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And then he saw her. Alive! Though clearly unconscious. She had managed to free the rubber seal on the glass and had forced it out far enough to let off the flare, but in doing so had allowed sand to pour in and fill the vacuum, almost burying her. He waved his men back. It wasn’t safe. Too many of them and the Jeep might sink further into the sand or even turn over on top of them, killing his men and burying Britt. He would not let anyone else take the risk of pulling her out.
He dug with his hands, and with the spade he had freed from the bull bars of the Jeep. He was desperate to reach her—frantic to save her. It was the longest hour of his life, and also his greatest triumph when he finally sliced through Britt’s seat belt with the khanjar at his side, and lifted her to safety in his arms.
* * *
To say she was bewildered would be putting it mildly. She had woken up to find herself transported from a nightmare into a Hollywood blockbuster, complete with sumptuous Arabian tent and billowing curtains, with not a grain of sand to be seen. Added to which, there were women clustering around what passed for her bed. Dressed in rainbow hues, they looked amazing with their flowing gowns and veils. At the moment they were trying to explain to her in a series of mimes that she had been barely conscious when their leader carried her into the camp. At which point it seemed they had to pause and sigh.
She must have been asleep for ages, Britt realised, staring around. The bed on which she was reclining was covered in the most deliciously scented cushions, and was enclosed by billowing white curtains, which the women had drawn back. She felt panicked for a moment as she tried to take it all in. Was this the encampment Jazz had told her about—or was she somewhere else?
And then it all came flooding back. The terrifying storm— The sickening fear of being buried alive. Her desperate attempt to set off a flare, not knowing if anyone would see it—
Someone had. She squeezed out a croak on a throat that felt as if it had been sandpapered, and the women couldn’t understand a word she said, anyway, so the identity of her rescuer was destined to remain a mystery.
The women were instantly sympathetic and rushed to bring her drinks laced with honey, and one of them indicated an outdoor spa, which Britt could now see was situated at the far end of the tent.
And what a tent! It was more of a pavilion, large and lavishly furnished with colourful hangings and jewel-coloured rugs covering the floor. Burnished brass lanterns decorated with intricate piercing cast a soft golden glow, while the roof was gathered up in the centre and had been used to display a number of antique artefacts. She was still staring up in wonder when the women distracted her. They had brought basins of cool water and soft towels, and, however much she indicated that she could sort herself out, they insisted on looking after her and bathing all her scratches and battle wounds.
It was a nice feeling to be made so welcome. Thanking the women with smiles, she drank their potions and accepted some of their tiny cakes, but she couldn’t lie here all day like some out-of-work concubine. She was badly in need of a sugar rush to kick her into gear. And those little cakes were delicious. She was contentedly munching when she suddenly remembered Jazz. Sharif’s sister must be out of her mind with worry—
Thank goodness she had a signal. She quickly stabbed in: safe @camp. sorry if i frightnd u! lost a day sleeping! talk soon J
A message came back before she had chance to put the phone away: relieved ur safe. Look fwd 2 mtg u b4 long! J
Britt smiled as she put the phone down again. She looked forward to that meeting too. And now the women were miming that she should come with them. She hesitated until they pointed towards the spa again, but the thought of bathing in clean, warm water was irresistible.
She was a little concerned when the women started giggling as they drew her out of the bed and across the rugs towards the bathing pool, especially when they started giggling and then sighing in turn. Were they preparing her for the sheikh? Was she to be served up on a magic carpet with a honey bun in her mouth?
Not if she could help it.
She asked with gestures: ‘Did your sheikh bring me here?’ She tried to draw a picture with her hands of a man who was very tall and robed, which was about all she could remember of her rescuer—that and his black horse. She must have kept slipping into unconsciousness when he brought her back here. ‘The Black Sheikh?’ she suggested, gazing around the golden tent, hoping to find something black to pounce on. ‘His Majesty, Sheikh Sharif al Kareshi...?’
The women looked at her blankly, and then she had an idea. She sighed theatrically as they had done.
