by Marie Laval
She gave her horse a sharp kick and trotted off, but not before she heard Saintclair laugh.
‘I see the candied dates did nothing to sweeten your fiancée’s temper, Drake. She is as bitter as a dozen lemons.’
That did it. She gripped the reins hard and spurred the horse. What right had he to make fun of her?
Her horse picked up speed, then broke into a full gallop and veered off the road to race over the steppe. It jumped over streams and prickly bushes. The sound of its hooves hammering the ground resonated like thunder, as fast and loud as her heartbeat. The horse’s gallop made the blood rush in her veins. She had never ridden so fast, so freely before, and for a moment it was exhilarating.
Then her cheche got caught in a branch, her hair fell down onto her shoulders. She tried pulling on the reins, but the horse, drunk on speed and the scents of water and vegetation, didn’t respond. Fear tightened around her chest. She couldn’t control her horse any longer, all she could do was to hang onto the reins. Hopefully, it would soon exhaust itself and slow down. She only prayed the beast wouldn’t stumble and injure itself on the rocks or the prickly bushes before then.
She caught movement from the corner of her eye. A black horse was gaining ground. When he was next to her, the rider leaned over, seized her reins and pulled. They rode side by side for what felt like long minutes. Then the horses slowed down and came to a stop.
‘What are you trying to do? Kill your horse?’
Saintclair’s eyes flashed with fury. He dropped the reins, gripped the collar of her tunic and twisted her to one side, almost lifting her off the saddle to pull her closer. So close their legs touched. So close she saw the yellow specks inside the pale blue iris of his eyes and felt his warm breath on her face.
‘I don’t care if you break your neck, but I care about that horse getting injured because of a foolish, inexperienced rider,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘If you ever try anything like that again, I’ll strap you onto a mule and send you back to Algiers, and nothing you’ll say will make a blind bit of difference. Is that clear?’
Her throat was too tight to answer.
He shook her a little. ‘Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
He didn’t release his grip. Instead, he yanked her to him and kissed her. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was savage, an echo of the look in his eyes moments before. His mouth moved over hers, prised her lips open, took possession. And her heart stopped.
Their horses stomped, shifted, prompting her out of her daze. She pulled away and slapped his face. With a growl, he pulled back, still holding her. His eyes searched, kept her under their spell, before finally releasing her.
Without a word, he turned his horse and started back towards the others.
She remained frozen on the spot. Her legs, her hands wouldn’t respond. Her lips throbbed. She licked them and tasted him. Her heart leapt in her chest. It beat so hard it hurt.
Saintclair stopped, turned round.
‘What are you waiting for?’
She swallowed hard, applied a gentle pressure on the horse’s sides with her knees. Her hands shook, her legs felt weak. The horse was so tired from its race across the steppe it obeyed her prompting, however slight. She forced herself to look at Saintclair when she came close to him, willing her eyes to convey nothing but the contempt she felt for him. No way would she let him see that she was trembling.
He didn’t have time for this.
He narrowed his eyes, watched her ride up to him, sitting straight in the saddle, her head high, her eyes defiant and full of scorn. He spurred his horse as soon as she caught up with him, impatient and as much annoyed with himself for kissing her as he had been with her for riding away in a temper and almost getting herself killed.
He shouldn’t have kissed her. It was the wrong place, the wrong time. He just hadn’t been able to resist.
After returning to the tavern the night before, he had toyed with the key to her room for several tantalizing minutes, imagining what it would feel like to wake her with long, lingering kisses. His lips would first touch the palm of her hand, then the tender skin of her wrist, next trail slowly up to her collarbone and along the side of her throat, before finally ravishing her mouth. She might be reluctant at first. She might even scream at him to leave her alone, but something told him she wouldn’t fight him for long. She was attracted to him. It was plain from the way she looked at him, from the way her breathing became faster and her face flushed the most delightful pink every time he came close to her. The woman puzzled him. She acted like an innocent, yet according to Drake, she was no timid virgin.
The fact Harriet Montague belonged to another man didn’t bother Lucas at all, just the opposite. Experienced women were easier to deal with. Bedding a virgin brought far too many complications. Of course, once she had slept with him she would have to return to Algiers. Lucas would make sure of it, if necessary by using a little blackmail. He was prepared to do whatever was needed to make the woman give up her ridiculous notion that she could travel to the desert with them.
Last night, however, he had decided against going up to Harriet Montague’s room. Instead he had ordered a pitcher of wine to kill the fire that images of her in that big red bed ignited inside him. And put the key back into his pocket.
He gave his horse a kick and cursed himself again.
Kissing her had been a bad idea. It had done nothing to cool his heated blood and had been foolhardy. What if Drake had seen them? He needed this mission. Too many people depended on him. The problem was, he hadn’t been thinking. His brain had stopped working the second he stared into her grey eyes.
And now he had tasted her mouth, he wanted more.
It was market day at Ksar-el-Boukhari, the largest fortified village of the area. The market was in full swing when they arrived. A riot of colours, sounds, and smells, it covered the whole of the central square. There were stalls selling rugs, baskets, camel wool burnous and leatherwork, as well as fresh produce, poultry and goats.
‘Miss Montague’s horse needs seeing to, it’s limping,’ Saintclair decreed as they rode off the square into a quiet street. He told Archie and the men to find a stabling block and have a wander around while they found a blacksmith.
‘Do I really need to come with you?’ she started, anxious not to be alone with him. ‘I’d rather take a look at the market—’
‘It’s your horse, your responsibility.’ The look in his eyes silenced any further protest.
They dismounted and led their horses through narrow alleys up to a workshop at the edge of the village. The man working the forge was a giant, and the scariest looking man Harriet had ever seen. His upper body was covered with a thick leather apron, his forearms with leather plates. He held huge iron tongs in his gloved hands. Standing in front of the fire, his black hair tied back and his face smeared with soot, he reminded Harriet of a demon from hell.
Saintclair walked up to him, touched his shoulder. The blacksmith dropped his tongs, grabbed Saintclair’s hand, and enfolded him into his arms in a warm greeting. The two men talked for a short while then Saintclair pointed to Harriet’s horse. The big man gave her a sunny smile before walking to the horse and delicately lifting its hind leg in his enormous hands. He shook his head.
‘It needs re-shoeing,’ Saintclair told her a moment later. ‘Akhtar can do it later, but it means we have to stay here tonight. I was planning to push further south and camp at Ain-Sba.’
He tied her horse to a post outside the forge and turned to her.
‘Your little tantrum is costing us time we don’t have. It might have been worse, I suppose. It might have cost us a good horse.’
He was right, of course. It was lucky the horse wasn’t seriously injured. She followed him back to the market square. She would have liked to touch the fine woollen cloaks, feel the rugs woven with rich earthy colours, try on an intricate leather belt or a finely chiselled silver necklace. Her mouth watered in front of
baskets of plump figs, candied apricots, trays of halva and pastries scented with honey and orange blossom, but Saintclair strode out in front, slicing through the market crowd, and she dared not stop.
An uneasy feeling crept along her back as she ran to keep up with him. Someone was watching her. She spun round and bumped into a man wearing Tuareg clothing. A headdress covered his face, but when she glanced up she saw that his eyes were blue! As he lifted his hand to shelter his eyes from the sun, his silver ring caught the light and she gasped. She had seen such a ring before, she was sure of it, but where?
The man mumbled an apology in Arabic and walked away.
‘Wait!’ she called. ‘Who are you?’
He didn’t hear her. Was she imagining things or had he been following her?
She felt an insistent tugging at her side and looked down.
A small boy was pulling at her tunic. He held a basket filled with candied fruit and almonds. His eyes were huge, his face streaked with dirt. A pillbox hat perched on his matted hair.
Harriet crouched down to his height.
‘Ch-Hael?’ she asked, pointing to the basket. How much?
‘Kamsa,’ the boy said, showing five fingers.
‘Five dinars,’ she repeated in English, pulling coins out of her purse.
The boy’s face lit up with a smile. He dipped into the basket and chose some candy for her. Suddenly the square erupted with the thunder of horses galloping through in clouds of dust, of people screaming and shouting. Harriet stood up and instinctively pulled the boy against her. There must have been over fifty French soldiers riding at speed through the market, trampling on people, stalls and animals. They overturned urns, jars and baskets, and used their leather whips to disperse what was left of the crowd.
The boy pressed his shaking body against hers. She had to get him to safety before they got crushed. She grabbed his basket, held his hand tight, and pulled him behind her. They ran through the chaos, ducked under overturned market booths, jumped over the fragments of broken oil jars. All the time she managed to avoid the soldiers’ whips and the hooves of their massive horses. Still holding the boy’s hand and his small basket, she ran to the safety of a side street and found an empty doorway where they could hide.
Why were French soldiers destroying the market? Why the indiscriminate killing? There had been children, women and old men on the square. Images of corpses lying on the ground among the wreckage filled her eyes. She could still hear the screams as people tried to escape, with blood running down their face.
She closed her eyes and clung to the boy. They remained hidden a long time, until the streets became quiet, until everyone had fled. The market square now offered a scene of utter carnage and devastation. The boy took hold of her hand and pulled her along in the direction of the blacksmith. They walked fast, careful to keep their head down so as not to attract the attention of the soldiers keeping watch on every street corner. He pointed to a small adobe house with a flat roof covered with palm branches at the end of the street. Letting go of Harriet’s hand, he grabbed his basket and started running.
Then everything happened too fast.
‘Arrête!’ A soldier shouted from behind.
Harriet turned, opened her eyes in disbelief as she watched the man lift his rifle onto his shoulder and aim at the boy.
She shouted in alarm but the boy carried on running.
The noise of the shot cracked like thunder. Hit in the back, the little boy collapsed onto the ground, only a few feet from his house.
‘No! Oh, my God, no!’
Harriet ran so fast her heart hammered in her chest. She knelt next to the boy’s lifeless body and turned him over gently. His eyes were already glazed. Blood stained the front of his djellabah. She gathered him close, rocked his small body against her. In the dust next to his overturned basket lay a few candied almonds.
‘Why? Why?’ she repeated, tears streaming down her face.
Alerted by the noise, people opened their doors and ventured out. When they saw the boy lying in the street, women started crying. A man came out of the adobe house. He stared at the boy in disbelief before carefully lifting him in his arms. Soon he was surrounded by people who wailed and cried.
More French soldiers arrived. They fired shots in the air to disperse the crowd.
‘Harriet!’
She knelt in the dust, numb, unable to move. She heard Archie’s voice in the distance, but it was Saintclair who got to her first and pulled her up.
‘What happened?’ he asked, holding her against him.
‘He was only a boy, he didn’t do anything wrong,’ she sobbed, pressing her face against his chest.
He pulled her turban off to stroke her hair, put his hand on the nape of her neck to hold her still and close. She heard the steady beat of his heart against her cheek, felt his warmth surrounding her. If only she could stay like this, safe and surrounded by his strength, and forget the horror of the boy’s death.
‘Harriet, are you all right?’ Archie was now next to her.
‘Here, Drake. You’d better take care of her.’ Saintclair pulled away slowly and stood back.
‘Poor dear.’ Archie put his arm around her shoulders, kissed the top of her head. ‘Let’s get you away from here.’
Harriet nodded, wiped her cheeks with her sleeve and stiffened. The soldier who had shot the boy was here, right in front of her. Before either Archie or Saintclair could hold her back, she marched up to him.
‘Why did you shoot that little boy?’ she asked in her hesitant French.
The man shrugged, spat on the ground. ‘He should’ve stopped like I told him to. For all I knew, he was going to warn the rebels.’
‘He was a child!’
She wanted to make him understand what he’d done.
‘The rebels use children and women. You can’t trust anyone in this bloody country.’ The soldier shrugged, looked at her with suspicion. ‘Anyway, what’s it to you?’
A strong hand took hold of her elbow, pulled her away.
‘Come with me.’ Saintclair guided her out of the crowd.
‘He was the man who shot the boy, we must see that he is punished!’ she protested, trying to shake him off.
He stopped and looked down at her.
‘If you want to get shot too, you’re going about it the right way,’ he said in a low voice. ‘There’s nothing you can do for the boy now.’
She managed to pull away. This time, she was angry. A life had been lost, for no reason. A little boy’s life. And no one cared.
‘You didn’t see his father’s eyes when he took him in his arms. You didn’t hear the women cry.’ Her voice broke, tears spilled out on her cheeks all over again. ‘How can you be so cold, so heartless? You obviously have no idea what it’s like to lose someone you love.’
He spun her around until she faced him and held her arms so tight it hurt.
A storm darkened his pale blue eyes.
‘Obviously.’
He released her and walking away.
Chapter Nine
The streets were empty. The French soldiers had decreed a curfew and the Ksar was mourning its dead. In the small inn at the edge of the village where they were staying, nobody was in the mood for talking, playing cards or listening to music. Harriet retreated to her tiny, airless bedroom immediately after the evening meal. She pulled off her boots, slipped out of her trousers and tunic, and crawled into bed. She was so tired it should have taken only minutes to fall asleep, but she kept seeing the boy’s eyes—his huge, lifeless eyes—and the red stain on his clothing.
One life lost, and why? Because a French soldier made a mistake. Or rather, because he didn’t care whether firing his rifle was a mistake or not. The boy’s life hadn’t mattered to him. How frightening it was to realize not everybody believed human life was precious and sacred. What about the Tuaregs who held her father prisoner? Did they care about his life at all, or was he valuable only because of the ransom? Would they kil
l him if they didn’t get the money soon? Tamanrasset was still a long way away.
It was after midnight and she was wide awake. She remembered the terrace at the back of the tavern. It was bound to be deserted at this time of night, and fresh air was exactly what she needed. She jumped out of bed, pulled her boots and her tunic on. As an afterthought, she wrapped her belt around her waist and slid her dagger in the scabbard. Downstairs, the tavern was dark and empty. She pushed the back door and found her way out into the courtyard and the terrace.
The light of the moon and stars shimmered on the city walls and made huge, ghostly shadows on the steppe below. Spellbound, Harriet walked to the edge of the garden and leaned on the wall, holding her breath, afraid that any sound, any movement would make the magic disappear.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
She let out a cry and spun round. Saintclair leaned against the wall, completely still, steeped in shadows. It was no wonder she hadn’t seen him.
‘It’s the most magical night I have ever seen,’ she agreed.
‘Wait until we are in Bou Saada. Over there, every night is enchanted.’
She looked up, surprised.
‘Why are we going to Bou Saada? It’s out of our way.’
‘After what happened here today, I want to check on my people. It won’t delay us too much, I promise,’ he answered. ‘Anyway, what are you doing out here all on your own? It’s not safe.’
Never had she agreed with him more than now, as she watched him move out of the shadows towards her. Like a feline gauging its prey, he walked in silent, supple strides, his eyes never leaving hers for a second.
‘It was too hot. I couldn’t sleep. I think I’ll go back to my room now.’ But her legs felt like lead and she didn’t move.
Now he was in front of her, and it was too late.
He put his hands on the parapet on either side, caging her in. She retreated until the wall dug into her back. Although he wasn’t touching her, his heat radiated onto her body—her breasts, her stomach, the top of her legs. The moonlight cast shadows on his face, lit his eyes with a metallic silver glow. Her breath caught in her throat as he bent down, slowly, inexorably, his eyes still holding hers in a silent challenge. Blood raced through her veins, her pulse beat hard. He was going to kiss her. She should move, right now. Instead she tilted her head up towards him.
