Danger at Dahlkari by Jennifer Wilde

seen. Though deeply tan, his complexion was not the smooth, creamy tan of the Indians, and his features had none of the softness of the race. Could he possibly be an Arab? That’s what he looked like, a savage, virile Arab sheikh with scowling mouth and glowering black-brown eyes.
    â€œDon’t come any closer!” Sally cried.
    â€œI don’t think he means any harm, Sally. I think he wants to help us get to Dahlkari.”
    â€œStand back, ruffian!”
    The man paid no attention to her. He moved toward us in long, brisk strides, seized Sally’s wrist and took the gun out of her hand, slipping it into the waistband of his trousers. Sally was dumbfounded, and her bluster vanished completely, leaving her much too terrified to protest. He stood there in front of us with his legs spread wide apart, his hands resting lightly on his thighs, a towering, intimidating figure in his striped robe and boots. Sally swallowed and seized my hand, gripping it tightly. Some of my own confidence vanished, but I tried to maintain some semblance of composure, knowing it would be an error to show fear. Those dark black-brown eyes glared at us with a fixed intensity, and he seemed to be contemplating exactly what he should do with us.
    â€œMiss Lauren—” Sally began shakily.
    â€œHe’s not a Thug, Sally. I’m convinced of it.” My own voice wasn’t nearly as steady as it had been earlier.
    â€œHe’ll murder us both! Look, he’s leer ing—maybe he intends to rape us first. I’ve never been raped.”
    â€œBe quiet,” I said sharply.
    â€œWe go Dahlkari,” the man said, pronouncing each word slowly and with considerable difficulty. “McAllister soldier pay many rupees.”
    â€œYes, that—that’s right,” I encouraged him. “He does understand, Sally. He’s going to take us to Dahlkari.”
    â€œHe’s not taking me anywhere, thank you. If you think I’m going to go traipsing off with a cold-blooded fiend like this one, you’re out of your mind, Miss Lauren. I know something about men, and this one—why, he’d as soon slit our throats as—”
    â€œBe quiet!” the man growled, parroting my earlier admonishment.
    Sally cut herself short, her lips parted, her eyes wide with fright and bewilderment. With her damp, tangled gold curls and the stained and dusty yellow dress she looked like some wretched waif. I knew I must have looked just as bad. I had put the parasol down earlier when I picked up the canteen, and the sun was merciless on my exposed face.
    â€œWe go,” the man said.
    He pointed toward the horse, and then fastened strong brown fingers around my wrist. Still nervous, I tried to pull back. He gave my wrist a savage tug, causing me to stumble forward, and it was then that Sally flew at him with balled fists, pounding viciously at his chest. The man sighed heavily and gave her a shove, brushing her away as he might have a bothersome gnat. Sally stumbled and fell to the sand on her backside, giving an outraged yell. Ignoring her, he pulled me across the sand to the horse and then lifted me up, swinging me into the saddle with no effort whatsoever, as though I were weightless. Returning to Sally, he pulled her to her feet, and when she tried to hit him again he swung her up over his shoulder like a sack of feed. She kicked and struggled and pounded at his back with her fists, but his face remained utterly impassive as he sauntered back over to the horse.
    â€œUnhand me, you brute!” Sally yelled. I began to suspect that she had not only discovered my cache of novels but had read them as well.
    The man deposited Sally up on the horse behind me, showing no emotion when she seized a handful of raven hair and began to pull it violently. He reached up, caught hold of her wrist and freed himself, giving her a look that caused her to be still instantly. Emitting a little sob, she placed her arms