The Sheik and the Slave

by Italia, Nicola

  She tried to fight him once, but he slapped her sharply across the face.

  “Do you want to be unconscious? I’ll knock you out if that be your wish. Settle down, little tart,” he growled at her.

  She shook her head as his cock entered her body swiftly and fully, stuffing her.

  “Be a good girl,” he told her.

  He held the girl still as he sank into her tight hole.

  She cried out and he began to move in and out of her.

  “Oh God,” he choked out once and grunted.

  He pushed into her, with animal grunts coming from him, before he came inside the girl, jerking as the ropes of milk filled her pussy. He pulled out of her and saw the white seed spill down her leg. He buttoned himself up slowly and watched the girl adjust her clothing.

  Before he walked back inside the tavern, he threw a shilling on the ground at her feet.

  ***

  Mohammed met with Lord Fairfax, who assured him that he would hire the Bow Street Runners to track down Katharine. When Baron Adams had her abducted in revenge for her refusal of him, they had been successful in discovering what had occurred. Baron Adams still remained missing and had not returned to society due to Edward’s absolute resolve to force a duel.

  Edward and Mohammed were certain that the Runners would find out what had happened to Katharine and where she might be.

  In the meantime, Mohammed wanted Abdullah to find Jean Baptiste. As half-Arab, he might be hidden in a dirty part of London that would never have been known to them. Abdullah might be able to ferret him out, knowing the language and the people.

  Abdullah nodded but said nothing.

  “Inshallah, we will find her safe and soon,” he said to Mohammed.

  ***

  Sally dried her tears as her brother, Liam, clenched his teeth in frustration.

  “I’ll kill him,” he yelled.

  Sally had told her brother of the rape and had been devastated when she had been taken against her will.

  “Let the authorities deal with him. He’s a monster,” she said.

  “No. I will deal with this myself,” Liam told his fearful sister. “I swear it.”

  ***

  Abdullah spent a week doing as he had been bidden, and tracking down Jean Baptiste in London was no small feat. Jean Baptiste was a mercenary who lived in the dark and could easily blend in with the criminals in the great city. Abdullah, having been a palace guard, knew how to find someone who didn’t want to be found.

  While Abdullah made quiet enquiries into finding the mercenary, he kept Mohammed at bay, saying he was getting closer to finding him. He was not at all surprised when he discovered Jean Baptiste residing in a disreputable inn in Whitechapel. It had taken him time to discover his whereabouts, but an Arab man in London was not common, and Jean Baptiste had the disfiguring scar, which stood out as well.

  Abdullah had learned early in his life that most men could be bought and those who couldn’t could be made to talk with pain and torture. He could use both to his advantage. And so, he found himself at The Mucky Duck one evening to confront the mercenary.

  Abdullah was not afraid of Jean Baptiste. Since the half-breed was a cold-blooded killer and a wanted man, it only made him understand the man more. That Abdullah had paid him well to perform a service he had not performed only angered the advisor. He was owed an answer.

  He noticed that the stairs in the back of the inn were worn and creaked as he made his way to the man’s room. He carried a sharp knife on his person and would use it in a moment’s notice. As a well-built man, Abdullah had grown a tad soft as chief advisor to the sheik, but his roots were seeped in brute force.

  He knocked on the door and was immediately let in. The room was dark with a bed, drawers, a table, and a lone candle on it. One chair stood next to the table. The room had an air of neglect, and Abdullah almost sneered at the insignificant man who stood before him. He seemed content in his meager surroundings.

  “Ahlan, my friend,” Jean Baptiste spoke a greeting to Abdullah and gestured for him to enter.

  Abdullah stepped into the room flinging his robes behind him, while the mercenary watched him warily. He didn’t entirely trust the large man.

  Though Mohammed chose to and easily moved between the English world and the Arab one, changing clothes and languages as he went, Abdullah would not. He chose to always remember his great land and culture, and he dressed accordingly.

  He continued to wear the traditional clothing, which was a loose, long-sleeved ankle-length garment made of wool in a deep blue color. He looked briefly around the drab room and then settled on the lone chair. He looked across to the dangerous man who stood before him.

  “We had an agreement. Have you fulfilled your end of the bargain? Did you place her on the ship to Arabia and not accompany her?” Abdullah asked directly.

  Jean Baptiste hated men like Abdullah, and he watched him warily. The advisor was too sure of himself and his place within the sheik’s household. He was a trusted advisor, but cunning and cruel. Rather than support his friend, he had chosen to betray him. For all their differences, he was not better.

  “No. I did not,” Jean Baptiste said; he almost laughed as the advisor’s face turned white.

  “What do you mean? Where is she? I have paid you well and you have betrayed me,” he hissed. Abdullah’s face was flushed red with anger. He curled his meaty fist in his lap to stop himself from punching the half-breed.

  “Have you chosen to keep the temptress for yourself?” Abdullah asked.

  Jean Baptiste settled himself onto the small bed and answered absently.

  “No, she isn’t here.”

  Abdullah was tired of the barbarian’s insolence. He had paid him well to perform a job and he had done nothing. Worse yet, he was calm about his betrayal.

  “Where is she? You have told me nothing and you have been paid,” Abdullah said. He looked at the dark-haired barbarian and met his cold brown eyes.

  “There was a problem,” Jean Baptiste said.

  Oh Allah! Abdullah knew it. He knew it! This is what happened when he trusted the future of the sheik and himself to a savage. An idiot savage.

  Abdullah looked over the filthy room, with its dirty floor and table, and knew that he had chosen poorly. He should have taken care of the girl himself; had he done that, this would all be over.

  “What has happened? Tell me everything,” Abdullah said, and then he waited silently.

  Jean Baptiste watched the large man sitting across from him and knew he looked down upon him, though he wasn’t too proud to pay him gold to get rid of his problems. He didn’t want to dirty his own hands.

  “I brought her to stay the night in an abandoned shack in the woods. I was going to leave the next day for the docks. The bitch attacked me,” Jean Baptiste explained.

  Abdullah resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

  “She attacked you?” he asked.

  “Yes. She went wild and attacked me. There was a struggle,” he continued.

  “A struggle?” He eyed the man’s solid form and thought of the slim girl.

  “Yes. She was trying to escape, and I slapped her. It was unfortunate.”

  Abdullah narrowed his beady eyes. Half-breed brute!

  “What happened next?” Abdullah asked.

  “She was bleeding profusely, and I didn’t want her on my hands anymore. I took her to an Abbey on the outskirts of London,” Jean Baptiste explained. He studied the cleric as he spoke.

  “Which Abbey?” Abdullah asked softly.

  Jean Baptiste gave him the name.

  “I see,” Abdullah said. Liar, he thought. Liar!

  “The Mother Superior is known for her good works. I knew she would take care of the girl,” Jean Baptiste explained.

  “However, having the girl still here in London doesn’t solve the problem that you were paid handsomely to deal with,” Abdullah said through clenched teeth.

  “So how should it be handled?” Jean
Baptiste asked.

  Abdullah admired his hand, first the back of it and then the front. His fingers were meaty and brown.

  “Well, what do you think should be done? After all, this is your mess. I paid you to deal with her,” Abdullah said.

  Jean Baptiste nodded and then shrugged.

  “True. But as she is in the Abbey and will most likely stay there, what harm can be done? As far as the sheik is concerned, she is back in Arabia. Only you and I know the truth.”

  Abdullah stood slowly and nodded.

  “Yes. Only you and I know the truth,” he repeated.

  Jean Baptiste moved toward the door as the cleric advanced behind him. Withdrawing the knife from his robe’s large pocket, he drew the slim blade across the mercenary’s throat, watching the blood spurt from the large wound. Jean Baptiste clasped his throat and gurgled, falling to the floor. Jean Baptiste knew too late that the advisor had sealed his doom.

  Abdullah watched the man fall, with blood spurting out of him, causing the floor to turn ruby red. His eyes were cold and calculating as Jean Baptiste held the wound with his hand and gurgled.

  “Now only I know, my friend,” Abdullah said to the dying man.

  ***

  A day later, Liam and his friend Connor discovered the whereabouts of the man who had attacked Sally. They made their way to The Mucky Duck while they decided what to do with the man.

  When they opened the door to the room, the mercenary was dead, lying in a pool of his own blood.

  ***

  Abdullah left the mercenary’s room and went back to his own lodging. He would have to find Mohammed in the morning and decide upon his story. The fact that the girl was in a London Abbey was disconcerting. Her proximity to them and the chance that Mohammed would find her was good.

  Her father, Lord Fairfax, had hired the Bow Street Runners, who were known who their quick effectiveness. They would find her soon enough.

  Abdullah bowed in prayer, his head touching the mat. He had left the inn quickly after the encounter with Jean Baptiste. He washed the blood from his knife, body and clothes in his private room.

  He had thought long and hard about what he had learned from the dead man. The white witch was nearby, and it was only a matter of time before they discovered her. He must form another plan to remove Mohammed from the situation.

  He prayed to Allah that night. In the morning, a plan sprung to mind. Allahu Akbar! God was indeed great.

  ***

  The next morning, Abdullah met Mohammed at the coffeehouse they frequented while in London. Abdullah’s dark foreign robes contrasted with Mohammed’s dark beige and green frock coat and breeches. They made an odd couple, sitting in the back with their penny-a-cup coffees.

  Abdullah sipped his brew, while Mohammed barely tolerated his. Nothing could compare to the superior Arabian beans he himself grew and the coffee it produced.

  “Is there any news from Lord Fairfax?” Abdullah asked, looking concerned.

  “No, my friend. Though we both remain hopeful,” Mohammed said as he looked deeply into the brown brew.

  Abdullah knew he was at a crossroads. He could tell him exactly where the white woman was, and they would be reunited within the hour. Or, he could continue on with his new plan and tear them apart. He chose the latter.

  “I have excellent news, my Lord. News that you will be very excited to hear,” Abdullah said, baiting the hook.

  “Yes? Speak, man!” he exclaimed. Mohammed’s head jerked up and his eyes were alert.

  “I have tracked down Jean Baptiste as you commanded. He revealed all to me,” Abdullah continued.

  Mohammed clasped him arm across the table. “And?” he asked.

  “He sold the woman to another man with the ship bound for Arabia. She is at this very time bound home for Arabia,” he said.

  “Bound for Arabia?” Mohammed asked. He was both elated and disturbed.

  “Yes, my Lord. We must follow her without a moment’s hesitation. Perhaps with a swifter ship we may even arrive before her.”

  Mohammed’s thoughts raced. They would book passage immediately and race back to his land. Soon she would be safe and in his arms.

  “Let us go talk to this Jean Baptiste. Lead the way,” Mohammed said.

  Abdullah had not expected this, and had to make up an excuse not to do as Mohammed asked.

  “Sire, he is a mercenary and very violent. We should not make contact with him again,” Abdullah explained.

  “What are you talking about? I must speak with him before we go. I must find out exactly what he knows,” Mohammed said.

  Reluctantly, Abdullah took Mohammed from the coffeehouse to the inn where Jean Baptiste’s room had been. When they reached The Mucky Duck, a crowd had gathered outside the inn. Inside, groups of people were talking in hushed voices.

  Mohammed heard the words “murder” and “foreigner” and discovered that Jean Baptiste was dead.

  Mohammed shook his head and pulled Abdullah aside.

  “This is unfortunate. We must book our passage, as you suggested, quickly. Go now. I will visit Lord Fairfax and tell him of this new development,” Mohammed said.

  Abdullah breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was falling into place. Soon they would be home, and this would all be a distant memory.

  ***

  Mohammed visited Lord Fairfax in his London townhouse and was warmly welcomed. Edward ushered him into his large sitting room, which featured a large sofa, chairs, books lining one wall, and a fireplace.

  “Tell me, what news have you heard of my daughter?” Edward asked.

  “Lord Fairfax, I am more than pleased to tell you that Abdullah, my advisor, tracked down the savage who kidnapped Katharine. She has been placed on a ship to Arabia, so we are in pursuit of her even now. Unfortunately, the mercenary was killed before I could personally question him, but I swear to you that I will bring Katharine home.”

  “God bless you, my son. This is the best of news.”

  He smiled and poured them both a brandy.

  “I know your faith does not allow alcohol. But perhaps a toast to my daughter?”

  “You are most generous,” Mohammed replied.

  “I will see if the Bow Street Runners have discovered anything else while you are gone. God give you safe journey to your land and that you return to England soon with my daughter,” Edward said. He handed the younger man a glass, while cradling his own in his hand.

  “To Katharine’s return,” Edward said.

  Chapter 18

  The journey to Arabia was as it had been before: long and exhausting, with high seas, bad food, and almost intolerable drink. Several of the sailors had fallen ill, but Mohammed remained healthy. Abdullah was sick halfway into the journey, but regained his strength. Once the two men arrived in their native land, Mohammed set about looking for Katharine. All the ships that arrived were questioned and his high rank in the land allowed him even more access to their records, but she was not discovered on any of the ships.

  The ships logs were kept for each ship, but he did not discover her name as being among the passengers. He began to grow discouraged and wondered if the captain of the ship which transported her and been paid to keep her identity hidden.

  Daleel accompanied him as they searched several of the ports for her whereabouts. No one had transported her to Arabia.

  ***

  Meanwhile, Abdullah began to put his plan into effect. He knew that as a man in his prime, Mohammed would not be long without a woman; he would want the comfort they afforded him. Abdullah plotted his next move carefully.

  Safiya was the 16-year-old beauty and the daughter of a neighboring sheik who very much wanted to make a great match for his youngest daughter. Safiya was beautiful, yet simple. Her older sisters had spoken to her of Mohammed’s wealth and intelligence, and Safiya had become entranced with him. She had wanted Mohammed for herself and told her father that should he want a match, she would readily accept to be a second wife. Later, wh
en it became known that Yasmeen had been sent back to her family in disgrace, the entire region buzzed with the gossip.

  Mohammed was an attractive, wealthy man and would not be alone for long. Though his harem was filled with beautiful women, even his Egyptian mother Tuya approached him and urged him to remarry. She had never interfered with his life in this regard, but wanted him happy and settled.

  Abdullah rubbed his hands together in anticipation. He had already spoken to Safiya’s father, and she would be brought to the palace as his personal guest, along with her uncle.

  Abdullah knew for certain that the young beauty would replace the white witch in Mohammed’s bed. He would make certain of it. With Yasmeen gone, Abdullah reasoned, Safiya must conceive quickly to avoid any further departures back to England. If the young girl gave birth to a son, Mohammed would never stray and, Allah be praised, all would be as it should.

  ***

  She sank further into her troubled and strange dreams. Dark shadows followed her, and she was alone and frightened. She moaned in her sleep and cried out his name. Where was he? Why did he leave her?

  She heard the cries and she sat up. She walked slowly to the handmade cradle. A warm wind blew the curtains inside the room as the baby’s small fists clenched in the air. She smiled down at him. He was so beautiful. She took him into her arms and settled into the rocking chair.

  She cooed to him as she undid her nightgown. Her nipple puckered in the air and the baby’s rosebud mouth latched onto it. She smiled and sang a made-up lullaby to soothe him.

  “You look so lovely as you feed our son,” he said, walking behind her.

  His fingers sifted through her golden hair and his heart expanded with love.

  “He’s perfect,” she smiled.

  “Like his mother,” Mohammed said. His brown hand encircled her other breast as he leaned down to kiss her mouth.

  She looked up at him.

  “I’m so happy,” she said, smiling.

  Katharine suddenly jerked awake from the dream. That was it. That was what she couldn’t remember. The dream brought everything crashing back to her. The cradle and the baby. The baby. Yes. That was it. The baby.

  Safiya turned slowly, admiring herself in the looking glass. She was a slender young girl with small breasts and hips. Her hair was dark and hung to the small of her back, and her eyes were liquid brown. Her lips were full and thick, almost too thick for her small face, and seemed made for fellatio. Safiya wore her orange silk abaya and practiced dancing with her long scarf.