The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride. Annie West

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      ‘Dawud and I came over on an inflatable,’ he explained. ‘It’s a small boat.’

      She nodded impatiently. She knew inflatables.

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘I mean this one is small. Too small for all four of us now that Mr MacDonald is strapped across the length of it.’

      ‘I see.’ The disappointment was so strong she felt like weeping. Ridiculous, since all she had to do was wait for Dawud to come back to collect them.

      Patience, Belle. Just a little longer.

      ‘Well, we’ll just have to wait for Dawud to return.’

      He paused for a second before shaking his head. ‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple.’

      She really had a bad feeling about this now. Foreboding sliced through her. She hunched lower under the protection of her blanket.

      ‘There’s a storm coming this way. A cyclone.’ His voice was steady, unemotional.

      Her heart plunged and her hands clamped, white-knuckled with effort as she willed herself not to shake.

      ‘Dawud’s left. He should just have time to reach port before it becomes too dangerous. But it would be suicide for him or anyone else to return tonight.’ The buccaneer scrutinised her, as if watching for signs of weakness. ‘We’ll be stranded here until the storm passes. Maybe for another twenty-four hours.’

      Twenty-four hours. It sounded like a lifetime.

      And, if the cyclone hit head-on, time enough to die.

      She felt sick with disappointment after the certainty she’d been rescued. Nausea welled and she swallowed hard, oblivious now to the raw abrasiveness of her throat.

      At least Duncan had got away safely.

      Belle stared at the man before her. His gaze was impenetrable and his utter stillness gave nothing away. Neither urgency nor the fear that would be natural in the circumstances. The fear that froze her own limbs right now.

      But something about the set of his shoulders, the casual grace of his hands resting at his folded knees, told her he was ready for anything, even a hysterical woman.

      She gnawed at her lip, willing the trembling to subside. She’d seen tropical cyclones as a kid on the Great Barrier Reef coast. She knew how devastating they were. Involuntarily she looked up at the barely-there roof. It shifted and groaned in the gale. ‘How can we prepare?’

      He inclined his head and the waiting stillness left his body. As if she’d passed some test. He’d expected her to panic, had braced himself to handle a distraught woman.

      He gestured to her blanket. ‘If you’ll permit?’ When she nodded he folded it back to reveal her bare feet. She shuddered as the torchlight illuminated her, and she felt a ridiculous urge to tuck her feet back out of sight.

      They were filthy with sand and dried blood. Each ankle ringed with red welts where the shackles had bitten into her skin as she moved.

      In the gloom his face was impassive. Yet she read tension in his clamped jaw as he surveyed her injuries. And the air between them was electric, charged with some fierce emotion that radiated from him in waves.

      Anger? Or frustration that he had this to deal with as well as the approaching storm?

      She shrank further under her cotton wrap as she felt his eyes on her face. She wished she could read his expression. Instinct warned her to be wary of this man. It was crazy. She had to trust him. He was risking his life for her, a stranger. What danger could she be in from him?

      Despite the fine, dusty sand swirling around them Belle could identify what had to be his own natural scent: clean male skin with a slight salt tang. She shivered.

      ‘Shouldn’t you release my hands first?’ Then she could help strengthen the shelter. And she’d be less dependent on him. She’d feel better if she could help herself.

      ‘Later. It’s important that your legs are free.’

      Why? They had nowhere to go. And with the sea churning in the strong winds the surface of their atoll could only get smaller. It was only a couple of metres above sea level—that was nothing if the cyclone hit them full-force.

      The truth was sudden and horrifying.

      He must have sensed the immediate tension in her. He looked up, his eyes darkly gleaming. ‘Are you all right?’

      Oh, she was just dandy. Wearily she inclined her head. Now she understood his reasoning. ‘It’ll be easier to swim with the shackles off,’ she said. ‘If we get swamped.’

      He shifted, and the torchlight glanced off his strongly honed features. It revealed a calm certainty and a strength that, beyond all reason, reassured.

      ‘I will look after you,’ he said slowly. ‘I promise you.’ It sounded like a pledge. In that moment she had no doubt he’d give his all to save her.

      But would that be enough to preserve either of them?

      ‘Have faith, Ms Winters,’ he said in a steady voice. ‘I will see you through this. The eye of the storm is predicted to track further west. It will be unpleasant here, but we will survive it—together. Now, sit still while I do my best with the lock.’

      He spread a small packet of tools beside him. Then one large, warm hand cupped her heel and she sucked in a stunned breath as her reeling senses reacted to his touch. It was impersonal, she assured herself, merely steadying her foot to give him better access to the heavy shackles.

      But she couldn’t ignore the tiny, trembling waves of awareness that spread up her leg. Reaction to her ordeal. That was what it was. No man, no matter how starkly sexy, had the power to generate electricity with his bare hands.

      She shut her eyes to block out the image of his dark head bent low over her, the light gilding the aristocratic ridge of his cheekbone and glinting on the barbaric-looking ring at his ear.

      The gale roared around their refuge and the air swirled, heavy with grit, presaging the devastation fast approaching. Yet tucked in this corner, her world limited to the scope of a torch beam, she felt cocooned in a fragile, dream-like world. Protected by this remarkable man.

      Remarkable? She didn’t know anything about him except for his extraordinary good looks. And his palpable aura of authority. The sense that he would cope: not just survive, but triumph, no matter what the odds.

      A jarring movement broke her reverie and she opened her eyes. He’d attempted to pick the lock. Blood covered his wrist from a long gash—his hold must have slipped.

      ‘Are you all right?’

      He raised his head and she could have sworn she saw a flash of humour lurking in his eyes. But he didn’t laugh at the absurdity of her, trussed before him like a sacrificial victim, worrying about his injury. ‘I’ll live.’

      The chain at her feet jolted, then blessedly gave way. Relief washed through her. Without the shackles wearing her down she had a slim chance СКАЧАТЬ