neared the hidden Berber village—many dwellings carved right into a massive cliff face, making the interiors cavelike and cool in the searing heat of summer, yet easily warmed by fire on freezing winter nights—a lone little figure bulleted down the path toward the procession on skinny little brown legs, one foot tripping over the other in his excitement. “Miss Nikki! Miss Nikki!”
“Solomon!” she cried.
“I told them you would come! Miss Nikki, I told them, and you are here!”
Choking on emotion, Nikki dropped down to her knees as Solomon—all of seven years old—barreled into her chest, skinny little arms wrapping like a limpet around her neck.
She hugged him tight, tears of relief streaming down her face as the Berber tribesmen and Zakir looked on. Then she held him out at arm’s length so she could see his face, hisglistening dark brown eyes, his bright white smile. “You were right, Solomon. How are the others? Did you take good care of everyone?”
He nodded again, pride squaring his skinny little shoulders and burning savagely into his dark eyes—wise, capable beyond his years. “I did my best, Miss Nikki, but they are very sick,” he said in French. “Samira?”
“She cannot walk, Miss Nikki. She is bleeding. The baby, it wants to come. Samira says so.” Solomon’s little hand sought hers, slipping into hers, fingers curling tight, and he tugged. “Come, come bring the medicine. Fix her.”
Nikki felt Zakir’s hand on her shoulder. She glanced up.
His black eyes had turned liquid, mysterious. “Go. I will talk with the Berber sheik.”
She got to her feet, hesitated, recalling the words of Tenzing Gelu.
I want to know everything he says, who he meets with, each name.
Solomon tugged on her hand. The children were her priority. She was going to do whatever was necessary to keep them alive. “Help me with the medicine box, Solomon,” she said, starting toward the camel with supplies.
“Nikki—” Zakir called after her suddenly.
She paused, heart skittering.
He came close, spoke low near her ear, in English. “I am pleased to see there are actual children. That your story is true.”
She swallowed. He was finally beginning to trust her.
And now she would have to betray him.
Chapter 9
T he afternoon light was low, the sun beginning to drop behind the hills. As Nikki bathed Samira’s forehead she wondered what Zakir was doing, how his talks were going.
The image of Gelu’s cold eyes snaked back into her mind, and she shivered slightly. How was she going to get out of this?
A shadow darkened the entrance of the small adobe hut. Nikki stilled, her hand resting on Samira’s hot forehead. She sensed it was Zakir. Guilt reared up inside her, and her pulse began to race.
Slowly she glanced up.
He filled the doorway, a dark silhouette in a black tunic and riding boots, scimitar at his hip, the bejeweled hilt of the jambiya sheathed at his waist catching the fading light.
Her heart began to thud.
“It’s okay,” she whispered softly to Samira. “It’s the king. He’s here to help us.”
Nikki bought a few moments to compose herself bycarefully squeezing out the cloth, saving the precious water droplets in a clay bowl. She stood, wiped her hands on her skirts and approached him. His stillness was unsettling.
He’d resumed his regal stance. Gone was the man she’d glimpsed alone in the mountains.
Zakir stepped back and out the door as Nikki came near, and she followed him into the sunlight. She looked up at his face and was startled by the intensity in his gaze. And again, studying him closely, she saw that the pupil in his left eye was not reacting to the rays of the sun setting behind the peaks.
“I wanted to thank you for being my envoy, Nikki. I misread you. The Berber shepherd has told me how you saved him and brought him back to the village.”
Nikki heard admiration in his voice. Emotion punched so powerfully through her that she had to tighten her jaw, her
“Solomon!” she cried.
“I told them you would come! Miss Nikki, I told them, and you are here!”
Choking on emotion, Nikki dropped down to her knees as Solomon—all of seven years old—barreled into her chest, skinny little arms wrapping like a limpet around her neck.
She hugged him tight, tears of relief streaming down her face as the Berber tribesmen and Zakir looked on. Then she held him out at arm’s length so she could see his face, hisglistening dark brown eyes, his bright white smile. “You were right, Solomon. How are the others? Did you take good care of everyone?”
He nodded again, pride squaring his skinny little shoulders and burning savagely into his dark eyes—wise, capable beyond his years. “I did my best, Miss Nikki, but they are very sick,” he said in French. “Samira?”
“She cannot walk, Miss Nikki. She is bleeding. The baby, it wants to come. Samira says so.” Solomon’s little hand sought hers, slipping into hers, fingers curling tight, and he tugged. “Come, come bring the medicine. Fix her.”
Nikki felt Zakir’s hand on her shoulder. She glanced up.
His black eyes had turned liquid, mysterious. “Go. I will talk with the Berber sheik.”
She got to her feet, hesitated, recalling the words of Tenzing Gelu.
I want to know everything he says, who he meets with, each name.
Solomon tugged on her hand. The children were her priority. She was going to do whatever was necessary to keep them alive. “Help me with the medicine box, Solomon,” she said, starting toward the camel with supplies.
“Nikki—” Zakir called after her suddenly.
She paused, heart skittering.
He came close, spoke low near her ear, in English. “I am pleased to see there are actual children. That your story is true.”
She swallowed. He was finally beginning to trust her.
And now she would have to betray him.
Chapter 9
T he afternoon light was low, the sun beginning to drop behind the hills. As Nikki bathed Samira’s forehead she wondered what Zakir was doing, how his talks were going.
The image of Gelu’s cold eyes snaked back into her mind, and she shivered slightly. How was she going to get out of this?
A shadow darkened the entrance of the small adobe hut. Nikki stilled, her hand resting on Samira’s hot forehead. She sensed it was Zakir. Guilt reared up inside her, and her pulse began to race.
Slowly she glanced up.
He filled the doorway, a dark silhouette in a black tunic and riding boots, scimitar at his hip, the bejeweled hilt of the jambiya sheathed at his waist catching the fading light.
Her heart began to thud.
“It’s okay,” she whispered softly to Samira. “It’s the king. He’s here to help us.”
Nikki bought a few moments to compose herself bycarefully squeezing out the cloth, saving the precious water droplets in a clay bowl. She stood, wiped her hands on her skirts and approached him. His stillness was unsettling.
He’d resumed his regal stance. Gone was the man she’d glimpsed alone in the mountains.
Zakir stepped back and out the door as Nikki came near, and she followed him into the sunlight. She looked up at his face and was startled by the intensity in his gaze. And again, studying him closely, she saw that the pupil in his left eye was not reacting to the rays of the sun setting behind the peaks.
“I wanted to thank you for being my envoy, Nikki. I misread you. The Berber shepherd has told me how you saved him and brought him back to the village.”
Nikki heard admiration in his voice. Emotion punched so powerfully through her that she had to tighten her jaw, her
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