Drowsily Danaë wondered what had awakened her; then she realized they had halted at a small camp where men seemed to be waiting for them and helped them quickly change horses. Her captor handed her down to one of his men until he was mounted on a fresh horse; then she was handed back up to him. She tried to struggle and kick, but he forced her against his body until she was unable to move.
They continued on through the night, to what destination Danaë could not guess. After a while she drifted to sleep once more. When she awoke a short time later, she jerked forward, and the Bedouin loosened his grip on her. Struck by renewed fear, she fought and twisted, trying to slide off the striding horse, but the man roughly clamped her arms and held her fast until she finally ceased her struggle.
“Do not try that again—you will only injure yourself,” he told her. “I’m stronger than you; to struggle is futile.”
He was right, of course. She had felt his strength and tested his resolve. Even if she could manage to escape, he would overtake her.
“What do you want with me?” she demanded.
“Not what you may think.” He laughed in amusement. “In truth, I would wish you anywhere else but on this horse with me.”
“Then let me go.”
“Nay.”
Soft moonlight now fell across the countryside, and Danaë turned to glance at him. The lower part of his face was covered, and all she could see was the gleam of his dark, piercing eyes. Fear crept into her voice. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Woman, I have no intention of harming you.” His voice was muffled, but she could tell he was irritated. “Take comfort in the fact that you are under my protection.”
He settled her into the crook of his arm, and she felt the intake of his breath. Something wild and wonderful stirred within her, and that frightened her more than any threat he could have made. “Please let me go,” she pleaded.
“Impossible! Speak no more of it.”
Danaë fell silent, her thoughts in a quandary. What could this man want with her? Then she thought she knew. “Did Lord Ramtat hire you to capture me, or was it Harique?”
She felt him stiffen. “I know of no one by the name of Harique. I act on my own.”
None of this made sense to her. “Then what can you want with me?”
He was silent for a moment, and when he did speak, it was with feeling. “What I want of you, and what I can have of you, are two different matters.”
His words were not reassuring. The man spoke in riddles she could not understand.
Her mind filled with turmoil, Danaë tried to relax in the Bedouin’s arms as the horse traveled on through the night. When the sun tinted the eastern sky with streaks of gold, they reached an encampment where some twenty tents were clustered among large date palms. Her captor rode straight to the center of the camp and halted before a magnificent tooled-leather tent.
When he placed Danaë on her feet, she was immediately surrounded by curious women and children. Several women poked at her, and one pulled her hair. But a crisp order from the Bedouin made the women move away and scatter.
She watched as the others quickly dispersed. If there had been any doubt in her mind that this man was the leader of the Bedouin, it no longer existed. He turned to her and held out his hand, but she shook her head and moved away. He issued orders to those who stood nearby, and one of the men led his horse away.
Turning his attention back to Danaë, he took her arm and guided her resisting body toward the tent.
“No!” Danaë cried, struggling to free herself from his grip. But he merely swung her into his arms and carried her.
“I beg you, let me go.”
He glanced down at her, and for a moment she stared back at him, her heart racing. The lower part of his face was still covered, and all she could see were dark eyes that showed no mercy. She knew it would do no good to plead with him. “Whoever you are, and whatever your reasons for making me your captive, I can mean naught to you. Give me a horse, and I will find my own way home.”
“Consider this your home,” he said crisply. “I cannot allow you to go free.”
This time when Danaë struggled, he placed her on her feet abruptly. She was still stunned by his words. She was trembling with fear as she watched him move across the soft rug and walk toward an inner room, shoving the tapestry aside and disappearing behind it. She was left alone—pondering her fate and fighting her fear of the man’s intentions.
In the seclusion of the inner room, Ramtat removed his dark robe and tightened the belt of his tunic, all the while aware that his hands were shaking. How could she not recognize him? He had purposely disguised his voice, but she should have known him anyway.
He closed his eyes, wondering why he always had such a passionate reaction to Lady Danaë. When he was near her, when he touched her, he realized his feelings for her were inexplicably deep. When he was not with her, all he did was think about her.
Now she was under his power, but he dared not give in to the urge to take her in his arms and confess his need for her. It was easy to see she feared him as the Bedouin, and she certainly despised him as Lord Ramtat. If she only understood the depth of his desire for her, Danaë would be even more frightened of him.
The night ride through the desert had been torture for him. The feel of her soft body against his had stirred something deep within him—he had wanted to be her protector, not her tormentor.
He had to remember his duty to Egypt, and the reason he had been forced to take her prisoner. Caesar had wanted her dead; to hold Lady Danaë captive was the only way he could save her life. If she found her way back to Alexandria, she would go straight to the king and expose his ties to Rome. If that happened, there would be no way he could save her from Caesar’s fury.
Ramtat straightened his shoulders and stared at the tapestry that separated him from Danaë. He had always thought that love was the one trap he would never fall into. Now he had fallen hard.
How could he expect to save Lady Danaë when he could not even save himself?
Chapter Eleven
For a long time Danaë stood in silence wondering what she should do. It was useless to think of escaping—she heard men talking just outside the tent, and they would never allow her to slip past them. Even if she could, where would she go?
With a resigned breath, she dropped down onto a cushioned stool, all the while keeping a wary eye on the tapestry area where the Bedouin had disappeared. She feared he’d return at any moment.
Trying to remain calm, she glanced around the interior of the tent. Several lanterns cast their warm glow against the beautiful hand-tooled leather walls. The silken rug beneath her feet was mostly red with slashes of blue and white; it fit so snugly against the sides, it must have been designed just for the tent. There were silk hangings and colorful tassels across the entrance, as well as the tapestry that shielded the inner room into which the Bedouin had disappeared.
Danaë was so surprised by the richness of the interior, she forgot for the moment to be afraid. She had been inside many tents, but certainly none was of this size and grandeur. There were several white goatskin couches scattered about. She walked to a small curtained area and pulled back the filmy netting to find a bed. Hastily she let the netting drop and stepped back. Her heart pounded with fear as she sank down onto a stool. Drawing a deep breath, she turned her attention to an ebony desk piled high with what appeared to be maps and charts. What kind of man was this Bedouin?
Danaë leaned forward and braced her chin in her hands. Life had handed her almost more than she could bear. By now, Uriah would be sick with worry, and so would Minuhe when she found out what had happened. Would she ever see them again? She thought about Obsidian and Tyi and how they must be grieving in her absence, especially the leopard, which had never been separated from her.
Once more, she heard the murmur of voices just outside the tent, but she did not understand anything said. She was frightened, and alone, and she had not yet s
een the face of the man who controlled her fate.
Her father had taught her to be strong and to think for herself, but she felt powerless in her present circumstance and was angry at herself for giving in to fear.
Danaë tensed when she heard a commotion at the outside opening of the tent and steeled herself to face whomever entered. She was surprised and relieved to see four young women; one carried a large copper tub while the others carried earthen jars of water.
“Do any of you understand me—will you talk to me?” she asked in Egyptian, searching each face. The young woman who was giving instructions to the others shook her head, looking confused.
In frustration, Danaë smacked her fist into her open palm. “Can you find me anyone in this camp who is willing to talk to me?”
The young woman’s dark eyes widened with sadness, and again she shook her head.
Danaë felt alone in a hostile world. Another woman entered carrying several fine robes and draped them over one of the couches, then left. Danaë felt hot and gritty, and she glanced longingly at the steaming copper tub. Two of the women helped her disrobe, and she readily eased her body into warm water smelling of exotic spices. As she bathed, her gaze kept going furtively to the tapestry at the entrance to the inner room, for she was fearful that her captor would enter while she was bathing.
That thought made her quickly dunk her head, rinsing a sweet-smelling balm from her hair. When she climbed out of the tub, her gaze still on the other room, she quickly dressed. Although her own garment was soiled and made of rough linen that chafed her skin, she refused the soft robe one of the women held out to her.
The women looked at her in distress so she tried to explain, not knowing if they understood her. “I prefer to wear my own clothing. I want naught that isn’t mine.”
The women finally left, but shortly one of them returned with food. Danaë relished the sight of fresh dates, and she would have loved to sink her teeth into the creamy slices of goat cheese, but she did not want to eat the food of her enemy. The fruit nectar was especially difficult to resist—she turned her face from it so she would not be tempted.
As morning changed into afternoon, no one disturbed Danaë, and she began to relax, hoping her captor had forgotten about her. Since she heard no movement coming from the inner room, she assumed it must have its own entrance, and that the Bedouin had left.
Later in the afternoon, a woman appeared. She was older than the others had been, and she looked Danaë over carefully as she placed a tray of food on the low table.
Danaë ignored the food as a plot formed in her mind. If she refused to take any kind of nourishment, perhaps the Bedouin would fear for her health and allow her to go home. “You may take that away,” she said, pointing to the food.
The woman’s dark gaze swept placidly over Danaë’s face as if she cared little whether the captive ate or not.
“If you understand me, tell your master that I will not eat his food.”
“Sheik El-Badari is not my master,” the woman stated haughtily before sweeping out of the tent.
Danaë was not surprised to discover that the man who had captured her was a sheik. From the beginning, he had exuded power and confidence that his every command would be obeyed.
What continued to puzzle her was why he had brought her to his camp and refused to free her.
The evening meal was brought by the same older woman, and Danaë’s stomach rumbled as she looked longingly at the spiced meat and block cheese. She tried not to think about the cakes dripping with honey. But she stiffened her spine, determined not to eat. “I will not partake of this food. Take it away.”
The woman shrugged and withdrew before Danaë could question her. Danaë lowered her head, completely despondent. She was at the sheik’s mercy—helpless, alone. But she could still control what food she put in her mouth, and to her that was a small kind of victory.
Lord Harique knocked against the high gate with the handle of his whip. When no one came to admit him, he called out loudly, “Open to your master or I’ll have the gate ripped off its hinges!”
After a short wait, the gate creaked open and a thin young man bowed, his frightened eyes darting from Harique to the twelve armed guards who accompanied him. “You are not master here,” the young man announced in a shaky voice. “This is the home of Lady Danaë, and she is away at the moment.”
Harique dismounted and pushed past the lad, his eyes snapping with anger. “You will learn soon enough who your master is. Think on this, and you will live a lot longer: Lady Danaë, as you call her, is not your mistress; rather, she is my slave.”
The servant backed away, not knowing what to believe. He barely avoided being trampled by the guards’ horses as they rode through the gate. “My mistress … er, Lady Danaë is not expected back for some time.”
Harique glanced about him, liking what he saw. This was a rich property to add to his holdings. It was by mere chance he had learned about this place. He soon discovered that no one at her father’s villa would tell him where Danaë had disappeared to. Either they didn’t know, or they were keeping quiet because of misplaced loyalty.
At the time, Harique had become enraged when none of the household slaves would tell him what he wanted to know. Threats had not loosened their tongues. Nor had the beatings he had administered to the most stubborn of the slaves. When nothing else worked, he craftily inquired about Uriah’s whereabouts, realizing that Danaë was probably with the old man. A foolish kitchen slave had blurted out the location of the house in Alexandria. In that moment, Harique knew he had Danaë!
His gaze swept the courtyard, and he smiled smugly—everything here, including Danaë, belonged to him. “Search everywhere,” he commanded his men. “Surround the house and allow no one to enter or leave.” Harique then turned his attention to the young man who had opened the gate for him. “If she is hiding on the grounds, you would be wise to take me to Danaë at once.”
There was confusion in the young man’s eyes, and fear. “I spoke the truth when I told you she is not here. But you could ask Uriah. He has just returned this very morning.”
Slapping the handle of his whip against his palm, Harique ordered, “Take me to him at once.”
Uriah was still dusty, bruised and sore, and most of all worried about what had happened to Danaë. After her disappearance he’d had no other recourse but to return to the city and gather more men to help him search for Danaë.
When Harique entered the room, Uriah knew that matters had just become a lot worse, and he wondered whether Lord Harique was responsible for Danaë’s abduction. The man, young though he was, was capable of any atrocity. Uriah had observed Harique from his childhood and watched him grow more vicious and greedy with the passing years.
Planting his body in front of Uriah in a threatening manner, Harique motioned for two companions to aim their spears at the Jew’s chest. “Tell me where she is if you want to live, old man,” Harique said coldly.
Harique had a physique that any man would envy—he was muscular, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His face was handsome, though most of the time his mouth was twisted into a cruel line. The black-hearted young man’s handsomeness was only a facade. Uriah looked into eyes so dark they were almost black, the irises mere pinpoints, and he knew he was looking into the eyes of pure evil. It was no secret to Uriah that Harique had always been obsessed with Danaë. But Uriah had sworn an oath to the dying Lord Mycerinus that he would keep Danaë safe from the nephew, though it cost him his life.
“Perhaps you can tell me where she is,” Uriah said accusingly, refusing to bow or show deference in any way. “If you do not know where Lady Danaë is, I cannot tell you.”
“Do not speak to me as if you were my equal, slave!” Harique shrieked, striking Uriah across the face with the handle of his whip, bringing blood. “Produce her immediately, old man. If you value your life, you will bring her to me at once.” He ran his fingers across the whip, eyeing Uriah. “And tell her
there is nowhere she can hide that I cannot find her.”
Uriah touched his bleeding cheek but still showed no fear. It was clear to him that Harique had had nothing to do with Danaë’s disappearance. He felt almost relieved—but if Harique was not responsible for her abduction, who was? “I cannot deliver your message because I am searching for her myself.”
“You lie to protect her,” Harique snarled.
“I would. But in this instance I am telling the truth.”
“Do you expect me to believe you? I knew that if I could find you, she would be with you. Produce her now!” The whip lashed out and sliced into the old man’s shoulder, and Harique smiled with sadistic pleasure as Uriah staggered backward. “I can hold out longer than you can in this game of wills between us.”
Uriah struggled to keep his footing and stood defiantly before his tormentor. He would reveal what he knew about Danaë’s abduction, for it would do Harique no good. The man had no chance of finding her; Uriah knew he had little chance of that himself. “Lady Danaë was forced to flee into the desert to escape a certain high-ranking nobleman who was causing her trouble. We had traveled but two days out of the city when our encampment was attacked, and she was spirited away.” His shoulders hunched. “I returned here to gather men and horses so I could search for her.”
“You expect me to believe this outrageous tale?”
Uriah shrugged his frail shoulders. “Whether you believe it or not, ’tis the truth.”
“Who would have done such a thing?” Harique asked suspiciously. “Who would dare?”
“All I can tell you is there were more than a dozen Bedouins from a tribe I have never before encountered. I do not know where they took Lady Danaë, or why, because they took no one else. They were not interested in capturing any of the other women, and they did not rob the caravan. More than that, I cannot say.”
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