Free Hostage of the Hawk by Sandra Marton Page B

‘mountains’ was like calling the horse beneath her a pony. The resemblance was purely accidental. The moon had risen, casting a pale ivory light over the landscape, tipping the tall pines that clung to the steep slopes with silver.
    How far up would they ride? It was probable that a bandit would want to have a hidden stronghold, but this was ridiculous! Only a mountain goat could possibly clamber up this high.
    Suppose her father and the Sultan mounted a rescue mission? Could they make it? No. It was best not to think that way. She had to think positively, had to concentrate on how easily they’d find her. And they would. Of course they would. Khalil wasn’t invincible and his hideout, no matter how it resembled the eyrie of a hawk, would not be impregnable.
    Her father would come for her. He would find her. He would take her back to civilisation, and all this would just be a dream.
    A dream. Joanna yawned. She was tired. Exhausted, really, and the slow, steady gait of the horse, the creak of leather, the jingle of the tiny bells that adorned the bridle, were all having a hypnotic effect. She yawned again, then blinked hard, trying to keep her eyes open. It would be so nice to rest for a few minutes.
    Her head fell back, her cheek brushed lightly against a hard, warm surface. Quickly, she jerked upright.
    â€˜Joanna?’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Are you tired?’
    â€˜No. I’m not.’
    â€˜You must be.’ Khalil lifted his hand to her cheek. ‘Put your head against my shoulder, and sleep for a while.’
    â€˜Don’t be ridiculous! I’d sooner—’
    â€˜Sleep with a camel. Yes, I know.’ He laughed. ‘Just pretend that’s what I am, then, and put your head back and close your eyes.’
    â€˜Please,’ she said coldly, ‘spare me this attempt at solicitude. It doesn’t become you.’
    Khalil sighed. ‘As you wish, Joanna.’
    The horse plodded on, its movements slow and steady. Up, down, up, down...
    Concentrate. Concentrate. Listen to the sounds, to the clatter of the horse’s hooves, to the sigh of the wind through the trees.
    Stay awake! Take deep breaths. Smell the fragrance of pine carried on the night wind, the scent of leather and horse...
    â€˜Dammit, woman, you’re as stubborn as the wild horses of Chamoulya! Stop being such a little fool and get some rest.’
    â€˜I don’t need rest. I don’t need anything. And I especially don’t need your help.’
    â€˜Fine. I’ll remember that.’ He jerked her head back against his shoulder. ‘Now, shut up and stop fidgeting. You’re making Najib nervous, and—’
    â€˜Najib?’
    â€˜My horse. And the last thing I want is for Najib to be nervous on the climb ahead.’
    Najib, she thought giddily. She was making Najib nervous. By heaven, this man was crazy! He had kidnapped her, carried her off to God only knew where without so much as giving a damn if she turned to stone with fright, but he was worried that she was making his horse nervous.
    Joanna’s eyes flickered shut. Still, he was right. It would be stupid to upset the animal on a narrow mountain path. Closing her eyes didn’t mean she’d sleep. She’d let her other senses take over. Yes. That was what she’d do, she’d—she’d think about the coolness of the night air—and the contrasting warmth of Khalil’s arms, think about the softness of his robe on her skin and the contrasting hardness of his thighs, cradling her hips.
    That was the word that best described him. He was hard. Powerful. That was how he felt, holding her—and yet she knew his hands were holding the reins lightly. Still, the black stallion responded readily to his slightest touch, to the press of his heel.
    A woman would respond to him that way, too, Joanna thought drowsily; she would move eagerly to obey him, to pleasure him and to let him pleasure