The Sheikh's Destiny (Harlequin Romance) Read Free Page A

the fever creating needle-pricks of pain beneath his skin, the throbbing pain at his temple…but as he opened his eyes the confusion grew. Surely he was in Africa still? The hut looked African enough with its unglazed windows, and the cooking fire in the centre of the single room; the heat and dust, red dirt not sand, told him he was still in the Dark Continent.
    â€˜Where am I?’ he asked the veiled woman bending over the cooking fire.
    When she turned and limped towards him, he recognised the vortex of his centrifugal confusion: his angel-eyed goddess wasn’t African. The face bending to his was half covered with a veil, but the green-brown eyes that weren’t quite looking in his, gently slanted and surrounded by glowing olive skin, were definitely Arabic. They were so beautiful, and reminded him so much of home, he ached in places she hadn’t disinfected or stitched up.
    Perhaps it was the limp—anyone who climbed into a moving truck would have to hurt themselves; or maybe it was her voice he’d heard in fevered sleep, begging him to be quiet—but he was certain she’d been the one to save his life.
    â€˜You’re in the village of Shellah-Akbar. How are you feeling?’ she asked in Maghreb Arabic, a North African dialect related to his native tongue—haunting him with the familiarity. She was from his region—though she had the strangest accent, an unusual twang. He couldn’t place it.
    Intrigued, he said, ‘I’m well, thank you,’ in Gulf Arabic. His voice was rough against the symphony of hers, like a tiger sitting at the feet of a nightingale.
    Her lashes fluttered down, but not in a flirtatious way; she acted like the shyest virgin in his home city. But she was veiled as a married woman, and working here as the nurse. He remembered her rapping out orders to others in several languages, including Swahili.
    His saviour with the angel eyes was a modern woman, too confident in her orders and sure of her place to be single. Yet she chose to remain veiled, and she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
    She must be married to a doctor here. That had to be it.
    It had been so long since he’d seen a woman behave in this manner he’d almost forgotten its tender reassurance: faithful women did exist. It had been a rare commodity in the racing world, and he’d seen few women that intrigued him in any manner since the accident.
    â€˜Now could you please tell me the truth?’
    The semi-stringent demand made his dreams of gentle, angel-eyed maidens drop and quietly shatter. He looked up, saw her frowning as she inspected his wound. ‘It’s infected,’ she muttered, probing with butterfly fingers. He breathed in the scent of woman and lavender, a combination that somehow touched him deep inside. ‘I’m sorry. I had to cover the sutures with make-up and your hair, and increase your fever so Sh’ellah’s men would believe you had the flu.’
    â€˜I’ve had far worse.’ He saw the self-recrimination in those lovely eyes, heard it in the soft music of her voice. Wanting to see her shine again, he murmured, ‘You were the one who came to the truck. That’s why you’re limping.’
    Slowly she nodded, but the shadows remained.
    â€˜Did you stitch me up?’
    Another nod, curt and filled with self-anger. Strange, but he could almost hear her thoughts, the emotions she tried to hide. It was as if something inside her were singing to him in silence, crying out to be understood.
    Perhaps she was as isolated, as lonely for her people as he was. Why was she here?
    â€˜May I know my saviour’s name?’ he asked, his tone neutral, holding none of the strange tenderness she evoked in him.
    The hesitation was palpable, the indecision. He took pity on her. ‘If your husband…’
    â€˜I have no husband.’ Her words had lost their music; they were curt and cold. She turned from him; moments