Captive of the Desert King. Donna Young

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СКАЧАТЬ leaned over and checked the pilot’s pulse. After a moment, he cupped the older man’s cheek. “May Allah keep you always, my friend.”

      Sarah turned away, uncomfortable with her intrusion. She stumbled from the plane, nearly landing face-first in the scrub and sand.

      “Great,” she muttered. Impatient, she reached down and broke the heels off her shoes, trying not to think about how much the cost of the tan slingbacks had set back her budget a few months earlier.

      “Miss Kwong?”

      All boy. That was Sarah’s first thought as she looked at Rashid. His eyes were big and wide and black as midnight. Almost too big for the small body, the baby-soft features.

      “Your Highness.”

      He dressed like his father in the riding pants and boots. His scarf, just a tad off center, revealed sooty black hair spiking in sweaty strands against his cheeks and ears.

      “I am glad to see you are unharmed,” the little boy greeted her in a quiet voice. Those big eyes looked past her shoulder to the plane even as he helped her with the supplies.

      “Is Ramon safe?”

      Sarah knelt down in front of him and laid her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Sarah explained, gently. “Ramon did not survive.”

      “I see,” he whispered. His throat worked spasmodically against tears. “My father?”

      “He’s saying goodbye.”

      Jarek stepped out to the sand. In one hand, he carried a scarf—Ramon’s head scarf—filled with more supplies. In the other hand, he carried Ramon’s pistol. “Rashid—”

      “I know, Papa. Miss Kwong explained.” The words were quiet, but resolute. Sarah saw the tears swell in the young prince’s eyes and how he bit his lip to keep them from falling.

      Sarah stood, but left her hand on the boy’s shoulder long enough for a gentle squeeze of encouragement.

      “There is nothing we can do for Ramon,” Jarek added, his gaze narrowing over her gesture. “Please let go of my son, Miss Kwong.”

      The emotions punched hard, an angry swipe at her solar plexus. Resentment. Humiliation. Rage. She fought them all as she dropped her hand.

      Eight years of denial fell away, lying like broken chains at her feet.

      She’d come three thousand miles to see. To finally know. And now she did.

      Nothing had changed.

      “Miss Kwong, have you ridden?” Jarek asked briskly, his gaze now on the horizon.

      “Yes. But it’s been a long time.” Too long, she added silently and resisted the urge to rub her temples where the pain was centered.

      “You’ll ride Ping.” He nodded toward the gray mare. “Give me the backpack. You can keep your purse.”

      He tied the scarf and supplies to Ping’s saddle. “Rashid, come hold the horse steady.”

      “It’s okay, girl.” The little boy held the bridle and stroked the horse’s nose.

      “Grab the pommel,” Jarek ordered Sarah, then glanced down at her foot. Noticing the broken heels, he raised an eyebrow in question.

      “They’re styled to make a great impression, not for an afternoon hike in the sand.”

      “I assure you. You’ve always made an impression. Without the shoes,” he murmured, then motioned her to lift her foot.

      She placed her heel in his palm, felt the slight dusting of his thumb against her ankle. Her toes curled, but her back stiffened.

      “Don’t,” she snapped, low and mean.

      “Don’t what?”

      “Don’t tell me not to touch your son one minute, then stroke me the next.”

      “Rashid and Ramon were very close,” Jarek replied, his answer matching the hushed tone of hers. “If you had comforted him for much longer, the tears would’ve taken over and made things more difficult. My priority is his protection. We will have time for grief, but only after we are safe.” Then, almost deliberately, his thumb grazed her ankle again. “Now. Are you ready?”

      Before she could reply, he boosted her into the saddle.

      Ping bristled against the weight, stomping her front foot for a moment before a few murmured words from Rashid settled her down.

      Quickly, Sarah adjusted her purse across her back and out of her way.

      “Here you are, Miss Kwong.” Rashid handed her the reins.

      When the boy turned away, Ping took a step forward, causing Sarah to lock her thighs on the saddle. “Whoa, girl.”

      “Are you going to be all right?” Rashid asked, his small brow knitted with concern.

      “I’ll be fine, Your Highness. It’s like falling off a horse, right?” Sarah winked.

      The little boy smiled. A big smile that revealed a dimple in each cheek.

      A small rubber band of emotion snapped inside her chest. She knew in that moment, if she wasn’t careful, she’d be a sucker for those dimples.

      “Ping will follow Taaj, Miss Kwong. So all you have to do is stay in that saddle,” Jarek ordered. “If you hear gunshots, don’t look back. Do you hear me?”

      “Yes.”

      “And keep up.” Jarek lifted Rashid onto Taaj, then swung up into the saddle behind him.

      “Papa, look,” Rashid shouted.

      A long line of dust clouds rose over the horizon behind them.

      Sarah raised her hand to shield the sun. “What is it? A sandstorm?”

      She’d read about the dangers of the desert—scorpions, vipers, raging winds of sand, but didn’t think she would ever experience any firsthand.

      Jarek swore and reached for his binoculars.

      “The Al Asheera. The same who gunned down the airplane. They’ve spread out and are approaching at a full gallop.”

      Suddenly the sand exploded no more than fifty feet in front of them.

      Ping reared back and spun herself away. Sarah grabbed the pummel and held her seat. “Whoa!”

      “Rockets,” Jarek warned and pointed to the west. “Head toward those cliffs. We can hide in the caves.”

      “Away from the city?” Sarah exclaimed, her head still ringing from the explosion.

      “They’ve blocked our route back to the palace. Go!”

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