Page 8 of The Lady and the Desert Scoundrel

In a startle, she dropped the saddle and turned to him, tense and angry for being discovered. "And who are you to advise me on anything?" His legs apart and crossed arms, he ogled her in a vexed expression

"The son of a caravan owner, the grandson to a caravan owner" His attention found her hair falling to her back, dishevelled, the dying fire giving reddish strokes to it.

The information surprised her. She’d heard Adriana saying his father had been a merchant too. But a dynasty of them?

"You'll perish out there." His low velvety voice had an edge to it.

"I prefer to perish trying to go home than to stay in hostage!"

If she’d be willing to risk her life to

flee, then she must be intent on escaping. He’d have to handle this more carefully.

He uncrossed his muscled arms, visible as it marked his white kaftan. Smoothly, he took one of her hands. "Where's home, Lucinda?"

The even silkier tone a contradiction to his calloused fingers. Ripples of electricity trailed up her arms as her skin formed goose-bumps.

Yes, Lucinda, where's home? Her inner voice asked her.

Would home be in a stuffed ballroom full of silly noble people? Or would it be in her future husband’s townhouse hosting ladies’ tea and prattling on about ribbons? The place where she would have to give up travel, fencing, arrow shooting? Home designed as a tight box she must fit in with a high cost to who she was.

And then his warm calloused fingers traced each of hers in a slow caress that only made her hungry. Her eyes, dark in the night, wide, her mouth dried suddenly driving her to moisten it with her tongue. She forgot to breathe entirely.

His utterly enchanting eyes didn’t miss a single movement as he became unperceptively rigid in his body and elsewhere. This whole thing proved to be a trial by fire of his self-discipline.

Slow, oh so slow, he entwined his fingers with hers; and, there, in the middle of the desert, with dark sky sprinkled with millions of stars, they were holding hands in thick silence, only their eyes speaking secrets to each other.

"Come to bed, Lucinda. His whisper wandered like a feather caressing her sensitive skin, with his accent more audible in her name. His uttering making it Lucindah.

The 'invitation' came dubious to say the least. But when she lifted her gaze to his, there wasn't an atom of ambiguity there. The meaning so earthy, it washed her with a temperature higher than the desert at midday.

She didn’t have a choice, obviously. They walked back to the tent, hand in hand. He let go of it before they passed the flapping canvas which he tied afterwards.

Both lay down without a word, each with the back to the other.

Lucinda’s thoughts wouldn’t stop whirling. She rearranged the cushion under her head for the thousandth time. Where's home, Lucinda? His deep-voiced question rolling over and over in her mind.

Home was back in her family’s country estate library reading about distant lands she'd never even dream of seeing. Reading adventure romances set in these lands, with heroes riding her imagination. If she had to settle for less, this would be it.

Wrong, Lucinda, try again.

Alright, she’d be fulfilled travelling the continent with her chaperone.

Liar!

A pair of cognac-against-fire eyes flashed in her mind's vision inexorably. Now, Lucinda. Now, good girl! She drifted into a dreamless heavy sleep.

CHAPTER FOUR

Days started early for caravans. Before sunrise, a quick breakfast of flat bread with dry curd. Delicious, if they’d asked Lucinda.

Before he stepped outside to give her time to wash, Tariq had thrown a dark-green long tunic with matching veil and pantaloons on the cushion. “Dress this.” He’d commanded without looking at her. And left.

Lucinda looked wryly at the fine silk garment. The autocratic scoundrel, she huffed! Who did he think he was? The clothes displayed a large cutting and would fit her loosely. As for the veil, she hadn’t the faintest idea of how it should be worn. Without all the layers of clothing she was used to, she’d be naked. She’d folded both pieces and kept in a canvas sac that he’d provided for her dress and appeared at the camp fire in her dusty, sweaty Boudreaux dress.

Tariq saw her, his cognac eyes fuming. But she understood he preferred to die than to show the other men that she’d disobeyed him.

On his camel, he remembered the recent events. He looked far ahead, a blank expression on his manly face. How dare she defy his orders? Did he have to explain the tunic proved fitter for this weather? The stubborn chit! He held the reins of her camel, which rode a few paces behind. He risked a glance at her. She sat ramrod straight sideways on the saddle, her dirty dress spread over it, shawl wrapped around her.

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