Free Sheik by Connie Mason Page A

exhausted. She closed her eyes, ready to drop off to sleep, when she heard a noise and then a voice whispering into her ear.
    “You are a slave like the rest of us, Berber wench. You may have opened your thighs for our master tonight, but he still brought you back to the stables to sleep. If you had pleased him you would be in the woman’s quarters now, sleeping upon a soft bed.”
    Zara did not recognize the voice; it could be any one of the stable slaves. “Who are you?” The air around her did not stir; her tormentor was gone.
    The next day Zara was given the foulest of chores. Ankle deep in dung, she raked and swept and mucked out the stalls. That night she fell asleep over her dinner, too exhausted to finish her meal. The next day was the same, and the day after that. Fearing the consequences of running into Jamal, she stayed away from the courtyardpool, using water from the well to wash the day’s grime from her face and hands.
    Zara did not like the way Mustafa continued to stare at her, as if she were a sweetmeat and he a starving man. At the end of the third day of back-breaking toil, a stroke of luck placed a weapon in her hand. She was at the well and found a knife someone had left in a basket of fruit. No one was nearby as she quickly snatched it up and hid it within the folds of her
djellaba
. The next day she had reason to be grateful for her good luck.
    Mustafa had been goading her for days, somehow making sure that she was given the hardest and dirtiest chores. When he told her he would take over her work load as well as his own if she would lie with him, she spit in his face. Being shamed by a woman enraged Mustafa. He retaliated instinctively. He backhanded her with his hamlike hand, sending her flying against a stall. Regaining her feet in a crouch, Zara pulled her knife and flew at Mustafa, though he was three times her size.
    Their struggle brought the others running, appalled that Mustafa had deliberately disobeyed Jamal’s orders. Ahmed tried to break up the fight, receiving a cut on his hand for his efforts. Over and over the combatants rolled on the ground. Despite being smaller than Mustafa and a fraction of his weight, Zara was holding her own. Mustafa got in one or two good punches, but Zara wielded her knife with dexterity. Mustafa was bleeding from several small cuts, and Zara’s right cheekbone was swollen and purple.
    Zara did not hear the sound of running footsteps,or the commanding voice issuing crisp orders. She had no idea Jamal was nearby until Mustafa was pulled off her.
    “Master,” Mustafa said, bowing low. “Forgive me.”
    Zara looked up at Jamal from her position on the floor and recoiled in fear. His face was twisted into a mask of rage, terrible to behold. Haroun, his lieutenant, stood beside him, awaiting orders.
    “Take Mustafa to the slave market in Meknes and sell him, Haroun,” Jamal said with quiet menace. “Take him away now, before I kill him myself.”
    “Please, master,” Mustafa begged, “it won’t happen again.”
    “You’re right, Mustafa, it
won’t
happen again.” He turned his back on the slave as Haroun dragged him away. Then he dropped to his knees beside Zara. “Are you all right?”
    Still winded from her fight, Zara merely nodded.
    “What was that all about? It seems I can’t trust you out of my sight.”
    “I’m surprised you need to ask,” Zara said bitterly. She tried to rise but was too shaky. It was then that Jamal saw the bloody knife in her hand.
    “Where in Allah’s name did you get that? Give it to me!”
    Zara handed it to him; it had served its purpose. He helped her to her feet, grimacing when he saw the fresh bruises on her face. The bruises from the sultan’s blows had just begun to fade. Rage welled up in him. Some men enjoyed striking women, but he wasn’t one of them. SeeingZara bruised and battered made him want to kill. Zara might be rash and foolish but she was not lacking in bravery. How much simpler his life