The Sheikh’s Disobedient Bride(27)

“Yes. West, toward the wadi, sir.”



Tair bit back his oath of impatience and irritation. This Tally was proving to be a great deal of trouble for just one woman. “Thank you,” he said, remaining at his desk where he’d been drafting a document that would eventually be sent to the royal palace in Atiq, to the attention of Malik Nuri, the Sultan of Baraka.



The servant hesitated. “Do you want me to send someone after her?”



“No.”



And the elderly man hesitated even longer—a testament to his inherent goodness. “It wouldn’t be any trouble. We have men to spare at the moment—”



“Not necessary. But thank you.” Tair didn’t even look up.



His man murmured acknowledgment and exited, letting the tent flap fall behind him and it wasn’t until Tair was alone that he glanced up, forehead furrowing with aggravation.



Tally lacked sense even a child would have. Rushing blindly into the desert. Running off with no chance of escape. She must have a death wish. She had to know she couldn’t—wouldn’t—survive even twenty-four hours in the desert unprotected.



Sighing, he leaned back in his chair and stared across the tent to the cushions scattered on the floor.



The whole point of kidnapping a woman and making her yours was that one had effectively bypassed pretense and any ridiculous notions of romance.



Tair didn’t do romance. He didn’t woo or court. He didn’t have time, and even if he did, he wouldn’t anyway. Wooing was for men who lacked confidence in their ability to make a woman adapt, conform, behave. And that had never been Tair’s problem. Women—for better or worse—liked him. Loved him. He didn’t always love back but that was his fault. He didn’t love, didn’t know how to love, not the way women wanted to be loved and yet he’d accepted this flaw in his personality, realizing he had strengths that compensated for his deficiencies.



He was loyal. He was strong. He understood and respected commitment.



He was also wealthy enough, and although scarred—he’d fought in just one too many battles—he wasn’t completely deformed and women so far hadn’t minded the wounds. In fact, women—who would ever understand them?—seemed to like the scars. Made them protective.



Tair snorted to himself. Women made no sense but that was nothing new.



Maybe he’d just have to tie Tally up. She’d hate it but maybe that’s what he needed to do. Tie her to the pole in the center of his tent, keep her tethered like one of the baby goats that tended to wander off if not kept safely roped.



And then picking up his pen, Tair returned to his work, determined to finish his letter before setting off in search of the woman he had decided would be his. Even if she hadn’t accepted it yet.





So this was how she was going to die. An awful, horrible death. Suffocation by sand.



Tally had always feared drowning in the ocean but this would be just as bad. Sliding beneath the surface, buried in a sea of sand. Sand in her eyes, her nose, her mouth. Sand filling her lungs.



Tortured by the thought, Tally struggled, grappling upward but the movement worked against her and she dropped lower, sliding down instead of up. She’d heard that fighting quicksand was a death sentence, but this wasn’t real quicksand, was it? She’d never heard of desert quicksand but one moment she’d been walking and the next the world beneath her gave away.



Shock caused her to kick her legs and down she went lower, the sand completely enclosing the lower half of her body. She’d slipped further down in the hour she’d been trapped.



Don’t panic, she told herself, even as she flailed again, and the flailing just pulled her down deeper, faster.



Come on, Tal, get control. This won’t be pleasant. No need to rush blindly into this. Try at least to savor your last hour of life.



The realization that she was trapped and unable to free herself finally hit home and some of the desperate fight left her. No reason to hurry death along. And she wasn’t sinking anymore. For a moment she just rested there, ribs buried, legs gone, but her arms were still free and she could breathe. That was something.



A big something.



Now all she had to do was stay relaxed and think.



Think.



There’s got to be a way out.



But turning her head, she could see nothing to grab, nothing secure to hold. No way to pull herself out.



She drew a deep breath and felt the sand give and she slipped, not far, just a couple inches, but that was far enough.



To die in quicksand.



No one died in quicksand. People couldn’t die in quicksand. And desert quicksand? Didn’t exist. That was just movie stuff.