Of course I came, little one. You didn’t think I’d abandon you?’

She didn’t answer, just stared up at him from those mesmerising azure eyes. The impact of that look struck him in the solar plexus, sending a jolt of sizzling sensation through him. Then her eyelids flickered shut and her hand went lax in his.

‘If I may, Highness?’

Reluctantly Rafiq relinquished Belle’s hand to the doctor, and stepped back while he took her pulse.

‘She’s fine,’ the doctor said after a moment, answering his unspoken question. ‘Merely sleeping.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps she will rest better after seeing Your Highness? She seemed to take comfort from your presence.’

There was the faintest trace of speculation in his well-modulated tones. But Rafiq knew enough about his people and the power of speculation to be prepared.

‘I was one of the team who found Mr MacDonald and Ms Winters,’ he explained. ‘I’d be surprised if they didn’t recognise us.’

‘As you say.’ The doctor gestured for Rafiq to precede him out of the room. ‘It would be remarkable indeed.’

Rafiq resisted the urge to turn, to look again at Belle. Instead he followed the doctor out into the corridor.

Duncan McDonald’s room was identical to Belle’s, but the shutters were open, letting in late-afternoon sun that lit his red hair to flame. His leg was in traction, his arm connected to a drip and his chest bandaged. He’d been injured while trying to protect Belle Winters from the abductors.

A brave man. So why was Rafiq reluctant to meet him?

He crossed the room and waited while the doctor performed the introductions.

‘Mr MacDonald, it’s gratifying to see you looking so much better.’

‘Your Highness.’ Duncan paused, as so many Westerners did over the title. ‘I must thank you. I understand you were responsible for our rescue?’

‘There’s no need for thanks, Mr MacDonald. We are simply glad you and Ms Winters are now safe.’

‘Belle! How is she?’ There was no mistaking the desperate edge in the other man’s voice.

‘Ms Winters is sleeping. The doctor assures me she will recover completely.’

Duncan slumped back against the pillows and sighed. ‘I feel responsible for her.’

Rafiq knew how he felt. At least MacDonald had the solace of knowing he’d done his best to protect her. It was for Rafiq to feel the full weight of guilt, since he was the ultimate cause of their danger. That realisation was like a canker, eating at his peace.

‘On behalf of all Q’aroumis, may I express our deep regret at this terrible incident? Our security forces are scouring the country even now in search of your kidnappers.’

‘They’ll be tried?’

‘Of course.’ Rafiq’s smile was grim. ‘We no longer administer rough justice in Q’aroum. You can look forward to testifying at the legal proceedings against them.’

Duncan MacDonald nodded. ‘If you catch them.’

‘Oh, they’ll be caught.’ He’d see to it personally. Selim and his followers would be hunted down like rabid dogs. They wouldn’t escape justice after what they’d done.

Rafiq stifled the urge to pace. Political dissent was one thing. But violent plots couldn’t be tolerated. The kidnapping was part of Selim’s wider scheme to destabilise Q’aroum’s democratic system. He hid behind extremist ideology but sought only personal power.

‘If you hadn’t turned up when you did—’ Duncan MacDonald began, but Rafiq cut him off with an impatient gesture. He didn’t want MacDonald’s thanks.

‘You’d have survived. I’m sure Ms Winters would have seen to it. She’s a remarkable woman.’

Yet he knew how close the search had come to missing that one small atoll. Just as well he’d insisted on taking a personal role in the operation. His inside knowledge of Selim, his second cousin, had helped concentrate the search in the right area. If it hadn’t been for that…

‘Tell me,’ he said, focussing again on the man before him. ‘Is there anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable?’

‘Well, there is one thing.’ Duncan MacDonald hesitated. ‘My girlfriend doesn’t have a visa for Q’aroum, and I know they take weeks to process.’

Rafiq felt his facial muscles stretch wide as he smiled. His first genuine smile since this business began. So MacDonald had a girlfriend back home in Britain.

‘I’ll have it organised immediately.’ He paused, as if considering. ‘We must ask Ms Winters when she wakes whether she has a similar request.’

Duncan MacDonald shook his head. ‘No need. Belle doesn’t have a boyfriend waiting at home for her.’

Ah. Now, that was interesting.

Belle sank back gratefully against the limousine’s soft leather seat. At last she was on her way.

After three days in hospital she’d been climbing the walls with impatience. But the medical staff had been insistent: she mustn’t leave until they were sure there were no complications, until she’d recovered her strength. Anyone would think they’d had orders to keep her immured there. It had only been when she’d threatened to leave without a formal discharge that the doctor had agreed to release her.

And now this. She surveyed the sumptuous interior of the vehicle with a frown. Surely an ordinary taxi would have done? She wasn’t a VIP.

She stared out of the window as the engine purred into life and they swept out of the hospital forecourt. She should be excited at the prospect of returning to her lodgings. Of resuming work again. After all, she’d made marine archaeology the centre of her life for years now—was just starting to build a modest reputation as an up-and-coming researcher in her field.

There was so much to catch up on. She’d call the maritime archaeology centre and discuss a replacement for Duncan. And she’d better check the wreck site to see if the cyclone had damaged the ship or covered it again. It had been in remarkable condition for a vessel that had been underwater for two millennia. She couldn’t bear the thought of it being destroyed just as they found it.

And tonight she’d make another long call home, to reassure her mum. Then a hot, soothing bath. Bliss!

She shifted on the padded seat. Why wasn’t she more excited to be on her way? There was a niggle of tension in the pit of her stomach that she’d tried to ignore ever since she’d left her hospital room. A niggle that had grown alarmingly into a tight, hard knot of fear.

Fear that alone in the expedition team’s house she might not be safe. That masked men might burst in, brandishing guns.

She’d relived the nightmare of abduction so often that she could barely believe it was over. Surely it was over? The doctor had spoken of political strife, had implied she and Duncan had been merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yet still the anxiety lingered.

Belle wondered if she’d ever lose it.

She stared out at the brightly lit streets, finding some comfort in the quaint and vibrant old city. They passed a huge square where the colourful night markets were in full swing. She loved the medieval town, with its maze of streets and its unexpected open spaces.

The car took a sharp corner and Belle looked up to see the palace, illuminated like a fairytale castle. It reminded her of long-buried fantasies. Of Arabian nights and genies and magic carpets. On two sides, facing the sea, it was a brooding fortress, its centuries-old walls a solid bastion against invaders’ cannon. But from this side the royal buildings were an Arabian fantasy: gardens and fountains, pavilions, gilt domes, arches, and screens adorned with delicate carved tracery.

‘Hey, you can’t go in here!’ Belle scooted forward on her seat as the car turned into the private palace road.

The driver ignored her, pulling to a halt at the ornate iron gates barring their way. A man in uniform stepped out of the shadows and spoke briefly to the chauffeur. Then, to Belle’s amazement, he waved them on as the gates slid open.

‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was husky with disbelief. ‘This isn’t where I’m going.’

The driver’s voice was calm. ‘I was told to bring you here, ma’am. There’s no mistake.’

She sank back in her seat, her heart thudding as the car proceeded towards the palace. As the lights grew closer, and her pulse raced faster, Belle forced herself to face the only logical explanation: she’d been brought here to meet him. The man she’d known as Rafiq. Who had turned out to be a royal prince, ruler of Q’aroum.

The man she’d spent the last few days trying to forget.

The man who’d seen her at her weakest, who’d recognised her despair and comforted her with his body and his soothing words. Who knew her vulnerability and her needs almost better than she did. Who’d read the raw, physical hunger in her eyes when she’d looked at him and had been repelled by it.

She swallowed. Did she have any hope of avoiding this interview?

Of course she didn’t.

The car slid to a halt and a man in long pale robes came forward to open the door for her. Quickly she smoothed her hair, ignoring the fine tremor in her hands. She was hardly dressed for a royal interview—but then, what was new? At least this time she was dressed. She tilted her chin up, hoping bravado would overcome embarrassment.

Rafiq al Akhtar had saved her life, and she owed him her thanks. It would be humiliating, facing him, reading the knowledge in his eyes, but it would soon be over. And then she’d never have to see him again.

‘Masa’a alkair, Ms Winters. Good evening. You are welcome.’ It was Dawud, the man who’d brought Duncan back to safety. He looked different, in flowing robes and a turban. She wondered if he wore his knife concealed beneath the swathed cotton.

‘Masa’a alkair, Dawud.’

He smiled at her, a twist of the lips that tugged at his scar, and her tension eased fractionally.

‘It’s good to see you, Dawud.’

‘And you, Miss Winters. Please, this way.’ He gestured to the huge bossed wooden doors and ushered her inside. A pair of servants stood silent just inside the foyer.

As she accompanied him across the wide marble floor, the enormous double doors closed with a reverberating thud behind them. The sound made her falter. It was like the slam of a cell door: final and forbidding.

Belle straightened her shoulders, cursing her over-active imagination. She was no prisoner. This would be a short, formal audience. Nothing to panic about.

They crossed a reception room the size of an auditorium. Thank goodness Rafiq hadn’t decided to see her here, where the elaborate raised dais with its gilt canopy would reinforce the power and pomp of his royal status. She already dreaded this interview. She didn’t need a reminder of the yawning chasm between them.

Eventually Dawud knocked on a pair of carved doors.

‘Come.’

The hair stood up on the back of Belle’s neck as she recognised Rafiq’s voice. It had haunted her dreams for three days. Sometimes its honeyed tones had lulled her with the lyrical, comforting flow of foreign words. But just as often that voice had thrilled her with its deep, masculine promise, till she woke edgy and aroused, unable to sleep again for the knowledge of her own desperate weakness.