Night Child, page 6
At one point Aslam Nouri passed within inches of them. When his black gaze lingered full on her face, burning through the black slits that concealed her eyes, she thought surely he would sense her terror, seize them and drag them to some hidden courtyard and murder them. But his gaze left her. He turned his back and vanished into the crowd.
She could have screamed with frustration when Kirk, having bought two, began thumping a third melon, holding it close to his ear. She had the feeling that he thrived on danger, that instead of being as terrified as she was, he was exhilarated. She wanted to use his head like the melon he kept thumping and give him a pounding he wouldn't forget.
At last he found a third melon that satisfied him, and after a lengthy exchange of verbal abuse he bought it. But he was not content to leave the market until their baskets were stuffed with melons, dates, hazelnuts and pistachio nuts. Only then did he head for the outskirts of the village, though he took a meandering route through the narrow streets, veering always toward the east, where a formidable eternity of bleak, barren country with hardly a bush or a tree stretched endlessly. There were canyons with deep caves, but they, too, were as barren as the open country.
At the edge of the village, they came to a deserted hut. Behind the house a rangy, lazy-looking young bull camel was tied to a stake.
Kirk ripped off his veil and cloak and stuffed them in his satchel, cursing roundly. "That rotten, lying cheat! May that stinking Arab suffer blindness and be boiled in oil."
"What's wrong?"
"Just look at that miserable animal! I paid a hundred sukki for him."
The camel's long lashes flicked nastily at Kirk, as man and beast regarded one another with a mutual lack of regard.
"He doesn't look so bad—for a camel."
"I was promised three. And twice as many water bags. But never mind. We've got to get the hell out of here, and he's all we've got."
Quickly Kirk donned a white kaffiyeh with a black cord and the loose attire of a poor Arab. Then he picked up the camel stick leaning against the hut. Dawn started to take off her own veil, but Kirk stopped her.
"No. Stay as you are. We'll look like a poor Bedouin and his wife on our way across the desert.
Rivulets of sweat ran down her face and her spine as the black cloth drew in the heat of the burning sun. Her leg throbbed from her ankle to her knee, and she felt faint from the heat and hunger, and from the long walk after having been locked up so long, but she made no complaint.
Kirk took the camel stick and walked over to the beast, yanking the nose rope and beating the beast in an effort to make the animal kneel. The camel stretched his neck viciously and tried to take a bite out of Kirk's arm.
Kirk ducked and turned back to her, snarling softly, "Hey, you two will probably get along just fine. You've both got the same instincts."
The remark stung, but she lowered her head and tried to ignore it.
At last, kicking and spitting, the camel knelt in the sand. "Come on over here and get on him," Kirk commanded.
"Get on him?" The camel, who appeared in the foulest of moods, was glaring at her from between the slits of its three pairs of lashes and making ghastly snorts. "You have to be out of your mind!''
Kirk was tying their baskets and jugs and satchel onto the glowering camel while the beast whined loudly. He was hanging goatskin water bags to the saddle. "I said get over here!" he yelled. She didn't move an inch. "So help me if you don't, I'll tie you on his back."
She moved warily to his side, and before she could argue further Kirk lifted her up and heaved her into the stiffest, most uncomfortable seat she'd ever been in. "Honey, this is going to be heaven compared to trying to walk across the desert on that ankle."
The camel whined even louder at this fresh load and swayed back and forth in an effort to dislodge her. "Kirk!" she shrieked.
"Hang on, princess."
When she managed to do so the beast spit nastily in Kirk's direction.
"I don't think he likes me," she whispered weakly.
Kirk wrestled the reluctant beast to his feet. "Princess, he loves you. He's unusually affectionate for a camel."
The camel's lips parted; his head swiveled toward Kirk again, but Kirk hit him with his stick. "Save your strength for the desert, lover boy."
Kirk's eyes studied the burning desolation of shifting sand dunes that stretched toward the horizon.
To try to cross it during the heat of the day with only one camel, with a weak and injured woman, without adequate food and water was suicide.
Kirk knew the desert, and he was afraid, as all intelligent men were afraid of it; even the Arabs who wandered through the desert and knew it better than anyone.
He had only a sextant, only the sun and the stars and a hand compass to guide him. The slightest mistake in navigation could make him miss the vital well he was heading for. A half a mile, either way, would be fatal.
One camel. And not a very good one.
He'd seen perfectly healthy-looking camels drop after a day or two in the desert.'
Then the woman would die. Of thirst.
He did not want to watch that, but he would.
Then he would die last of all.
* * *
Five
It was the evening of their third day in the desert, and the sun was sinking. Kirk was too exhausted to feel gladdened that the terrible heat of the afternoon would soon by dying. He could feel nothing but bitter despair as he watched the clouds billowing on the horizon as the desert cooled.
Three days. They had long since eaten the melons, the nuts, the dates, his rations, almost everything, and their water bags were nearly empty. The sides of his stomach ground together incessantly, but he was long past feeling hunger pains. Dawn was so weak that Kirk had had to tie her to the saddle, and her slumped, unconscious body dangled precariously to one side. He was having to pull harder and harder at the nose rope to prod the camel onward.
But Kirk plodded on, determined, despite the terror that lurked just beneath the calm surface of his disciplined self-control. He would rather die walking than lie down in the sand and give up. They should have come to the wellhead hours ago by his calculations. Still, he refused to admit his failure. He kept clinging to the desperate hope that they were moving so slowly that his timing was off.
The sun drooped like an obscene, fiery flower, its trailing petals brushing the edges of the earth before wilting altogether. The sky purpled, and a brilliant moon rose quietly.
All desert moons and desert suns were bright, and desert skies were the most beautiful on earth. But Kirk was too dead with weariness to appreciate their beauty. Though he knew he could not walk all night, he would not let himself think of stopping, or giving up.
Over the next rise, he kept promising himself. Just another quarter of a mile, and we'll be there. Over the next rise... water...
The camel climbed a small hillock of drifting sand, stared across the empty desert that seemed to stretch to eternity and collapsed slowly on his haunches. No matter how frantically Kirk pulled on the nose rope, no matter how loud he shouted or how hard he beat him with the stick, the animal refused to budge. The camel merely eyed him indifferently.
Finally Kirk went to Dawn, pulled out his razor-sharp knife and slit her bonds. It never occurred to him to leave her. He slung his satchel filled with money over his shoulder. Then he lifted her into his arms and continued to trudge through the sand. He was almost over the third rise when he stumbled and fell, collapsing breathlessly into the sand and rocks, too exhausted to rise. He knew with the sinking inexorable knowledge of a man facing imminent death, that he had pitted himself against the desert and lost.
It was only a matter of time before the last of their water would be gone.
Lying in the sand next to the woman, he closed his eyes. He immediately sank into a deep sleep. When he awoke, he heard voices, laughter. He sat up, thinking he had dreamed them, that his desperate mind was playing a cruel trick on him. But as he listened, he made out distinct words of the desert tongue. Never before had he dreamed in Arabic.
A fragile hope flared. He knew that in the open desert, sounds could travel a long way, but he got up and dragged himself, crawling by inches, to the top of the hill, hardly feeling the camel's thorn and rock tearing at the flesh of his hands and knees.
Beneath him a tiny flame licked a star-sprinkled sky.
This was no dream.
The well! They had reached it! There were twenty tents. Hobbled camels grazed on clumps of thorn. Azid, his Bedouin friend, had set up an encampment as he had promised.
Kirk went back to Dawn, wearily scooped her up and walked down the hill toward the oasis.
The grazing animals became restless, sensing a stranger. A tall man lifted the fold of a tent, squinted into the darkness, gave a shout that brought other men, and then ran forward. One shocked glance into Kirk's haggard face, and the Arab took the girl into his own strong arms.
"When you did not come yesterday, we thought you were dead, my friend," he said in the ancient tongue of the desert.
Kirk's lips curled, but he couldn't manage a smile. He tried to speak and couldn't manage that, either. Instead he pitched crazily downward into the sand, unconscious, fainting for the first time in his life. It was cool inside the tent. Kirk dipped the rag into the jeweled bowl and washed Dawn's pale face, let the liquid trickle into her hair and sponged her neck with its yellowing bruises, her shoulders and her breasts, trying not to think of how alluringly soft and lovely she was.
All it had taken to revive him was Azid dashing water into his face, a roasted leg of lamb that he had gnawed voraciously until the bone gleamed in the moonlight, a long drink, a sponge bath, a shave and two hours' rest. Then he had awakened, his first concern for Dawn. He had stormed into the women's section of Azid's tent and found Azid's women gently ministering to her. They had bathed her and washed her hair in water sweetened with frankincense, rubbing her body in perfumed oils. They had spooned water between her still lips.
When Kirk discovered that she was still unconscious and burning with fever, he had insisted on taking over the task of caring for her and had shooed the women from the tent. There had been startled gasps from the women as they'd quickly covered their faces when he'd entered, shy giggles and chattering as they left. A man could die for daring to break the sacred taboo of entering the private quarters of another man's women.
Kirk heard Azid's low voice from the other side of the dividing cloth, excusing the rudeness, "Wife, my friend has been away a long time. He forgets our ways. He is half-mad from the desert."
With swift efficiency Kirk had stripped away the white robe the women had dressed Dawn in. Then with hardly a glance toward her naked body, he had bundled her thick perfumed hair above her head so she would be cooler.
He had forced tea and broth, a little at a time, down her parched throat and sponged her body repeatedly. When at last, after hours of this labor, she seemed cooler and her naked skin glowed from his frequent spongings, he lay down beside her, gazing into her thin, pale, beautiful face.
How still her thick lashes lay against the gray pallor of her cheeks, he thought. How dark were the blue-tinged shadows beneath her eyes.
He felt a funny constriction in his heart. She was such a little thing, and she had been incredibly brave, scarcely complaining these past few days. Never once had she pleaded for water or food or rest.
Every night she had slept snuggled against him in his arms, and he had wanted her there.
Julia... Darling Julia. He had found her at last. If only she would live, the tragedy that had haunted him for a lifetime would be over. He could bury the guilt, forget the little girl who'd been stolen while in his care and go on with his life.
For an instant he remembered the child she had been. She had been a rowdy, sparkling and adventurous little girl with frizzy black hair and enormous dark eyes, the adored only daughter of the immensely wealthy Jacksons. There were those who had said that she'd been born with all of the Jacksons' most deplorable characteristics. She was demanding, stubborn, willful, and yet in this tiny imperious creature, everyone found those traits enchanting.
Kirk had always had a softness for children and treated them gently, and Julia had loved him, tottering after him the minute she'd crawled out of the cradle. With him, there had always been adventure. Mercedes had trusted her with him, had let him take her up on his horse. When Julia was five she had demanded her own mount. "I want a horse, Mommy, so I can be a cowboy and ride with Kirk."
"Cowgirl, querida."
"No! Cowboy! Just like Kirk!"
It had not been long before the Jacksons had granted this most fervent wish of their darling child. She was given boots, chaps and a cowboy hat. Then a small intricately carved saddle studded in silver. But she had cried she wanted nothing but a horse.
Kirk had led her outside and shown her her new pony. The next day he had begun teaching her to ride. Because there was not much love in his life, teaching her had quickly become one of his favorite pastimes when he'd gotten in from school and finished his chores.
Then on that fateful afternoon when Mercedes and Wayne had been away, three men had ridden into the paddock. At first Kirk had thought they were cowboys coming in from the range. When he realized they weren't, they already had Julia. He'd told them to let her go, but they'd laughed in his face. "You think you're tough enough to stop us, kid? We'll show you tough."
One had grabbed him, binding his arms behind his back, while the other beat him until he was senseless. Then they left him for dead in the dirt and had galloped away with the screaming little girl to a pickup truck they'd concealed in the dense cover of a mesquite-shaded ravine.
Kirk had been blamed by everyone and locked up in a cell with a dozen juvenile delinquents for that hellish time. Yet no one had hated him more thoroughly than he had hated himself. His own guilt had torn him apart. Every night for years he had burst violently awake in a cold sweat with the vivid memory of Julia's tortured screams.
Because of him, a precious little girl had wanted to learn to ride. Because of him, she was gone.
The ransom had been paid, but the child was never found.
For years everyone except Mercedes had believed she was dead.
Dawn shuddered delicately. Kirk's eyes remained glued to her still face.
"Julia..." The name was a velvet whisper in the darkness. It was an agonized masculine sound filled with hope and a terrible yearning.
Briefly he touched her fevered brow.
It seemed he had spent his whole life determined to find her, to save her. He was damned if he was going to watch her die now.
There was nothing more he could do for her except to let her sleep, and he was feeling tired again himself.
He'd never been one to wear much to bed, so he tore off his hot desert robes and lay down beside her. Then he draped his arm protectively across her waist, hoping that she would sense his presence. He fell asleep with his body curving against her warmth.
It was the middle of the night. A deep breath swelled against the planes of his muscled chest. A soft velvet weight was crushing him in the darkness. But it was not unpleasant, not unpleasant at all. If only it were.
He came awake slowly to the languid coil of satiny arms and legs enticingly entwined with his, to the engaging sweetness of Dawn's innocent face pressed closely to his, to the feel of naked breasts snug against his chest.
God, she felt soft, even lush. So innocent and yet so bold. A fluid dissolving heat flowed in his veins.
She had climbed on top of him again as she had that first night when she'd been afraid, and he'd taken her in his arms. Only this time she was naked, and his own chest and legs were bare. Only this time he was less wary of her because he was growing used to her. He was in a camp with armed friends, and instead of a stable wall and dirt floor, they were lying on soft, comfortable Bedouin carpets beneath cotton covers and blankets.
Her delicate hand was curled trustingly around his brown neck. Her head lay gently nested in the cradle of his shoulder, her black hair sweeping his arms like skeins of perfumed silk.
He supposed he was getting accustomed to her ways, to her craving for physical closeness because now he wanted her near him all the time. His fingers drifted down the length of her spine, over the curve of her buttocks, and he realized that she was perspiring. Her skin was cool. During the night her fever had broken.
He sighed, happy that she was better, even as he hated the sudden hot surge of his maleness that made him want to forget all that she had been through and just roll over and take her.
It would be so easy to slide his legs between hers. So easy to...
"Damn!" The ragged whisper exploded from his lips. Then he let out a sigh heavy with self-disgust. How could he be such an animal when she was weak and defenseless? Though he hated to move her, he didn't trust himself to go on holding her with her body locked so tightly to his.
Carefully he slipped an arm beneath her head and tried to nudge it onto a nearby pillow. He was sliding her body from his, when she moaned softly, and her hands clutched him, clinging gently.
"Hold me," she whispered drowsily in her sleep. "Just hold me."
She nuzzled her face against his clean-shaven cheek, touched his throat with her lips, and he cursed himself for the fiery shaft of desire her kiss instantly caused.
He had sought a child and found a woman. He could have handled a child. The woman seemed bent on handling him, at least, when she was nearly unconscious.
His heart thudded wildly. She lit a fire in him—body and soul. It was agony to hold her and not take her, but, for her sake, he forced himself to endure it.
He stared quietly at her for a long moment, but the fine, delicate beauty of her face merely intensified his torture. Her inky lashes lay against her fair, flawless skin, and he remembered the dark iridescent loveliness of those captivat-ingly slanting eyes. How they had flashed their dislike of him when she'd been gagged and bound, and later, how they'd heated with warmth after she'd let him kiss her.
