Page 11 of The Lady and the Desert Scoundrel

Drowsiness seeped into her as sleep had been shallow and full of steamy dream when she stepped out of the tent next morning. Her dark-green tunic fluttered with the breeze and she’d arranged the veil in her own fashion, like her grand-mother would have arranged an old fashionable turban. The garment was utterly strange. She’d dressed her drawers and her chemise, but the fabric grazed her skin as she moved, making her all too aware of every inch of her body. She’d been wearing sandals that Mustafa gave her before they left Gabes, now they completed her new attire.

When Tariq detected her emerging from the tent, he could barely take his eyes from her. She looked even more stunning than she already was. The tunic fell on her body as a glove and, when the wind blew against it, it delineated her curvy shape so temptingly he almost regretted making her dress it. But the veil wasn’t how it should be.

“Come back to the tent.” He commanded curtly.

Would the man ever learn to ask? She looked at him in

confusion as to why he wanted her back in it. She followed to avoid a scene in front of the others.

The men were already walking towards the tent to disassemble it. Tariq motioned for them to wait.

When they entered the dimly lit space, he stopped in front of her, without looking at her. He undid her veil. His body bore a stillness akin to tension, no breathing. He went to a great length not to touch her irresistible skin.

Lucinda’s breath caught. This close his attractiveness struck her with double the intensity. His straight nose, his thick lashes, his sensuous lips, taut masculinity. His sandalwood scent reached her, becoming enticingly familiar now. She forced herself to hold still while he moved around her.

“Now you pull this end and cover your face, so the sun won’t harm it.” His low, hoarse voice caused her heart go overdrive.

Still not looking at her, he swivelled to disappear outside in the stretch of sun. Then she remembered to breath and drew in short puffs of air. A little dizzy, she followed him.

The rising sun tinted the endless sand in purple shades as her camel paced suavely through the dunes. At certain points, the terrain was rocky and brittle. The line of loaded camels sometimes passed by a stone hill, but the landscape swept in paintbrushes of tawny shades.

She sat on the saddle on her own today. Laconically, Tariq gave her the reins and rode ahead, without waiting for her. Irritating man! Not that she cared to be near him after…after…well after yesterday. The mere notion induced her heart to skip a beat. And sleeping beside him, on top of that! She had to use all her will-power not to turn and touch his muscled shoulders, his sleek obsidian hair; how would it feel between her fingers…?

Stop, you senseless girl! These sinful thoughts are unworthy of you! If you’re lucky, you’ll manage to go back to England. And marry a good blue-blood gentleman, which are your duty and your purpose in life, she scolded herself silently.

Something moved in the distance, half a mile, maybe. She too far discern it. She kept her attention fixed on it as they advanced. A few minutes later she realised it was another caravan coming towards them.

When both caravan heads met, they halted. Tariq and the other caravan’s leader started to talk. They probably exchanged information about the track. The coming caravan wasn’t so loaded as theirs. Was this a common route for merchants? Lucinda wondered. If so, the others headed to Gabes, or any other port, to fetch goods. Or pick them up, for sure. This caravan had women, possibly related of its members. They weren’t tied or something, not slaves, she concluded.

Both leaders gestured as if parting ways. Their camels started walking again, led by the helpers. So did the coming ones.

Lucinda’s mind whirled. Her chance to try an escape right under her nose. She might mingle with the other women, hoping they would accept her as a new traveller. If she managed to go with them, she could find a ship heading to Sicily to sail on credit and pay the passage when she arrived. Her father had given the local bank a letter of credit for her trip. It was her first opportunity in days. She wouldn’t let it slip.

While the second caravan strode by, she set her camel to a slower pace, intending to become the last of their line. When she reached midway back, Tariq turned in her direction to check if she was following. Her eyes stared ahead, face blank, holding the reins loose as if letting the camel go. He turned in front and she sighed in relief. A few yards ahead, she positioned herself behind the last camel and waited for the other caravan to pass.

When the last of its camels brushed past, she waited for a while, until they disappeared behind a dune. To get down the camel without making it lower did not present difficulties. All she had to do was jump. But her feet might make a noise on hard ground. In a few yards, they got to a sandy patch. Her cue, at last. Swiftly, she jumped from the camel, taking her water skin with her and landed on muted feet. Tying her camel to the one in front, she turned and fled, never looking behind for fear someone would sense her stare. In a run, finding purchase on sand and rocks, she reached the end of the other caravan and started walking in pace with them. If she managed being with it, she’d possibly reach the Mediterranean in two days. Food might be a problem, but she would be strong and go two days without it. Or she’d work for it, helping with the goods, the cooking, whatever.

Tariq rode his camel in what had to be the worst mood in his entire life. Incapable of even setting eyes at her because it disquieted his insides. The adjusting her veil had taken all his strained self-control. When he’d covered her face, just her pepper-mint eyes remained uncovered, and it proved more than he could take. Even covered she continued dragging him towards her. What was wrong with him, anyway? So many women willing to be a rich merchant’s concubine! But this forbidden one tested the limits of his sanity. She was a franj for pity’s sake! Forget it! But the vision of her big green eyes above the veil only made him want to unveil her inch by torturous inch. He’d find ultimate release. Ultimate relief.

He must cut these notions though. He didn’t bear the right to dishonour her. A daughter of the British peerage, blue-blood, a noble-woman. He didn’t have the slightest idea of how he’d handle this mess when they arrived in Tunis. One way or the other, he’d strive to reunite her with her family. Unharmed. Worse. Untouched. Desperately so. That’s why it’d be better if he never looked at her impossibly beautiful figure ever again. A herculean task, to be sure. Albeit not impossible.

By mid-morning, Aziz came running. “The girl is gone!” He exclaimed in Arabic.

Tariq turned to the camel line. Hers tied to the last one. A cold wash of fear mixed with blind rage overtook him. Fear for her safety. Rage for her rebel stubbornness. Damn the woman! He made the camel sit, dismounted, loaded provisions on it, and climbed up again.

“Aziz, lead on and make camp at sunset, at the usual place.” He turned his camel. “I’ll be back then.” The caretaker nodded.

It didn’t take him much effort to conclude she’d joined the other caravan. But they had met it hours ago, little after the sun-rise. No caravan stepped on another’s footprint. The round-the-dunes track made the route slightly different every time. He’d have to find and follow their vestiges, which would take longer. And she boasted a good head-start, the chit! His advantage was that being alone, he’d ride faster.

The sand scorched her toes, she sweat all over. The sand-grains rolling in her sandal minced her feet which dug in the sand, making her strides twice as heavy. Her legs did not expect such strain, and the muscles began to ache. Lazy strolls in the park did not prepare her for this. To give up not a choice, she ignored the discomfort and ploughed on regardless.

The women cast quizzical glanced at her. She wished she spoke Arabic, so she would negotiate the terms of her joining their trip. So far, nobody came to talk to her.

She thanked her dear father for encouraging her towards physical skills, despite the terrain. Even though tiredness threatened, she surely would make it. And how victorious she’d be when she got back and had this adventure to tell everyone. Maybe she’d write a travelling account. She smiled to herself. The first English woman traveller to cross the desert and survive. She’d sign a pseudonym, of course. A noble-woman wouldn’t be able to own up to such honour-tarnishing episode. Such musings made it easier for her to forge ahead.

Tariq got down the camel for the thousandth time since he turned tail to fetch the most infuriating woman on earth. He knelt on the sand to find a thread of a blanket. Yes, her caravan walked here. He mounted the camel again and followed the track.

Her caravan stanched. A woman veiled in black came back from talking to the leader. Lucinda had been discovered. The women circled her, talking in accusing tones. The men came after them. She didn’t understand a single word. She looked at everyone trying to find a way to communicate with them. One of the women tore off her veil. Her glossy dried-dates coloured hair fell in locks to her shoulder. Everybody stopped talking. She took the pause to advocate her intentions. She pointed to herself and gestured ahead of the caravan, meaning she wanted to travel in that direction. A few men started shaking their heads. She made a gesture meaning cook. Everybody shook their heads. Yes, well, they ate very different food to what she usually ate, even if delicious. She wouldn’t tell them she’d never cooked a thing in her life, naturally.

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