How to Seduce a Sheikh by Marguerite Kaye Page A

examined her.
    Zafar’s hand tightened on his sabre, but it had been a long road, this bloody battle towards a lasting peace, too long and too hard-fought for him to risk such a provocative action now, despite the still-raw horrors the situation invoked. Yet there was something about the woman that drew him. She was perhaps twenty-four or—five, slim in the way some Western women were, her waist narrow, her breasts small. Her face had a remote beauty about it in the sculpted cheekbones and finely drawn brows. In contrast, her lips were full. Despite her terror, it was her determined aloofness, the way she refused to cower or to shrink, that earned his admiration. There was defiance in those surprisingly blue eyes of hers, and courage, too.
    ‘Three thousand.’
    A ripple of excitement greeted Zafar’s bid.
    Two of the three contenders shook their heads, but the third remained in the game. ‘Four thousand,’ he growled.
    Zafar did not recognise the man, but he recognised his intentions. ‘Five.’
    ‘Six thousand.’
    ‘Highness, this is madness. What use can you possibly have for such a scrawny specimen?’
    Zafar, now grimly determined, ignored Firas, who had appeared at his shoulder. ‘Ten thousand for the girl and the men,’ he said.
    An audible gasp greeted this bid. Behind him, his man of business groaned. His opponent hesitated for a painful moment, then he muttered something vicious under his breath and turned away. The slave trader nodded jubilantly. No doubt he would now retire on his profits, but Zafar did not care. He allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. A victory, and bloodless to boot. It was worth every gold coin in his considerable purse to spare this woman. He turned to Firas. ‘Have the men freed from their manacles. Give them food and water, and get the caravan ready.’
    ‘Highness, why?’ Firas expostulated. ‘You could have purchased a herd of prize camels for such a sum.’
    Zafar, who was just beginning to ask himself the same question, eyed his man haughtily. ‘You dare question my judgement?’
    Firas did not flinch. ‘No, Highness. I have no need, for I understand very well why you acted as you did,’ he said quietly.
    ‘Then you should also understand that I will not have that matter discussed.’
    The menace in his voice was unmistakable. Though he allowed Firas much latitude, this was one topic upon which he would not be questioned. His man bowed low and scuttled off to do his master’s bidding.
    * * *
    Colette Beaumarchais pulled the ruins of her bodice around her to cover her nakedness and struggled desperately to hold her shattered nerves together. Nearly two weeks in captivity, snatching sleep in short bursts, acutely aware that at any moment her captors might turn on her, had taken a severe toll. When she realised the brigands had decided not to molest her for fear of reducing her value, her relief had been extremely short-lived. No one who had lived as she had, travelling with the French army across Egypt and Syria, could be ignorant of the fate that awaited a female sold into slavery.
    Leon had been forever warning her of the dangers of straying far from the camp, as had her dear papa. Both her husband and her father were dead now, and for the first time she discovered she was glad of that. They would never know the fate that befell her. Which was not, at least, going to be determined by the evil-looking man who had been defeated at the last minute.
    It made no difference, she told herself. The outcome would still be the same. But surreptitiously eyeing the man who had bought her, she could not suppress the tiniest little surge of relief. That he was rich, she had no doubt, for her basic grasp of Arabic had allowed her to follow the bidding. That he was powerful was also indisputable, for there was an indefinable air of authority about him—not arrogance but confidence. A man used to complete and unquestioning obedience.
    His tunic and the cloak he wore over it,