The Sheikh's Destiny (Harlequin Romance) by Melissa James

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    â€˜The creek bed’s lined with stones for the next few kilometres. Take these,’ she murmured tersely a few minutes later, flipping some leather gloves back at him. ‘You’ll sweat, but it’s better than leaving a blood trail behind for jackals and dogs to find.’
    â€˜Thanks,’ he muttered back, pulling them on. The skin of his hands had begun to rip, and his clothes were well on their way to becoming shreds, but his hands were the worst. He pulled out a plastic bag from his pack, and shoved it between his T-shirt and the dying jacket to keep his scars from bleeding. If nothing else, it would stop the blood from touching the ground for a few more minutes.
    â€˜Come on,’ she whispered in clear impatience as she crawled on.
    That was the only conversation they had in two hours.
    The sun had risen above the eastern rim of the creek wallbefore she called a halt. ‘We’re only seven or eight kilometres from the village, but this overhang’s the best shelter we’ll find for hours. Let’s eat and get some sleep.’ She leaned against the overhang wall and stretched her back and shoulder muscles with a decadent sigh before rummaging in her backpack.
    Refusing to watch—she was killing him with every shimmering movement of her sweetly curved body, her pretty face—Alim sat beside her and stretched too, over and over to work out the kinks—and he was surprised to find the concussion hadn’t left him revolted by the thought of food as it always had before when he had concussion, after hitting his head in a race. Despite that his brain was banging against his skull and his eyes ached and burned, his stomach welcomed the thought with rumbling growls.
    So he stared when all she handed him was a raisin-nut energy bar.
    â€˜Eat it slowly. It’s all we can afford to use. I’d only saved enough for me to escape with, so half-rations are all we have.’ She surveyed his face, his eyes. ‘You’re in pain. Take a few sips of the willow bark before you sleep.’
    Irritated by her constantly ordering him around, by seeing him as a patient after their gruelling trek, he flipped his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘I’ll sleep it off.’
    â€˜Don’t be stubborn. You’ll be no use tonight if the pain gets worse. You’re less than twenty-four hours from concussion. Take the willow bark, and some ibuprofen with it.’
    She was really beginning to annoy him with her imperious, ‘don’t be stupid’ tone. No woman apart from his mother had ever spoken to him this way. But she was right, so he obeyed the directive, drinking a long swig of the foul medicine with one precious tablet.
    â€˜Go ahead and say it.’ She sounded amused.
    He turned to her, saw the lurking twinkle in her eyes. Therewere smile-creases in her face through the caked-on dirt. And no poetry came to his mind. No woman had ever laughed at him, either, unless he’d made a joke. ‘What?’
    She waved a hand as scratched and cut as his. ‘You know, the whole “don’t boss me around, I’m the man and in control” routine. You’re the big, strong man, and dying to put me in my place. Go on, I can handle it.’ Her teeth flashed in a cracked-mud smile.
    With her words, his ire withered and died. ‘Did it show that much?’ he asked ruefully.
    She nodded, laughing softly, and he was fascinated anew with the rippling sound. If he closed his eyes, he didn’t see the maiden from the bowels of the worst pig-pits, torn and bleeding and coated in mud. She stank; they both did—but he’d rather be here smelling vile beside Hana than in a palace with a princess, because Hana was real, her emotions honest, not hidden because of his station in life. She laughed at him and teased him for his commanding personality, and once the initial annoyance wore off he rather liked it.
    â€˜I have no right to