The Lady and the Desert Scoundrel

by Lisa Torquay

  “You should be wearing a veil.” His dark-olive sensuous lips uttered in Italian before he could censor them.

  A lightning of irritation crossed her wide-open eyes. No meek dame there, no. “Hiding is not my ideal way of life, sir.” She responded in the same language, raising her chin and ignoring the effects his deep velvety voice unearthed from her. Her hands flew to her hips in defiant posture.

  Her heart pounded riotous with his proximity. This close she spotted a gold rim circling his irises, which made his eyes even more remarkable. His abundant midnight eye-lashes lent an air of mysteriousness to his gaze. His obsidian hair shone bluish streaks in the sun and a sleek lock fell on his forehead. She wished she could touch it and feel if it was as silky as it looked.

  “You’re too beautiful for any man’s peace of mind.” Or peace of body, he should have said, because beauty was an understatement when it referred to her. Impossibly, witchingly alluring would be a fair better description.

  Her cheeks flushed at the crooked compliment and she opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted.

  “Lucinda?” Adriana called inquiringly.

  Tariq looked in her direction and recognised Pietro’s daughter. So this woman was a friend of hers. Lucinda her name. It suited her with perfection. The name evoked light and all things warm.

  “I’m coming.” The Lucinda girl answered in cut-glass English without taking her disturbing eyes from him. So she came from far North. He would have his men get more information of this visitor to the Grazianis.

  She extended her arm for the bonnet and their eyes met again. Sparks flew in the air. He handed her the bonnet, advancing deliberate more than he should, so his fingers overlapped hers. A gasp escaped her cushioned lips and her eyes darkened. She wanted him, in the same fervour he wanted her, he concluded smug.

  “Thank you.” A shameful weak whisper in her hazy opinion. Her eye-lashes became lazy, and they lowered with the weight of her sensations. Her gaze descended to his strong olive throat and clashing with the vee of his shirt, displaying a solid chest dusted with black hair. This senseless impulse to touch the patch of tantalizing skin tempted her. A prickling surged all over her breasts, culminating with the hardening of her nipples. Fortunately, her layers of clothes made it impossible for him to see it.

  “A pleasure,” the word took on a molten meaning made worse by his brief pause. “Lucinda.” And perfect English at that.

  The open vowels in the caress-like way he pronounced daring her Christian name almost made her legs falter. He still held her fingers arrested which burned with his touch.

  Perfectly aware he wasn’t supposed to call her by her given name as they should have gained a proper introduction. And then his overlapped fingers slid ever so slow from hers, leaving a tingling sensation in their wake, their eyes merged in each other’s. He bowed gentlemanly with a fiery sparkle in his eyes, turned and left in smooth panther strides before her two companions approached.

  Lucinda stood there staring as a silly ninny at his broad white-shirted back rubbing her tingling fingers. Someone touched her arm. With a start, she turned to see Mrs Croft at her side. Lucinda tried to straighten her baffled expression before anyone noticed.

  “Oh, I know that man!” Adriana strolled towards them.

  Lucinda looked at her questioning.

  “Tariq Al-Fadih.” The Italian girl answered the unuttered query. “He and my father had dealings several years ago.” She shrugged.

  “Not anymore?” Lucinda ventured.

  “It seems they had a of fall-out and never spoke again. I did not find out the details.” She trailed off casually.

  “A small world, to be sure.” Mrs Croft interjected.

  “No doubt.” Adriana again. Lucinda listened in stunned silence as any rational attitude was still clogged in her. “He is a very rich merchant from Tunis, I hear. As his father before him.” Adriana wasn’t mean when it came to delivering information.

  “Speaks English, no less.” Lucinda blurted.

  “Yes. His father thought it good for a merchant to speak other languages. And provided him with a Scottish and a French tutors, by the way.”

  Lucinda absorbed these bits of hungry facts. Tariq. She rolled his name around her tongue in silence. A strong name. She wasn’t sure she’d forget him entirely when she sailed back to England in a few weeks. Daydreams wouldn’t stop playing in her head for the rest of the day.

  When they returned to the villa, the sun had almost set, and the air became fresh. Soon it’d be dinner time.

  CHAPTER TWO

  After dinner, Lucinda excused herself and stepped out to the balcony. It’d been a cheerful dinner, with Adriana’s father telling stories about his trips. But Lucinda needed a moment to herself. The three of them had been chatting and out all day. It’d been a fantastic day really, she needed a respite, though.

  The balcony, during the day, offered a full view of the sapphire Mediterranean down the hill. Now, in the dark, it disclosed a tapestry embroidered of stars and a crescent moon on the horizon. She sighed dreamingly. A cool breeze blew from the sea and she praised herself for taking her wool shawl on the way here. Her silk Boudreaux-coloured evening dress flapped around her, her chocolate hair twisted in a chignon that came out in curls and left strands falling around her perfect face.

  Oh, so beautiful here. A wish crossed her that she would live in a place like this, where the weather would never make you uncomfortable, near the sea, in such a rich culture. She took in a deep breath, smelling the salty sea and the green vegetation coating the hill. Memories of her home in the country, back in England surfaced. She loved it and had had a happy childhood in it. Her somewhat eccentric father had taught her to do so many things ladies didn’t usually do, like shooting, or archery, or horse-racing. A smile came to her in the dark. She loved to practice those skills, but in London it shouldn’t be. Unless she willed to be the laughingstock of the ton. And who knew if she’d be able to continue it after getting married. A shiver at the idea passed through her. Bah, marriage!

  A strange sound in the woods interrupted her reflections. She looked around her, but saw nothing. She turned her gaze back to the dark stretch where the sea began. The night was still. Too still. A shiver ran through her. Better go inside the house.

  Her slippers just turned to go, when, suddenly, a sac came over her head and an iron hand clapped over her lips. A rush of adrenalin washed over her. An arm locked around her waist and lifted her from the ground. A scream tried its way out, but only muffled sounds rose. She was being carried now, arms and legs thrashing with her whole might.

  “If you keep still, no harm will be done” A menacing voice said in an Italian heavily accented of Arabic.

  Her frame froze at once. If she got all broken, she wouldn’t be able to react. She turned her head to all sides, trying to find a way to scream loud, but the man stood prepared and never let go. Fear, pure and intense threatened to overcome her. But she strove to maintain it at bay; she needed to keep her head clear in order to think of a way out.

  The paces that carried her stepped on dry leaves, they entered the woods. The farther she got, the more difficult it’d be. She must try an escape anyhow, soon. This was when she heard another voice talking in Arabic. Blast it! There were two of them. This made things more dangerous. She remained quiet for a few minutes and waited for them to think she wouldn’t react.

  Everybody said the Mediterranean was infested of North-African pirates, but she’d never found out they came to land, not in Sicily. Adriana’s father had assured her of the safety of the island. If not pirates, then what? Were they after women slaves? She’d heard of that, too. The fear in her guts sharpened.

  The men took her further down the woods. The marked scent of greenery in her nostrils. In a violent shake and a coup of her elbows, she took her captors by surprise and managed to tear free. As soon as her slipper-ed feet touched the ground, her hands snatched the sac off her head and she ran for her li
fe, speeding blindly to wherever would offer her freedom. The voices exclaimed a probable imprecation in Arabic.

  Rushing as fast as she could, never looking back, she didn’t see where she tracked. Pitch black throughout the place. Tree branches scratched her face and arms and sweat trickled down her back. She needed to hide before the tugs caught her. Footfalls stomped behind her. She sped faster. Then an iron hand grabbed her arm.

  She was lost.

  Her scream emerged out of sheer panic, on the top of her lungs. The iron hand clamped her mouth again. Iron arm clenched her waist and other two hands circled her ankles. She heaved almost out of breath. They had run too far down the hill. Nobody would have heard her yells. The sac came over her head again.

  Damn!

  “You deserve a serious beating!” The heavily accented voice intimidated again.

  The strenuous run wore off her adrenalin and panic subsided. Thankfully. She had to keep focus.

  They came to a halt; a click, a door, they shoved her inside a cramped space. A carriage, or any such vehicle lurched. Her body spread along the seat. The waft of spices assailed her. Body clamped at the back of the seat, clops sounded, the conveyance moved. The sac came off her hair, and a woollen cloth touched her hand. Her shawl. Pitch dark inside; she wasn’t able to see anything. Ropes tied her ankles and her hands behind her back; a tight gag over her mouth. Defenceless. The carriage rolled down the hills. Probably to the docks.

  When they arrived, the sac returned to her head. One of them carried her on his sweat-reeked back. The sound of water and pungent harbour vapours reached her nostrils. A deserted one, as no voices came to her ears. After walking for a while, they stopped. Another door opened. Shoved inside again. They untied her and locked the door. In the dim moon light, she looked about her. A boat cabin, tiny, a cot and a side-table; a basin and a pitcher of water; a bucket on the floor.

  If her destiny was to be a slave, she wouldn’t have a cabin for herself alone. She would have been placed with the others in a hold, most surely. The notion didn’t relieve her in the least. This situation remained fishy. What was she doing in a boat? They weren’t pirates because this sail boat seemed to be legally docked at the Syracuse harbour. No guards coming at it.

  She tried the window, just in case. Nothing. The door. Tightly locked. Obviously, they’d set sail. She needed to get off before they did so. She employed force. Banged. Made used of her hair pin on the lock. Even kicked. To no avail. In the end, she became totally exerted. A few hours passed as she paced the cramped cubicle. The boat moved, the tide due. Looking out the thick glass window, she experimented to calculate the direction with what she’d learned from her father. Southwest. North Africa.

  Oh dear!

  For now, she had no way of doing anything. She decided to take care of herself. She washed the best way she could. Re-did her hair in a practical low bun. After drinking water, she found a covered plate on the cot. Bread, cheese, fruit. She’d eat and make herself strong for whatever came ahead. She’d have to wait. Sleep would help. Difficult as it was, she made an effort and dozed away for a while. She woke up with the first rays of sun on her face. Remembering the night before, what had happened, she jumped out of bed. Through the window, land appeared. Almost at a close.

  A clink of keys and in a swift movement the door spread wide. Lucinda turned and gaped.

  “You!” Dumbfounded to see Tariq Al-Fadih before her. Today, he dressed back in his white tunic and loose trousers which brought out his sleek obsidian hair and made him taller. How was it possible for a man to look so gorgeous in any piece of clothing? Unfair that her body reacted so shamefully to him.

  “You?” He interjected at the same time. He glared at a short bearded man behind him and spoke in Arabic. The smug expression in the man’s face turned to a confused one.

  Lucinda discerned the words Adriana Graziani and quickly concluded she’d been abducted in her friend’s stead. She looked fixedly at the tall, broad-shouldered man in front of her, gauging his attitude. The only thing she devised was how handsome he was.

  Tariq paced the tiny room raking his midnight hair with his hand. This meant trouble. A big one. Lady Lucinda Lancefield before him, a daughter of the British peerage. Aziz had done a good job gaining information from the villa’s servants. These peerage people displayed mercilessness when protecting their own. He didn’t have the luxury of letting his fears get the best of him though. He had to carry on with his pressing matters

  His plan had been to take Graziani’s daughter and trick him into paying a ransom which would be equivalent to what the reckless old man had stolen from him. But this? Stupid Aziz and Mustafa! They’d done everything wrong. He himself had to follow the goods down to the Port of Gabes, on Tunisian coast, and oversee the preparations for the caravan. He’d sent his ship back with Aziz and Mustafa in charge of bringing Adriana unharmed.

  “She gave us a hard time capturing her.” Aziz informed.

  A crooked smile came to Tariq’s face. He’d expect no less from this petulant irresistible woman!

  He dismissed the man and turned to her. The sight of her would always strike him in the guts, he suspected. Even worn out as she appeared, She drew him to the depths of her deep green eyes. To shield himself from those effects, he put on a show. He parted his legs and crossed his arms, staring directly at her.

  She had an autocratic air about her; her spine ramrod straight, her hands laced before her, in control. “Take me back.” She commanded, haughtily; her eyes wide open, a diamond-hard glint in them. She fumed, pepper-mint eyes darting bullets at him. Who wouldn’t, he conceded?

  But he could match her, oh yes! “You’re in no position to demand anything!” He hardened his eyes and zeroed on her.

  “You planned to abduct my friend, you villain!” She accused, arms flying to her hips, her torso slightly inclined towards him, in attack. Her heart slammed in her chest with vexation. Now she observed that his hair was wet. He must have bathed because a waft of sandalwood soap floated to her. She attempted in vain to block images of his tall frame in a bath

  He hadn’t expected her to be misled even for a second. “Yes.” He smiled sardonically. “But now I have you. More valuable. Peerage.” Softened to a smug whisper, his tone covered her in warm honey.

  Have her, yes. In his steaming dreams, in his daydreams, fantasies, he self-mocked.

  Lucinda found it difficult to believe he placed her in this dire situation. Hard breaths arrowed form her. What would happen when they discovered back in the villa that she disappeared? They’d send word to her family. Of course, her family would keep it a secret. She travelled far from England, after all. It’d be easier to remain quiet. If the ton heard any of it, her reputation would go to shreds, so would her marriage prospects…and her family’s good name. It had to be stopped.

  She inhaled until her lungs filled and then she exhaled slowly to calm down a bit. This was delicate. “Look,” she started conciliatory. “I need to go back. Now. The consequences of this will damage my life and my family irrevocably.” She drew in another breath and her hands joined at her bosom. “Please, reconsider your decision.” Wrenchingly difficult to plead to a man as domineering as this.

  He stared at her so composed and serious, he wanted to go to her, hold her and assure no harm would befall her. A weak notion to be sure. But he would not, it’d be a lie and only fate knew what’d happen if he touched her. She was right, he should send her back, at the risk of ruining her life forever. And his in the wake. A mysterious resistance kept him though. Not only that. His camels already loaded with merchandises which would rotten if not sold soon. His caravan must leave without delay. People depended on him for survival. No way of sending her back. All his men in stark need here, Tariq wouldn’t be able to spare any of them for the task.

  “I cannot.”

  Her face became a mask of pent up anger. “What?” Her marvellous eyes shut tightly for a few seconds as if procuring patience. She sighed. “Why?”r />
  He made a vague gesture with his hands. “I have appointments. I’d planned otherwise.”

  Her anger intensified and her deep green eyes launched fire. “Oh, so you planned to hold Adriana for as long as it was convenient for you, without thinking about the consequences for her.”

  He looked at her as he propped his shoulder on the wall and crossed his arms and long legs. Cynicism took over his cognac-against-fire eyes. “What if I did? This is none of your business anyway.” Adriana’s father deserved much worse. And women should not be taken into account.

  She bit her full lower lip to stop swearing at him, burning with fury and frustration. She didn’t understand what he held against the Grazianis. And she suspected he wouldn’t volunteer the information. “Well, now your men’s stupid mistake has made it my business.”

  A scornful grin stamped on his dark olive mobile lips. “It’s done and you’re here. You’re coming with me, even if I have to drag you tied to a camel!” His ultimatum final.

  She tried utterly hard to keep calm, but despair crept into her in potent seeps. Once she entered far into land, it’d be a huge effort to make it back to the shore, make it back to Sicily. England turned into something like another planet for her at that precise moment, distant and unattainable. She eyed him with a hot impotent rage which poisoned her entire body, with an urge to strike him. She had to gather a giant self-control not to pounce at him.

  Tariq sensed her rage, saw it in the scarlet of her cheeks, in the tenseness locking every one of her muscles. And forced himself to dismiss it. A woman wasn’t worth the trouble, he strove to convince his nagging conscience.

  “Come,” he commanded curtly, “my caravan is departing.”

  She eyed him, thwarted feelings rippling her body as she considered her options. She could go on her own feet, or he’d make her. Either way, she’d be joining his lot. Stiffly, said feet walked past him head held high, not before she glimpsed triumph sparkle his cognac eyes.