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Exclaiming with delight, they smiled back, nudging each other as they exchanged giggles and glances.
She left a pause to allow for more sighs while her heart thundered a blistering tattoo. So it was very likely that Emir or Sharif, or whatever he was calling himself these days, had rescued her. Her brain still wasn’t functioning properly, but it seemed preferable to be in the tent of someone she knew, even if that someone was the Black Sheikh.
She allowed the women to lead her into the bathing pool. She didn’t want to offend them and what was the harm of refreshing herself so she could start the new day and explore the camp? The women were keen to pamper her outer self with unguents, and her inner self with fresh juice. One of them played a stringed instrument softly in the background, while the scent rising from the warm spring water was divine. Relaxing back in the clear, warm water, she indulged in a little dream in which she was a young woman lost in the desert who had been rescued by a handsome sheikh—
She was a young woman lost in the desert who had been rescued by a handsome sheikh!
And however she felt about him, the first thing she had to do was thank Sharif for saving her life. She had to forget all about who had done what to whom, or how angry she had been about his people’s interference in the business, and start with that. She could always tell him what she thought about his high-handed ways afterwards. Sharif had risked his life to save her. Compared to that, her pride counted for nothing.
The women interrupted her thoughts, bringing her towels, which they held out like a screen so she could climb from the pool with her modesty intact. They quickly wrapped her, head to foot, and she noticed now that the sleeping area had already been straightened, and enough food to feed an army had been laid out.
Was she expecting visitors?
One visitor?
Her heart thundered at the thought.
As they led her towards the bed of cushions she caught sight of the lavender sky, tinged with the lambent gold of a dying sun. The women insisted she must lie down on a sheet while they massaged her skin with soothing emollients to ease the discomfort of all the cuts and bruises she had sustained during her ordeal. The scent of the cream was amazing and she couldn’t ever remember being indulged to this extent. Being prepared for the sheikh indeed...
She was a little concerned when, instead of her own clothes, the women showed her an exquisite gown in flowing silk. ‘Where are my clothes?’ she mimed.
One of the women mimed back that Britt’s clothes were still wet after having been washed.
Ah... ‘Thank you.’
She bit her lip, wondering how the rest of this night would play out, but then decided she would just have to throw herself into the spirit of generosity being lavished on her by these wonderful people. And the gown was beautiful, though it had clearly been designed for someone far more glamorous than she was. In ice blue silk, it was as fine as gossamer, and was intricately decorated with silver thread. It was the sort of robe she could easily imagine a sheikh’s mistress wearing. But as there were no alternatives on offer...
One of the women brought in a full-length mirror so Britt could see the finished effect. The transformation was complete when they draped a matching veil over her hair and drew the wisp of chiffon across her face, securing it with a jewelled clip. She stood for a moment staring at her reflection in amazement. At least she fitted in with the surroundings now, and for perhaps the first time ever she felt different about herself and didn’t long for jeans or suits. She had never worn anything so exotic, or believed she had the potential to project an air of mystery. I could be the Sheikh’s diamond, she thought with amusement.
She tensed as something changed in the tent...a rustle of cloth...a hint of spice...
She turned to find the women backing away from her.
And then she saw the man. Silhouetted with his back against the light, he was tall and powerful and dressed in black robes. A black headdress covered half his face, but she would have known him anywhere, and her body yearned for her lover before her mind had chance to make a reasoned choice.
‘So it was you...’ Even as she spoke she realised how foolish that must sound.
His Majesty, Sheikh Sharif al Kareshi, the man known to the world as the Black Sheikh, and known to her before today as Emir, loosened his headdress. Every thought of thanking him for saving her life, or condemning him for walking out on her without explaining why, faded into insignificance as their stares met and held.
‘Thank you for saving my life,’ she managed on a throat that felt as tight as a drum.
