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

later he heard the tearing sound of a medical pack opening.
    He closed his eyes, cursing himself for not understanding in the first place. It had been so long since he’d dealt with a woman of his faith he’d almost forgotten: only a widow would come here, and one without a family to protect her. So young for such a loss. ‘I’m sorry.’
    With a little half-shrug, she leaned down to his wound. ‘Please lie still. If your wound is to heal—and it has to do that, fast, before Sh’ellah’s men return—I have to clean it again.’
    He should have known she wouldn’t be working on a man in this manner if she was married, unless she’d been married to a Westerner, and then she wouldn’t be veiled.
    The veil suited her, though. The seductive sweep of the sand-hued material over her face and body covered her form in comfort but protected her skin from the stinging dirt and winds without binding her. And the soft swish of the hand-stitched material as she walked—how she moved so beautifully with a limp was unfathomable, but he knew his angel was also his saviour.
    She walks in beauty like the night. Or like a star of the sunrise…
    â€˜Thank you for saving my worthless life, Sahar Thurayya,’ he said, with a bowing motion of his hands, since he couldn’t move his head without ruining her work.
    A brow lifted at the title he’d given her, dawn star , a courtesy name since she refused to give him her true name, but she continued her work without speaking.
    â€˜My name is Alim.’
    To give her that much truth was safe. There were many men named Alim in his country, and courtesy demanded she introduce herself in return.
    â€˜Though dawn star is prettier,’ she said quietly, ‘my name is Hana.’
    Hana meant happiness . ‘I think dawn star is more suited to the woman you’ve become.’
    She didn’t look up from the intricate task of cleaning hair and packed-on make-up from his wound. ‘You’ve known me all of ten minutes, yet you feel qualified to make such a judgement?’
    She was right. Just because she was here, cut off from her own people, and was radiant with all forms of beauty but happiness—she seemed haunted somehow—gave him no right to judge her. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said gravely in the dialect of his homeland.
    â€˜Please stop talking,’ she whispered.
    It was only then that he noticed the fine tremors in her hand. So his mere presence, their shared language, hurt her heart as much as hers did him. He closed his eyes and let her work in peace, breathing in the clean warm air and scent of lavender, a natural disinfectant.
    She still wasn’t risking using the medicines he’d brought, then.
    When she seemed to be almost done with his wound, he murmured, ‘Where’s my truck?’
    â€˜Abdel drove it out to a remote part of the area. The villagers wiped all traces of the tyre tracks from the way in andout of the village. Don’t worry, he’ll hide it well, and will give you exact coordinates so you can get to it when you’re feeling better.’
    â€˜Who am I?’ When she frowned at him, obviously wondering if concussion had given him temporary amnesia, he added, ‘To Sh’ellah’s men, when they came? Who did you say I was?’
    The fingers placing Steri-Strips over his wound trembled for a moment; again her agony of indecision felt like shimmering heat rising in waves from her skin.
    He waited in silence. It seemed the last thing she needed was his voice, his language and accent reminding her of what she no longer had—though he wondered why she wasn’t home with their people. Why his presence hurt her so.
    She put the last Steri-Strip over his wound, and stepped back. ‘When they came, I wore a full burq’a so they’d assume I was married. If they can’t see, there’s less for them to be tempted. You know how