"You are a feminist?"
"I believe in equal rights for both sexes. And I believe no one should be forced to marry anyone they don’t want to, old law or not," she told him. "If you call that feminism and not simple human decency, feel free to tattoo feminist on my forehead. I’ll wear it with pride."
"The three-night law once applied to all people, with the intention of protecting women. Men could not use women for sexual purposes without the benefit of marriage. Now the rule is symbolic, applying only to the royal house."
She couldn't douse the fire of skepticism in her gut. "Something tells me the men found a way around the rule. Spend night three at a buddy's house and the counter resets. Or kidnap a woman you want to marry, all nice and legal. Her consent be damned. Hey, like this thing happening to me right now."
"My consent is not required either."
He had a point there. He had to obey the laws of his land like anyone else. "The situation is stupid for both of us."
"I blame myself." He adjusted the length of sleeve coming out of his tuxedo cuff. The gesture seemed like a ritual for him, or maybe a nervous tic.
"I don't."
"I failed to provide adequate hospitality. In Zallaq, as in most Middle Eastern countries, that is a serious matter. I may as well have kidnapped you myself."
Now he did deserve her irritation. "Stop being manipulative, mister."
He narrowed his golden-ringed eyes at her.
"I see what you're doing," she informed him. "Knock it off."
His back stiffened. "What am I doing?"
"Beating yourself up for something you didn't do to defuse my anger. I see it all the time in my job."
He blinked at her.
"See," she explained "the script goes like this. When I get mad, you say, 'It's all my fault, I'm so mad at myself, how can you ever forgive me?' My line is supposed to be, 'Oh, no, don't beat yourself up. Stop feeling bad, I’m not really mad.' The result? I'm not mad anymore and you don't feel guilty. You've taken my anger and refocused it as sympathy for you."
She paused for a breath she really needed, but she wasn't done ranting. "Know what? I'm angry. Too angry to spend effort to make you feel okay. I was abducted from your palace and the archaic laws of your stupid country might change my life forever. I don't blame you, I blame the people who made the law."
"They are long dead."
"I suppose an annulment is out of the question."
"It may be possible, under the right circumstances. If no one discovers the marriage, for example."
"That's good news. But I'm staying pissed off for a while anyway. So don't try to deflect me onto your feelings. I have a right to be angry."
Ithnan nodded. "You make an excellent point. Is there some way I can assist you being angry?"
"No," she spat. "Yes. Find me something to throw. Or teach me to say 'fucking bastards' in Arabic."
"The words do not translate perfectly. How about 'wald il dhuroot'?"
"Meaning?"
"Literally, 'son of a shit.'"
"Wald il dhuroot," she said, and meant every syllable.
"Wald il dhuroot," he agreed.
"You said no one knows about these kidnappings. Maybe no one knows about ours. We need to get back to the palace before this three-night law thing comes into effect."
"An excellent plan, Gwendolyn," he agreed. "If only we weren't being held by violent armed men in the middle of an impassable desert."
***
His Majesty's tug on the handcuffs nearly wrenched her arm out of the socket. The blast of pain in her shoulder snapped her out of sleep.
Why was Ithnan pulling her out of bed? The afternoon nap had been his idea in the first place.
Her eyes opened. Ithnan still slept on the mattress, his wrist cuffed to the iron post of the bed.
What the hell? Who pulled on her arm? She glanced behind her.
Terror ripped through her gut, a jagged spike of dread.
Familiar eyes gleamed dark thoughts at her. The man with his meaty hand wrapped around her upper arm wasn't Ithnan. She was face to face with Gray Scarf.
She opened her mouth to yell for help, but her attacker stuffed a wad of dirty rag into her mouth, stifling her cry.
She couldn't get her feet under her. He had the advantage—she was off-kilter, didn't have any leverage to strike. She grabbed for the bedpost, anything to hang on to.
He was prepared for her lunge. She missed the bedpost by an inch.
Overbalanced, she fell. Gray Scarf caught her before she hit the ground, then shifted his grip to twist her arms behind her. She yelped, but the damned rag caught the sound.
Gray Scarf growled as he twisted her arm.
She made herself heavy, digging her heels into the concrete floor. The action slowed him down at least, giving her a few more seconds before he could get her alone.
Ithnan. If she could wake him...
She kicked out—and connected with the bedframe. She barely jostled the metal, but Ithnan woke.
Yes! Ithnan could...
He could...
Nothing. He was cuffed to the bed. He couldn't save her. Couldn't help her.
She fought the terror coiling inside her, struggling to breathe with her mouth full of noxious rag. She was on her own. She would have to save herself.
If she could.
The rough concrete floor grated on her back as Gray Scarf dragged her out of the room and into God knew what.
FIVE
"Your man is not here to help you now, whore," the asshole said, his tone triumphant. He'd taken her to a quiet room, away from the main hallway. Here, he had the privacy he needed to do whatever he wanted to her. "I do not know how you forced these men to dismiss me, but I know you are responsible."
Dismiss him? What did he mean? Oh, who the hell cared? He could say what he wanted.
Concentrate, she told herself. Focus.
Gwen reached inside, to a place beyond fear, beyond panic. She would have to defend herself and she meant to do it well. Best to keep him off-guard, to keep him from knowing she planned to strike.
She ripped the rag out of her mouth and took a half-step back, trying to look jittery and nervous without actually being jittery and nervous. She summoned everything she knew from the one-semester Krav Maga self-defense she'd taken two years ago.
Run if you can.
He loomed between her and the door. Running wasn't an option. Channeling her instructor's calm voice helped block the panic, so Gwen kept it up.
Don't try this move if he's holding the gun lower than waist level.
No problem. He had the gun pointed at her head. What else?
Try to talk your way out. If you can, great. If not, talking will distract your attacker.
"I don't know what I did wrong." The cowardly words tasted like vomit. As if she should take any blame for an asshat's violence toward women. "I'm sorry."
"You will be more sorry when I finish with you," he spewed. "If you live."
Everything in her screamed to shout defiance at the man. No, not a man. No real man would try to hurt another person like he was doing. He was less than garbage.
"Please don't hurt me," she whined. Ugh. "I'll do anything you want."
She put up her hands, which probably looked like surrender to him. A nasty grin spread across his face. He stepped toward her. "You would love that, would you not, whore?"
Raise your hands, said the instructor, in Gwen's memory, lifting her own hands so Gwen could see sweat stains in the pits of the woman's pink Lululemon shirt. Strike quickly. Don't hesitate.
The man stepped closer. His mistake.
She spun left, grabbing the inside of his right wrist and pointing the gun down at the floor. She placed her foot beside his, so they both faced the same direction. At the same time, she crouched, pulling him with her and throwing off his stance. Now, not only did he not have control of the gun, he couldn’t even see where the thing pointed.
With a cry, he tried
to wrench his arm away. His overpowering strength pulled her backward, but she went with it, keeping her grip on his arm.
With her left hand, she reached for the gun. Once she had her fingers wrapped around the barrel, she rolled her body inward, bending his arm so the gun aimed at him. She bent his wrist, breaking his grip. The gun came loose. If she did the move right, the gun would end up in her control.
But instead of the weight of the weapon under her fingers, she grasped at empty air. He'd thrown it.
The pistol skidded across the floor like a lethal skipping stone.
Shit.
The man reached for her with his free hand. Panicking, she punched him in the face. Her knuckles crunched against cartilage and he bit out a curse in a language she didn’t understand.
He punched her in her kidney. Ugh. Deadening pain rushed through her legs and back. Then he was behind her, choking her, pushing her toward the wall.
When being attacked from behind, whatever you do, do not let your attacker push your face into a wall, said her instructor.
Despite the pain, Gwen took the orders. She raised her arms so they contacted the wall first. The impact sent a jolt through her body, but she didn’t have a smashed face—and she had enough leverage to do the next move. She dropped one shoulder against the wall and raised the other arm, which gave her the space she needed to twist away. She brought her elbow down hard on the arms choking her.
She struck with her other elbow, smashing the man's ear. Each blow sent pain up her arm, but he cringed. His cries of distress spurred her on.
She needed to finish him off before he recovered. A quick knee to the crotch did the trick.
The man went down, crumbling into a moaning heap on the concrete floor. For a second, Gwen stared at him. Had she really done that?
Cool.
But she hadn't disabled him for good. He was going to get up, and he was going to be pissed.
Wait. His gun.
There, in the corner. She dashed over and scooped it up. The chill metal in her hand reassured her. She pointed the barrel toward the man who had tried to hurt her, and who might try to hurt someone else, someone less prepared.
The door burst open.
***
Gwen switched her stance to aim the weapon square at the new threat. True to her gun safety course, her finger wasn't on the trigger.
Thank God.
Ithnan stood framed in the doorway. He glanced at her assailant, who was uncoiling from his fetal position.
With no hesitation, the sheikh moved to the bastard's side, and in one fluid motion, he landed a fist square to the man's face.
The man stopped moving.
"Wald il dhuroot," she spat at the son of a shit.
"Gwendolyn." The sheikh straightened and tugged at the shirtsleeves coming out of his jacket, which finally showed a few tiny wrinkles. "Shall we leave?"
"Hell yes."
A hint of an enigmatic sheikh smile. "Come. We must hurry."
He extended his left arm, the one with the now-empty handcuff bracelet dangling. Without thinking, she took the hand.
He snapped the handcuff into place around her wrist.
"What the fu—" She swallowed the swear. "Why did you do that?"
He was moving, tugging on the chain between them to make her do the same. He put a finger to his lips to indicate silence.
Oh, they were definitely going to have a conversation. Later, when her heart wasn't pounding so loud she was terrified the noise would alert the rest of the kidnappers. If they hadn't heard their buddy's assault.
They slipped into the hall. She followed his lead, holding the gun ready. Then again, she didn't want to get in a shootout. These guys would have lots of guns and more bullets.
Better to hide the gun—she might need to surprise someone with the weapon later. As they moved down the hall, she flicked the safety catch back into place and put the gun in the oversized pocket of her pajama bottoms. The gun bounced against her leg as they inched toward freedom—the open door with the desert sun streaming in.
Longest walk of her life. They moved in silence as quickly as they could. As they crept past every closed door, she imagined it squeaking open to reveal a man who wanted them dead. With each step they took, her terror grew. Was the open door ahead getting farther away instead of closer?
Then her nightmare came true. A door right beside them swung open. Gwen twirled on her heel, expecting to face a monster with a gun. Ithnan spun, too. With them handcuffed together, they ended up with their shackled hands crossed in front of them, between them and the person who opened the door. Which meant she couldn't reach for the gun and Ithnan only had one hand to defend them.
An old woman appeared. Above the veil covering her face, her eyes opened wide in wild panic at the sight of the prisoners escaping. Even though she wasn't an armed guard, the woman could easily shout an alarm to bring their kidnappers crashing down on them.
They had no choice—as if they were a single person, they took off at a run, dashing for the open door promising freedom. Fueled by fear and adrenaline, Gwen had no trouble keeping up with Ithnan's longer strides.
The daylight blinded her as they crossed the threshold. A tug on the cuffs. She sprinted the direction Ithnan pulled.
Two of the big shadows sitting in the courtyard of the house where they had been imprisoned resolved themselves into a pair of Toyota 4x4s. Dusty workhorses.
Hope. And chance. Her stomach tightened. One vehicle was escape. The other failure. Pick the better one and they would escape. Pick the worse, and the better one would catch them. But which was which?
Ithnan dove for the gold one on the right, wrenching open the driver's-side door.
And stopping.
"What?" she said. "Get in."
She peered over his shoulder. Yes! The key gleamed gloriously in the ignition. Finally, a bit of luck. They were out of here.
"Left-hand drive," he said. "Manual transmission."
So? she was about to ask. Then she realized what went through his head. He wouldn’t be able to drive, and he thought she couldn't.
"Get in." She gave him a shove. "I got this."
He resisted, but then shouts came from the house. He vaulted up and pulled her in behind. She settled into the driver's seat, unable to resist a grin.
He thought she couldn't drive stick, huh? Time to get schooled.
She twisted the key, starting the vehicle with a satisfying rumble, and threw the 4x4 into gear. She sensed the power of a souped-up engine under the hood. No soccer mom SUV, but a true off-road dynamo.
"Wait," shouted Ithnan over the sound of the engine. "Do you still have the gun?"
"Pocket," she said, barely containing her drive to get the machine out of here. Any second, armed men were going to pop out the door and start shooting. Did he think he was going to defend them with one puny gun?
He whipped the weapon out. "Pull up by the other vehicle."
Like some kind of action hero, he put a bullet in each of the tires on the driver's side of the other Toyota. He had barely finished when shouting came from the direction of the house. In her rearview mirror, she saw a man emerge from the open doorway with an assault rifle at the ready.
She ducked down in her seat and punched the gas, kicking up a cloud of sand behind them.
***
He would have her, Ithnan promised himself, as she handled the 4x4 with a skilled—and enthusiastic—touch.
A touch he meant to have applied to himself.
When he had told her of the three-day marriage tradition of Zallaq, she had mentioned an annulment.
That would not be possible.
A couple could only apply for an annulment in Zallaq if they had not slept together. And they would be sleeping together. Repeatedly.
When they returned to the palace, she would stay with him. He would ensure she desired nothing more than to remain in his bed.
Once again, he congratulated himself on altering his original p
lan. He had intended to abduct her father, then stage a dramatic rescue to put Devoe in his debt.
At the last moment, the idea of taking Gwendolyn instead had come to him. Abducting Devoe's daughter would have the same effect, with the additional threat of marriage.
If necessary, he had planned to trade an annulment for the pipeline.
Now, it would have to be a divorce.
"You can drive a standard transmission," Ithnan said. He had to admit his surprise. And yet driving a manual vehicle was not the most astonishing thing Gwendolyn had done today. "And you defended yourself as well as a man."
"Don't be dissing women in front of me right now." Her tone held a warning. He would not have put up with the attitude from anyone else, but he did not mind from her. He enjoyed her attitude. Strange. "I'm rocking a ton of adrenaline and I might get offended. Believe me, you don't want to offend me right now."
"After seeing what you did to your attacker, no, I do not wish to offend you."
She maneuvered the 4x4 with admirable skill over the rolling sand, keeping up a dynamic pace.
"I will keep your advice in mind." Despite the cartoon pajama bottoms and ballet slippers, she resembled a warrior who had walked away from battle, and he did not fight the strange pride swelling in him. She had done an admirable job on her would-be rapist.
"Drive toward those hills," he instructed her as he inspected the 4x4's glove box.
He turned off the air conditioner. He must act as if they had little fuel to spare in order to keep up the illusion they'd been living for two days.
The abduction had gone to plan. Everything had worked exactly how he had intended. Except for the rogue "kidnapper" who had taken Gwendolyn from him.
The assault on her should not have happened, he thought darkly. He had taken great pains to ensure she was in no danger, that she should feel as secure as possible.
He had bribed several of their guards anonymously, to facilitate an escape, if required. It was no accident one vehicle was full of gas and equipped with a very special GPS. One of his agents had seen to it. Another had placed additional water supplies in the vehicle. Still another had made certain all other vehicles were disabled so they could not be chased and returned to captivity. Shooting out the tires of the other 4x4 had not been necessary, but it had been satisfying.
Handcuffed to the Sheikh, Too Page 7
