CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Sheik leaped off Shaizar and swept into his tent, ignoring the reminding twinge of pain in his leg.

"English?"

There was no answer.

"Ray?"

Silence.

Deciding that Doyle must be with Cambridge, he started to leave but ran into his uncle at the doorway.

"So you have returned, nephew. Abdul tells me there was trouble."

"Nothing we could not manage. Fasik's men were well armed, but imprudent. They chose a poor venue for ambush."

Gaston rushed into the tent, his expression worried. "Monseigneur! They say you are wounded!"

Bodie sighed. "A scratch only, Gaston. It is nearly healed."

"But you must permit m--"

"Not now," Bodie pushed him off impatiently. "Where is Doyle? With Cambridge?"

"Oh, non. Raymond is riding."

Hassid grunted. "To our shame, your devil pet has the run of the camp. One would never know he was a captive. For all the freedom you have given the mongrel, he could as well be an honored guest."

Bodie ignored the comment to speak with Gaston. "Who is with him?"

Surprised, Gaston shrugged. "No one. He rides alone, Monseigneur."

"Alone!" Bodie grabbed his servant's arm roughly. "Why did you permit this, you fool! I left him in your care!"

The Frenchman's eyes widened. "I...I did not think there was a problem, Monseigneur. What is--"

Bodie released him with a curse. "You did not think at all! If he has come to harm, you will regret your carelessness. We saw traces of Fasik's men hardly a day's ride from here."

An expression of horror crossed the valet's face. "Mon Dieu! If Raymond is captured..."

The Sheik regarded him coldly. "Precisely."

Gaston looked more than a trifle ill at the ugly picture that came to his mind. The news of the Sheik's present infatuation with the English boy had spread as rapidly as any other sordid gossip. Passing caravans and traders would have had the situation in Fasik's ear within a week or two of Doyle's arrival. The idea of Raymond in Fasik's vengeful hands was sickening.

"Monseigneur--"

"When did he leave?" Bodie snapped, already moving toward the exit.

Hassid caught his arm and said slyly, "No need to worry, nephew. Your pretty green-eyed cat could well be a spy. The possibility should have occurred to you when he agreed to stay so easily. Why so surprised he rides alone? No doubt he is meeting with our enemies, giving them details of our arms and numbers. An escort would be most inconvenient, would it not? I warned you--"

"Be silent!" Bodie snarled. Sweeping from the tent, he grabbed Shaizar's reins and started to mount when Gaston called out, "Monseigneur, wait!"

He turned and looked in the direction Gaston indicated. Doyle was just in sight, his horse cantering casually toward the oasis.

Bodie closed his eyes tightly for a second, dispelling the horrible visions that had haunted his previous minutes. Praise Allah, Doyle was safe.

Following directly on the heels of relief was a fury so black Shaizar shied away from the odd vibration of his master. The stallion was familiar with the Sheik's quick tempers, but this was different, mixed with something that still smelled sharply of fear. The horse's ears flicked nervously at the nearly inaudible sound of grinding teeth.

As Doyle approached the oasis and spotted the Sheik, his face brightened, and he urged his mount to a faster gait. Pulling up beside the tent, he leaped off and moved eagerly forward.

"You're back! I was--"

"Where have you been?"

Doyle stopped short at the curt tone. "What?"

The blue eyes were cold, but there was fire scorching through the ice. "Why did you ride alone?"

Confused, Doyle stuttered. "I...I've always...what's wrong...?"

The strong jaw set tightly. "Go inside and wait for me."

"Bodie--?"

"Do as I say!"

Doyle started to speak, noted Hassid's smug expression, and thought better of it. "Very well. Gaston, would you see--"

The Frenchman took the reins. "Oui, mon ami."

With a puzzled look at the Sheik, Ray went inside the tent.

"What will you do?" Hassid demanded. "You must force him to confess his treachery!"

Bodie closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "If he has done what you say, it can only be treachery if we believed him to be an ally, Uncle."

Hassid snorted. "And did you not? You have trusted him, despite my warnings."

Bodie opened his eyes but did not deny the accusation. He turned abruptly and entered the tent, his attitude making it clear he wanted no intrusion.

Doyle was standing only a few feet from the entrance, his face flushed, obviously having overheard Hassid's words.

"Bodie, what did he mean? Treachery? Why are you angry with me? What have I done?"

The Sheik stared at him for a moment. "You did not answer me. Why were you riding alone?"

"Why shouldn't I? Gaston was busy with--"

"Did you meet anyone?"

Doyle looked totally baffled. "Meet someone? In the middle of the bloody desert? Who could I meet? For god's sake, what is this all about?"

It was impossible to doubt the sincere, puzzled expression. Bodie rubbed his eyes tiredly. "No. It is not important. It seems my Uncle's qualms are infectious."

Doyle moved closer and reached out tentatively, touching the other man's shoulder. "I'm glad you're back."

"Are you?" Bodie dropped his hand and looked at him fiercely. Before Ray could reply, Bodie grabbed him and kissed him hard, greedily forcing open the startled mouth.

Doyle levered himself free, breathless, eyes wide. "You're still angry. Please, tell me what's wrong--"

"Nothing." Abruptly releasing him, Bodie turned away and went to the door of the tent. "Gaston, I want a bath and food. Now, if you please."

Turning, he said dismissively to Doyle, "I will deal with you later," and swept past him into the bed chamber.

Doyle stood there for a moment, stunned and hurt. Whatever he had tried to tell himself these past few weeks, his spirits had lifted at the sight of the Sheik. He wasn't at all sure of what he felt for Bodie, but he was at least ready to admit that he did have feelings for the man that ran deeper than he would have wanted. And he had even allowed himself to imagine that the emotion was reciprocated to some small degree.

Now he could see what a fool he was -- of no more consequence to Bodie than his other creature comforts ... bath, food and catamite ... in that order. Why had he ever imagined it to be anything deeper? Bodie had laid out the agreement quite clearly from the beginning. It was only his foolish heart that insisted on seeing more.

---

To Doyle's surprise, however, the Sheik was quite charming and even-tempered that evening. If it hadn't been for the new, perplexing glint in the sapphire eyes, Doyle would have relaxed and enjoyed himself.

"Did you find the horses you wanted?"

Bodie sipped his coffee and eyed Doyle over the cup. "A few likely mares, yes. Not as many or as choice as I would have preferred, but they should do. I did, however, bring a present for you?"

"For me?"

Bodie smiled and got up from his cushion. Finding his pack, he retrieved a bottle and returned to sit beside Doyle. "A trader in Bahrain had this and I thought you should like it."

Doyle took out the cork and smelled the contents. "Brandy?"

"A civilized drink, is it not? Try it."

Pouring some into a glass, Doyle sipped it; the taste excellent and very potent. "It's quite good. Would you--" He stopped as the Sheik's eyebrow lifted. "No, of course not. Forgive me, I forgot."

Smiling, Bodie lit a cheroot. "While I obviously do not hold true to many of the tenets of Islam, the ban on alcohol has always seemed wise. A man robbed of control becomes a child again."

Doyle frowned. "But you give it to me?"

"Different cultures, yes? There is no necessity for fostering my belief on others. I am a poor Muslim, but a worse missionary. Enjoy the brandy."

"Thank you." Doyle took larger sip. The flavor was sweetly seductive. He took still another, savoring the taste. It was odd, but he was in Arabia and things were different here.

Satisfied, the Sheik drew deeply on his tobacco, watching the other man through the blue curl of smoke. "And how have you spent your time in my absence? Painting?"

"A little."

A dark eyebrow shot up. "Just `a little'? I was looking forward to viewing your work."

Doyle finished the brandy with a sigh and leaned back on the cushions, feeling relaxed and slightly euphoric. "Were you really? You like my art?"

The Sheik reached out to brush back an errant curl from Doyle's forehead. The gesture was so nearly a caress that Ray shut his eyes and leaned toward it, the whisper touch like cool silk against his suddenly flushed brow. He had missed that touch.

"I am no true judge of art," Bodie said huskily, "and in this instance I am blinded by my appreciation of the artist."

Doyle's eyes flew open to meet the sultry midnight gaze, shaded to violet by the flickering torchlight and the ridiculously long veil of lashes.

"However," Bodie continued, moving closer, "Cambridge seems to feel you have real talent, and I trust his opinion on the subject. May I see your efforts?"

Mesmerized as much by the sensual look as the velvet voice, Doyle couldn't reply.

Bodie smiled, showing perfect white teeth and the hint of a dimple. "Raymond?"

"Oh! I...yes, but...I've only a few pieces..."

The Sheik frowned a little, raising his head. "But I have been away for weeks. I would have thought you had time to--"

"I had other things going," Doyle interjected, trying to sit up. His arms felt strangely weak, and there was a curling warmth in his stomach that made him want to fall back again on the cushions. It had been a long time since he had drank brandy, but this reaction surprised him. The wave of dizziness when he finally managed to sit up was too extreme to be explained by a few sips of alcohol. He rubbed his eyes in an effort to bring vision back into focus.

"Ah yes," Bodie said softly. "Gaston told me he had been teaching you a few of his French tricks. Very charming. Did you enjoy the lessons, English?"

Blinking, Doyle looked at him. "Do you object to my learning how to defend myself?"

Bodie leaned close, pressing him easily back on the silken cushions. "Object? On the contrary, I am very pleased, my pet. But it is not necessary. I always protect what is mine." Methodically, carefully, he removed the other man's spectacles and put them safely to one side.

A surge of resentment swept through Doyle at the words, but the feeling was somehow distanced, almost as if some other person was experiencing the emotion. He couldn't properly take it in and process the feeling at the moment; his senses too occupied with other matters. Like a spiral he kept wondering what he should be thinking and why he should be thinking what he was thinking and why he was thinking it.... And the thoughts faded to pure feeling. The cool softness at his back, the bright orange flicker of the lamps, the sweetly languorous sensation drifting through his bloodstream, making his toes curl with elusive delight. More striking among the soft, amorphous sensations, he was sharply conscious of the press of a hard muscled body along his side, and the heat and implied sensuality of their positions. The Sheik was above him, lean thigh rubbing rhythmically against his groin, one hand pinning Doyle's wrists above his head while the other methodically opened his shirt to bare his chest. For a second Doyle couldn't understand how or when this came to pass; it was as if he had skipped a minute or two.

With a muffled sound of confusion, Doyle tried to free himself. "What...?"

Bodie brought his mouth down to silence his protest, hard at first, then softening to slow licks of his tongue over the quickly accepting lips. "Shhh, pet," Bodie crooned. "Just relax, be easy... Enjoy..."

Out of the haze of sensation came one single burst of clarity. The pure shock of it, like a dash of ice water, gave him the strength to jerk free of the lax hold and push the other man back. "What is this!?"

Bodie grinned down at him ferally. "What do you think, little cat?"

"The brandy...?"

"Contained an opiate, yes. I understand the effects are rather pleasant if not taken to excess."

"Drugged? You drugged me? But why--?"

"I have waited long enough."

Doyle looked at him fuzzily. "What?"

"Surely you understand. We made a bargain, did we not? You agreed to acquiesce to my desires, and I in turn foolishly swore not to hurt you. Although you have held admirably to your side, my part of our agreement was difficult to obtain while you were so tense and resistant. The drug will accomplish both our goals. You will submit to my desire and the pain should be minimal."

Dimly understanding what was happening while feeling himself sliding back down into the uncaring well of pleasure, Doyle tried to move away. "No..."

Bodie's hand caressed the engorged sex through the material of his trousers, then ripped them open, easily popping the buttons. Doyle arched helplessly, reacting to the touch and the sudden ease of constriction.

"No? Surely, you are not refuting our bargain at this late date?"

"No...but not like this...not..."

"Not so you can enjoy it?" Bodie purred. "Oh, I am sure you would prefer being a martyr, my pretty English, but I will not give you that excuse. What I do you will enjoy. And remember. You are mine, English, and I do not choose for you to forget my possession of you. If you hate me, it can only be for forcing you to know your delight in that possession. You want it, I have no doubt of that. Accept it....accept...."

Any further protests were smothered both by Bodie's demanding mouth and the swamping waves of languor that lapped through his veins like sun-warmed honey, sweet and liquid, stealing his will. Vision blurred for a moment, and he wasn't certain if he was carried or floated into the bedchamber, but when he opened his eyes again it was to Bodie's face, intense and flushed with passion, eyes glowing like sapphires lit with pinpoint lights, diamond gold reflections of lamplight -- beautiful. So beautiful...

His head lolled back on the pillows and he smiled dreamily at the ceiling, amazed at the way the silver threads in the fabric glittered and ran liquid in bright sparkling streams as the desert breeze softly moved. Beautiful...

The air on his skin felt cool and pleasing as Bodie undressed him, and he moaned at the intense contrast of warm hands moving over his bare flesh. Every nerve quivered and reacted to the caresses, helpless and eager to respond, his own muscles refusing to answer his request for movement. It was easy to surrender to the feeling, to let all the sensations claim and possess him totally. Oh, this was good. No responsibility, no need for decision, just to feel...to experience...to float in a starry, silky universe of delight. No thought...only sheer pleasure.

The pleasure quickened and intensified, and the silver threads began to change color as his own sensations moved from languid sweetness to passion, nerves tightening like strings of a violin.

Somehow he knew the colors were unreal; born behind his eyes...silver to blue to gold...orange and...now red as the need made him whimper and twist on the silken bed. And somehow he knew it was Bodie changing the colors, working his helpless body as Doyle would paint a canvas, setting his own pace, building the feeling and passion with each stroke, delicate outlines at first, building and filling, slowly concentrating with an artist's intuition on the most vital areas and drawing a focus and center...

The pain was sharp and quick, and Doyle drew in a startled breath, but it was over before it could shatter the sweet enchantment, and the gentle hands and velvet voice soon sucked him back into the vortex of pleasure. There was more pain again...and yet again...but it was muted and softened by the colors that swirled brighter and closer and hotter... fueled by Bodie's words, whispers like silky sand in his ear...so exciting, so dark and dangerous and thrilling... "give me...give me everything". Oh, yes, he could give. That was easy. To give...to give...and then there was a spark of scarlet touched deep inside that made him cry out and quiver with unbearable ecstasy. Never had such a chord been struck...nothing in his life had made him feel so... And then the secret scarlet place was touched again and his useless muscles came alive and he clutched wildly at the broad shoulders above him, digging in his nails and jerking up to the wonderful, incredible pressure, demanding the feeling again...that freezing/ melting/ terrifying instant of total brightness and life...so exquisite one would die just to hold it a second longer...only a second....liquid red and gold and melting him splashing hot and wet inside and out...

And then scarlet faded to black...

---

Doyle opened his eyes and stared up at the roof of the tent, the silver lines of thread looked dull without the lamplight to give them life and sparkle. His head felt muzzy and there was a low throb of pain in his temple. For a long time he lay there, unmoving, staring at the ceiling. He was totally alone and knew he had been for a long time, sensing it was late in the day by the slant of the sunlight against the canvas.

He closed his eyes again, wishing he could sleep more and escape from the reality of the day. It was impossible, of course. His body was stiff and his bladder demanded attention. Beyond that, there was another minor discomfort he had no desire to acknowledge but was impossible to ignore. While physically less painful than his headache, it was infinitely more troubling. Oh, Bodie had been careful enough; even gentle, if one could call such an act gentle in any respect. But like a lock that had been picked, however skillfully, the result could not be forgiven. A theft remained a theft.

What am I complaining about, he thought sullenly, it was part of the bargain, wasn't it? Would I feel better if he'd ripped me apart?

Without notice, a sob escaped and his eyes prickled dangerously. He bit his lip and turned his head on the pillow forcing himself to swallow back the ensuing rush of emotions. He couldn't afford them -- not now. Not ever.

After all, this was the price he had paid for Zachery's life, and he could not regret that, whatever it made him. The fact it had been delayed changed nothing.

A single tear escaped and slid down his cheek, making him admit that it was not for that he mourned.

"Damn you, Bodie!" he pounded his fist into the pillow. "Damn you!"

His fury had no more effect on the pillow than the tear, and the hopelessness of his situation was never more plain. He wasn't even sure what it was he did want. Not that it really mattered. The only time he had even held the illusion his life was his own was those few weeks in Aden with Zachery. Illusion indeed.

Sighing, he sat up on the side of the bed, then winced as the previous night made itself even more apparent. Careful as the Sheik had been, the act was definitely making itself felt. It burned, a raw sensation with no memory of lov--..... with nothing to salve it. Drugged or not, he couldn't have forgotten it. Oh, he remembered it all too well. Foggy and uncertain as it was, there were some things that blazed in his mind...and some feelings he knew he would never be able to forget no matter how much he might wish to.

Gingerly, he stood and made his way to the bath. After relieving himself, he was surprised to notice the canvas tub was filled with water and that it was still only luke warm. He blushed suddenly, realizing that Gaston must have been in the bedchamber earlier and saw that he was beginning to waken. Why he should be embarrassed now he didn't know, except that by the Frenchman's very absence it was obvious he guessed there was something for Doyle to be embarrassed about.

He shook his head. Convoluted thinking. The water was cool because Gaston had seen he was sleeping late and didn't wish to disturb him. Why should it mean more than that?

And what the hell difference did it make? He'd been in the Sheik's bed for weeks. Last night was of significance only to himself. After all, he should be pleased; he had completed his side of the infamous bargain--

The vague nausea suddenly erupted and Doyle fell over the toilet, releasing what little was left in his stomach, then battling with dry heaves until he was weak.

It's the drug, Doyle told himself bleakly, and knew that was only partly true.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still clinging shakily to the commode. "Oh, Bodie...why...?"

"Monsieur Raymond! What is wrong?" Gaston was there suddenly, holding his shoulders, concerned. "You are ill?"

Doyle pulled away and stood. "No...I'm fine. Really, Gaston. I'm all right."

The Frenchman's soft brown eyes surveyed him worriedly. "Non, mon petit. You are ill, I see this." He felt Doyle's forehead, but the younger man pushed him off impatiently.

"Stop fussing." He moved to the bath and stepped inside, settling down in the water gingerly and reaching for the soap.

"The water is cold. I shall fetch some more."

"No," Doyle said sharply. "This is fine. Just give me some privacy, if you please."

Instead, the Frenchman sat down on the edge of the tub and glared at him. "There is something not right, mon ami. You must tell me--"

"Please! If you are my friend, you will leave me alone!" Doyle bit his lip and stared down at the water, feeling ugly and horribly naked at that moment. He couldn't bear to see himself reflected in Gaston's kind, but all-too-knowing eyes.

Gaston touched his bowed head lightly. "Of course, mon petit," he said softly. "But do not be too proud to call me if you have need of me."

The resultant laugh was bitter. "Oh, I am not proud, Gaston. I am not proud at all..."

The Frenchman stared at him, heart catching at the brittle pain in the boy's voice. He started to speak, then realized he had no idea what to say. Instead, he just patted the bent head and left him alone, fury beginning to burn at the obvious cause of the boy's sorrow.

Gaston walked through the bedchamber into the outer room muttering dire curses just as the object of those curses swept into the tent. Hands on his hips, the Frenchman faced him squarely, eyes venomous. "You canaille...you lowest bit of..." from there he waxed poetic in the darkest wharfside French profanity he could summon.

Stunned, the Sheik stopped dead still for a moment, taking it in. Long before Gaston was finished, Bodie's jaw had set into a stubborn, angry line. But he waited until the Frenchman ran out of breath before speaking.

"Well, that is plain enough. What has he been telling you? Or need I ask?"

"Bah! He has told me nothing! But, moi, I have eyes. I can see when someone has been mistreated, no?!"

"Can you indeed? And what, precisely, have you seen?"

There the Frenchman fell silent, for the pain he had seen in Doyle was not something one could point to. There were no marks on the bare body -- not even a bruise. But he wasn't giving up that easily. "You have hurt him in some way. I do not know exactly how or why...but me, I do not like it. He does not deserve such treatment--"

The Sheik's small reserve of patience was exhausted. Gaston stepped back reflexively at the black fury in the other man's expression.

"It is not your concern. If it offends your sensibilities to serve such a monster as myself, you have my leave to go."

Gaston blinked, shocked at the ultimatum. "Go? Monseigneur, you cannot mean this. I served your papa--"

"And my father would never have permitted such insolence!" Bodie snarled. "If you questioned him so, he would have taken a whip to you himself!"

The little Frenchman bowed his head to the truth of that. The Sheik approached him with the menacing tread of a wolf. "If you ever attempt to interfere in my affairs again, Gaston, you will find me even less agreeable than my father. Is that understood?"

Gaston glanced up at him, and for a split second he nearly spoke, but the icy blue eyes froze anything he might have said, and he realized sadly that he had not done Raymond any kind of service by his impulsive outburst. If anything, he had stirred smoldering coals, and all the curses flung on the young Sheik's head he now silently turned on himself. He was a fool. Any hurt done to the boy now, could fairly be laid on his shoulders, too.

"My apologies, Monseigneur," he said quietly. "I did not intend to--"

"Get out," Bodie said coldly.

Helplessly, Gaston complied, praying that Raymond would not suffer for his stupidly pulling the tiger's tail.

Bodie stood there for a moment, clenching his fists and gathering his temper under control. What was this Englishman? Devil or angel? The dichotomy could drive a man mad. Hassid demanded his death for treachery, while Gaston worshipped at his feet. In one ear was poured condemnation for his weakness toward Doyle, and in the other he was cursed for his cruelty. And as for himself...he only knew the Englishman made him uneasy. More than that, he troubled him in a way that was both exciting and deeply disturbing. All those weeks apart, Doyle had become an itch beneath his skin, a gnat that he could not bat out of his attention.

He had more or less successfully blocked the unwanted emotions he had felt for Ray that one unguarded night, deciding that it was nothing more than the attraction of an unattained goal that intrigued him.

But last night he had achieved his goal -- and kept to his damnable unasked for bargain with the perplexing little bastard. Yet, he felt unsatisfied, incomplete. The sexual reward had been fantastic, incredible, perhaps even better than he had dreamed it would be. And yet...there was a nagging sense of...guilt? He pushed the ridiculous thought aside. He had kept the Englishman with him and alive for only one function -- to please him. In a silly moment of weakness he had promised the impossible, and he had done his best to keep his word. What else could there be?

So why was Gaston so upset, no, furious with him? Unless he had hurt Doyle more than he realized.

Bodie stiffened at the thought, an arrow of fear shooting through him. Had he? He had been so cautious, careful of his ridiculous pledge. The drug should've helped that, at least from everything he'd heard. And Ray had seemed.... Of course, at the end he had been so wildly aroused, he hadn't been thinking very clearly ... Ray was so beautiful, so desirable ... but perhaps he had been too demanding...too harsh...

Heart in his throat, Bodie rushed through the curtain to the bedchamber. He paused at the entrance.

Doyle was sitting on the bed, fully clothed, his face buried in his hands. He looked up at the sound, then turned away pointedly.

Hesitant, Bodie moved to stand in front of him. "Are you well, English?"

"Quite," Doyle said flatly, refusing to look at him. "Kind of you to be concerned."

Feeling at a loss, Bodie said carelessly, "Your guardian angel is not happy with me."

Doyle's laugh echoed black with despair. "If I've a guardian angel, he should've been sacked years ago. He's managed a poor job of it."

"I meant Gaston. He seemed to think I abused you in some way."

The green eyes looked up at him dully. "I'm sure you informed him otherwise. You are, after all, the sheik."

Bodie hesitated, forcing himself to be calm and rational. "Are you all right?"

"What do you think?"

Steeling himself, Bodie scowled. "I think you are being absurd. I was there, remember? Do you pretend you did not enjoy it?"

Doyle laughed harshly. "Being drugged and humiliated? How could I not?"

"I promised only that I would not hurt you."

"Is that all you promised?" Doyle stared at him. "Is that all?"

Shaken by the forlorn and bitter expression, Bodie turned away. "What else? I held to my word. You were not in pain."

"Wasn't I? Oh, Bodie..." Doyle swallowed, then straightened his shoulders. "No, you are correct. There was little physical pain."

Bodie glanced back, frowning. "So I did hurt you...?"

Doyle closed his eyes and sighed. He stood and walked away a few paces, turning his back. "No more than was necessary, I'm sure. You kept your promise quite well. Congratulations."

For a second, the Sheik started to reach out to the slumped shoulders, but stopped as Doyle spoke again.

"Just don't do it again...please."

"What?" Bodie bristled. "Our bargain--"

Doyle spun around. "Blast the bargain! I'll keep the bloody bargain! No more drugs. That's all I ask. No more. Don't ever do that to me again!"

Startled by the emotion, Bodie offered, "It was easier for you--"

"No. It was easier for you. That's the real truth, isn't it?"

Bodie opened his mouth to answer, but found he had none. Because now he wasn't sure, and the accusation in Doyle's eyes stung him more than he had imagined possible. It angered him as well.

"Would you rather I had raped you?" he snarled.

The other man smiled sadly. "Didn't you?"

With a curse, the Sheik swept out of the tent.

---

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

If it would have been possible for either of them to answer honestly from the heart, both the Sheik and his captive would have been forced to admit that the next few weeks were the most perplexing and troubling period in their lives. Both were stubbornly determined to hold to their ill-fated bargain, and both were resentful of the secret hunger that made it impossible to do otherwise.

During the day, they avoided each other like lepers, but thought of little else. At night, they came together in a stern determination to prove how much they scorned the other by living up to what their dual natures demanded. Repeatedly the passion thawed the cold in short order, for neither could pretend or fake the heat when their bare flesh met; they quickly discovered the bed made a poor battleground. Knowing that, both would have preferred to avoid it completely, but pride and need brought them back each night, totally unwilling to admit what happened there meant more than the -- incredibly fantastic -- purely sexual understanding they had agreed to at the onset.

If they came to the bed clinging to a token reserve, as time passed it took less and less to lose it. After spending the majority of the day thinking of little else than the other, both burning with resentment and self-righteous anger, they hit the silk sheets with a heat that could only be tempered one way.

Unfortunately, once cooled, it was frost by dawn and solid ice again by breakfast. The remainder of the day was a repeat of the day before -- slow warm, simmer, and boiling point by bedtime.

Viewing the process from the sidelines, Cambridge found the entire situation amusing, but more than a little dangerous. While he could do no more than guess what went on in the privacy of the Sheik's tent at night, his powers of observation were keen, and whether either of them realized it or not, they were both almost indecently eager to retire each night. Honor alone did not require Raymond to be so antsy to finish up a chess game to return to Bodie's tent. And sheer perversity didn't quicken Bodie's breath or make his eyes sparkle with anticipation. Nor could such obsession be explained by something so superficial as physical allure. It was nothing that could be sated or dismissed so easily.

As he watched them, Cambridge began to worry. He knew Bodie was far too volatile to live safely in such a pressure cooker, and he alone sensed that Doyle's outwardly more timid nature masked a temperament only slightly less explosive and in some ways far more dangerous.

Whatever physical release they were finding, emotionally the pressure was increasing on both of them and sooner or later that volcano was destined to erupt.

---

Dissatisfied with the sketch he had been working on, and unwilling to spend any more time under Cambridge's amused and knowing gaze, Doyle sought out a relatively private spot to practice his knife throwing. He was quite good at it now, but as Gaston had pointed out, it was a skill that required constant polish. He didn't mind. In fact, he enjoyed having a harmless way to dispel some of his bottled aggression. Harmless, except to the poor, scarred palm tree.

The blade entered the tree trunk with a loud thunk, a hair's width from where he had aimed it the first three throws. This time he had thrown so hard it was a bit of a tug to work free from where it was buried in the wood. He was angry and didn't know who he was angry with.

Jerking the blade loose, he corrected the thought reluctantly. Oh he knew who all right. He just wasn't so clear on why.

Remembering the previous night was enough to make him throw the knife even harder. One shouldn't feel like that about someone you hated. Not the way he felt last night...and the night before and the night before... Do you kiss a man you hate? Do you love the taste of his tongue? The smell of his sweat? The hard planes of his chest? Was the flavor of his semen something to cherish?

Not easy questions. Not easy feelings. Everything he felt for the Sheik had another edge to it. A side he had no experience to understand. Even the sexual feelings were new to him -- at least the way they were with Bodie.

It was all heat now, no softness, little caution. But he found he liked that as well. It was exciting, dark, hungry. Their time in bed together transformed him into a different person. He had lost his shyness, the last shred of innocence stolen from him, and he no longer cared if or how he responded to the sensuality. How could it matter any more? It was no longer a case of happily giving, but of taking what he could get as well. No less than Bodie, he found pleasure in the swift, semi-violent grappling. Their skill in seeking the other's delight was growing. Almost a contest now...to make the other be first to submit in a wash of pleasure. Oh, not the ultimate act -- that was still for only Bodie to have. But everything else was fair game and gave its own degree of dark power. The running was about even. Both had their moments of silent triumph and their moments of total surrender to the flesh.

It was only ugly when dawn rose and Doyle remembered what was at stake. Whatever he surrendered in the darkness, the light reminded him of who he was and what else he had to lose. He would not give his soul to Bodie, nor his heart. They were the only things he owned, even if of value only to himself, and he hoarded them close, like a miser with his last bits of gold.

But like water on stone, Bodie was wearing him down, because the feelings of the night haunted him; and the memories of Bodie before he went away teased him to believe it could be like that again. It frightened him that he wanted that so much. Just Bodie's kindness, his friendship. To many people it wouldn't be much to ask -- to Doyle it was the world.

That Bodie could be good to him, he didn't doubt. That he could ever love him was a dream he had smothered almost at birth. There was nothing of him to love except perhaps his body, and Bodie had that now. What mattered the rest? Who had ever cared for the rest? Only Zachery. And he was far away and (hopefully) safe. Perhaps Zachery would think of him kindly from time to time.

What scared Doyle the most was knowing how easily he could be bought. Bodie had nearly managed it before by simply being kind to him. There was the night before Bodie had left when Doyle would have given anything, everything freely. Some part of him wanted to love so badly. Anyone, just a person to love and be loved by. A romantic, silly dream. He recognized that now. A crush, a phase; not so much different than his feelings for his tutor, Phillipe -- only (obviously) far more physical.

Luckily, Bodie had rejected that. The drug had made it apparent Bodie didn't want reality either, only fantasy. A facsimile of emotion and feeling. Well, they had that in abundance now. Oh, the passion was real enough. Doyle had never been able to counterfeit that or pretend it didn't exist. But the feelings he held to himself. And he wouldn't feel, he wouldn't love, he wouldn't care -- whatever Bodie did to him. It couldn't be bought or bargained away. He wouldn't change that. He wouldn't!

Doyle threw the knife and missed the tree completely, eyes stinging with tears. Cursing, Doyle wiped his eyes and went to fetch his blade.

A series of shouts from the other side of the oasis where the horses were kept drew his attention. He noticed more people hurrying in that direction from other sections of the camp. Curious, he retrieved his knife and followed, wondering what the attraction was to pull such a crowd from their daily chores.

They were breaking a horse -- or trying to do so with little success. The animal was being held with much difficulty by three men, all finding it treacherous work to remain clear of the lashing hooves and gleaming teeth that sought to savage its captors. Twisting and lunging madly, the stallion needeed only seconds to dislodge the man brave enough to leap into the saddle. It took even quicker footwork to avoid being stomped to death by the stallion's vindictive attack.

There was a primitive fury and passion to the scene that captured Doyle's artist eye -- the dappled shade and light of the oasis, the sheen of sweat rippling on the horse's black coat as it fought for freedom, the strain of muscled brown arms as they struggled to hold the beast, the flowing robes black and white and stark against the shaded sand. Even beyond the visual stimulus, Doyle's adrenaline pumped wildly at the sharp smell of sweat, excitement and fear in the air, the noise of frantic shouts and cries of warning and encouragement.

A voice at Doyle's elbow made him jump. "You have come to watch ze sport, mon ami?"

He glanced at Gaston, then back toward the agitated circle of men. "Sport? What is this?"

"Ah...Monseigneur has decided it is time to finally break Shaitan, the devil. There is much money wagered on who has ze courage and ze skill for such a task."

"Surely there are better methods?"

"Non, mon petit, not for a beast such as Shaitan. He is a rogue, a wild one. Monseigneur captured him some months ago. Not long before you come to us. Beautiful, is he not?"

The animal was certainly that. The sensitive, diamond shaped head denoted intelligence; the wild, flaring eyes did not detract from the crafty manner he used to outwit his captors. The body was not large but heavily muscled in the crest and haunch, indicating he was not a young animal, but one well into maturity.

"He must be five or six years old. Surely it too late to train such a horse -- certainly not without gelding him first."

"But that would defeat Monseigneur's purpose, no? He wishes to breed from him if possible. He covets ze spirit as well as ze lines of the animal. His get would be strong and hardy, with excellent wind and power. Still, he must prove to be manageable to some degree, or his use as stud would be unwise."

"Why?"

"If his madness cannot be tamed, there would be always ze risk colts would inherit such madness. Spirit, it is good; but sooner or later they must learn to accept ze bit, no? It is not expected Shaitan becomes a trusted mount. You are correct; he is far too old to be trained. What must be discovered is whether he can ever be made to feel a man his master. A true rogue animal is far too dangerous to breed."

Intrigued, Doyle watched the tableau unfold before him. He had grown up around horses, watched them bred and trained in England. But never had he seen a truly wild horse, or imagined the savagery and viciousness involved in breaking one.

The stallion was coated with a lather of sweat, and blood ran down its flanks from spurs and whip; the foam from its mouth dripped red where it fought the cut of the bit.

Repelled and fascinated by the sight, Doyle watched and waited for the winner of this raw battle of man and beast.

Two more riders were dispatched with ease -- one with a broken arm and obviously crushed ribs, the other limping badly from a flying hoof that tore his leg open to the bone.

Doyle's enchantment with the scene rapidly switched to revulsion. It was no longer colorful and picturesque, but simply brutal.

"Why don't they stop this?" Doyle demanded, having seen more than enough. "It's pointless. Cruel."

Gaston glanced at him, frowning. "Cruel? Perhaps. Pointless? No, mon fils. You do not understand--"

"You're right!" Doyle snapped. "I don't. It's savage. Barbaric!"

For once, the Frenchman looked offended. "This is not a gentle land, monsieur. It cannot be judged by alien standards."

Doyle was unwilling to relent. "They are the only standards I have, I'm afraid. And this is...sickening."

The next man who mounted the animal was less fortunate than his companions. The horse reared up, higher and higher, over-balancing purposely until he fell backwards on his rider, then squirmed away and leapt to his feet. The man lay still, neck twisted at an awkward angle. He was carried away, limp and unmoving, as several men jumped forward to recapture the trailing ropes.

"Oh my god," Doyle said hoarsely, "he's dead, isn't he?"

Gaston didn't reply, his attention focused on the new rider. The Sheik had strode out into the circle, his expression black.

"He will put a stop to this now, won't he?" Doyle said anxiously. "Enough is enough--"

"Shhh!" Gaston hissed. "Now we will see an end to it of a certainty."

Realizing what was going to happen, Doyle grabbed the Frenchman's arm. "He's not going to try and ride him -- not after he just killed--"

Gaston shrugged him off impatiently, obviously anxious. "As I say, there will be an end to it now. Be silent."

The Sheik stood for a moment, hands on his hips, contemplating the animal as it struggled wildly with the men clinging to the ropes. Clenching his cigarette in his teeth, he flung off his outer robes and headdress until he was down to shirt and breeches. With a harsh laugh, he motioned the men to one side and made a leap for the saddle. The others fell back quickly.

Feeling the new weight on its back, the stallion twisted and bucked, then reared up furiously. The Sheik's fist came down solidly on the horse's head between the laid-back ears. The horse dropped back to all four legs and shook its head dizzily at the blow, then started fighting again, using all the tricks in its repertoire to throw off the parasite on its back. But every time it tried to rear, again the hammer fist would strike. Craftily, the animal tried a different tack, dropping down and rolling over, but the rider was too quick to be caught out, leaping free of the stirrups and then back up on the horse's back as soon as it regained its feet. The animal screamed in outrage and twisted and leapt furiously.

The minutes stretched, measured in a nearly silent battle of muscles and sweat and wits. There was a hush in the audience and the loudest sounds were the pounding of hooves and the tortured breath of man and beast.

Doyle watched, his own breathing quick and shallow, his hands clenched helplessly at the symbolism he saw acted out before his eyes. The Sheik bending a creature to his iron will, ruthlessly determined to win; less interested in the animal's welfare than the use it could be to him once its spirit was crushed. And crush it he would; that was soon obvious. His skill could not be faulted. Even the horse sensed the outcome, and although it still struggled and fought with the last ounce of energy, there was a different gleam in the wild eyes; a flicker of despair.

Surely I am imagining it, Doyle thought, struggling with the panicky sensation in the pit of his stomach. An animal cannot reason in those ways. But as the horse slowly, torturously began to accept its defeat, Doyle's horror grew. It is my spirit I feel being crushed. Robbed of independence and forced to serve a stronger will... What chance do either of us have?

He shut his eyes tightly, denying the thought.

"Raymond," a hand touched his arm. "It is over."

Doyle looked at Gaston blankly. "What?"

"Shaitan, he has surrendered."

"No...oh no..." Doyle's heart contracted, as if it was his own fate sealed. He looked to where the once proud stallion stood in the center of a circle of the cheering tribe, the long neck sunk down toward the disturbed sand, flecked with dark stains of sweat and blood. The horse's sides were heaving, lathered white and red with streaks of blood, legs trembling with exhaustion, everything about him showing he had reached his end, that there was nothing left to do, nowhere left to turn. Astride his back, the Sheik looked tired but triumphant, almost insulting in his acceptance of success.

"Wonderful, is it not?" Gaston said happily.

Doyle glared at him. "Wonderful for whom?" And stalked away.

---

Gaston watched Doyle leave, wondering at his sudden anger, then turned his attention back to the Sheik, who was dismounting the stallion. Bodie spent a long time at the horse's head, stroking it and speaking into the dispirited ear. At last, the animal lifted its head, having caught its breath, but did not pull away from the gentle touch.

Finally, Bodie handed the reins to someone else. "Rub him down if he will let you -- but be cautious, he has not lost all of his spirit. Do not punish him for that. He has earned respect."

Noting the Sheik's slight limp as he turned away, Gaston hurried to him. "Monseigneur is injured?"

Bodie wiped the sweat from his eyes and responded almost absently, "I am fine. How is Sahid?"

Another man answered, "Dead, master."

Bodie shut his eyes tight and dropped his head wearily. "As I thought. May Allah accept his soul. He was a good man." He opened his eyes. "And Mohamar?"

"Merely a broken wrist and two broken ribs. Cambridge is tending him. There is no problem. And Kalee has no worse than a sore rib, it is not cracked. Dahoud's leg will need to be stitched, but is not serious."

"Good. See that they are comfortable, and the first three colts from Shaitan shall belong to Sahid's widow."

The man looked startled, "But she has no children, master! There is no need for such--"

"Those are my orders! See that it is written."

"Yes, my lord."

Gaston followed the Sheik to the well where he doused his head in a pail of cool water and dropped down, exhausted, on the low rock wall bordering the nearby spring. Worried, Gaston sat down beside Bodie and demanded to see to his leg. The Sheik was too weary to argue and permitted the inspection. Eyes widening, Gaston looked up into the too-pale face. "It is not healing as it should, Monseigneur. Why haven't you said--"

Bodie jerked away impatiently. "It is merely a scratch."

"It was always more than that. The cut is not large, but it is deep, and now it is red and inflamed. You have not taken proper care--"

"Oh, leave me be!" Bodie snarled. "Am I a woman to pamper every nick and scrape? It will heal in its own time."

"Not without care," Gaston insisted stubbornly. "It is not like you to ignore something so--"

"I said leave it!" Bodie shouted, standing and pushing the other man away. "There are other matters to consider now. I do not have time for this nonsense."

Gaston remained where he had fallen in the sand, observing Bodie's stride toward the tent, and noting how he favored his left leg even as he tried to conceal the impairment. The Frenchman sat up, considering what he had witnessed and deciding it was time to speak to the only person who held much sway with the Sheik -- Cambridge.

---

Bodie entered the tent, wanting nothing so much as a hot bath and to sleep for ten hours straight. He couldn't remember feeling more weary to the marrow or more dispirited. He had known Sahid since he was a boy, and losing him was painful to his soul. Such accidents had happened before and would happen again, but they were never easy to accept. And accident it was, for Sahid was one of the most talented trainers in the camp, far more skillful than Bodie at breaking horses. The man's death had angered him, true, but not at the animal, at himself. Even if custom forbid it, the risk should have been his alone from the first; it was his decision to try the animal. Nor did he give himself credit for the final success. Sahid and the others had tired the beast before he ever touched the saddle. He felt little triumph now, only sorrow. And his leg hurt abominably. Gaston was right, he should have it seen to. The injury was small, but he knew better than to ignore the possibilities of infection. For some reason he had dismissed the discomfort, expecting it to heal on its own.

Or perhaps he was waiting for Doyle to comment on the injury. He smiled wryly. Small chance of that. Their heated nights together didn't extend to the minute examination below the knee, concentration was a bit higher.

After all, Doyle didn't see him as a vulnerable, easily damaged human, but as an enemy, cold, hard and easily hated. Just as well. That was precisely how he wanted to appear.

Bodie leaned back against the cushions and covered his eyes with his hand, feeling the dull throb of a headache building behind his eyes. All he wanted now was some calm and quiet. A few moments peace to regain his equilibrium.

Hearing the rustle of the curtain, he dropped his hand. Ray was standing against the doorway to the bedchamber. Bodie surveyed him with lazy appreciation, noting how long his hair had grown, touching his shoulders now, streaked copper and gold from the exposure to the sun. The hair was so alive, silky and bright and untamed, tumbling over his forehead to enhance the angry sparkle in the venomous green eyes. Beautiful.

Despite his weariness, Bodie felt himself react to the enchantment. Oh, there was something about this skinny little English. Some magic that made his blood race and his heart sing.

Smiling, Bodie held out his hand for Doyle to join him on the cushions. "Hello, English. What has upset you now?"

Doyle didn't budge, just stared at him with those witchy eyes.

Frowning, Bodie stood, favoring his leg, and moved to Doyle. He reached to touch the smaller man's cheek but Doyle grabbed his wrist, blocking the gesture.

"Your hand is still bloody."

Bodie glanced down, his quick wash at the well had been more cooling than cleansing. The back of his hand was still streaked with dried blood. "Yes, I see." He reached out again, meaning to do no more than hold the other man for a moment before seeking out his bath.

"Don't touch me," Doyle recoiled from the caress.

Startled, Bodie stepped back. "What?"

"It should be plain what I mean -- even to you! I can't bear to have you touch me."

Bodie took a deep breath, the warmth he had felt icing over rapidly. He wasn't in the mood to play games; not today.

"This is becoming tedious, English. Tell me, what have I done on this occasion to bring on your pique?"

"Pique, is it? After the performance I just witnessed, the proper term is loathing."

"Performance? Oh, do you mean the training--"

"Training! Yes, I suppose you might call it that."

The blue eyes narrowed. "Indeed? And what, precisely, revolts your squeamish British stomach more? The smell of blood, or the fact that so little of the blood is mine?"

"Perhaps I am just disgusted by cruelty. To man or animal. Of course, you could never understand that."

It took only a heartbeat for Bodie to assimilate Doyle's words, but all remaining traces of patience vanished in that instant. "Of course not," he said acidly. "I am, after all, a savage."

"Obviously."

Bodie's hand lifted as if to strike him, but Doyle didn't flinch, and instead the Sheik's finger reached out to slide down the flushed cheek. "Permit me a cliche, but you are remarkably beautiful when you are furious. How very fortunate for your continued well being."

Doyle shoved the hand away. "I told you not to touch me, damn you! I despise you and everything you stand for!"

The last thread of restraint snapped in the Sheik. Following his original impulse, he backhanded the other man. "So you hate me? Good. Perhaps it is time I give you reason to hate me."

Doyle sat up slowly from where he had been knocked to the carpet, his glasses lost somewhere among the pillows. He swiped at the blood that trickled from the cut on his lip. "You bastard. You need to beat me, go ahead. Runs in the family, does it?"

Bodie stood over him, dark and menacing. "Beat you? Oh, no, English. There are other ways to prove who is master."

"Bodie--"

"Be silent! We are enemies, you and I. I made the mistake of forgetting that."

"So did I," Doyle snarled.

"At last we agree. Nevertheless...." Again the smile, ruthless and intimidating, but undeniably, damnably beautiful in the dark, perfect countenance. "....you have not, I trust, forgotten our bargain?"

Doyle's eyes widened, then narrowed in contempt. "Damn our bargain! Tonight I shall sleep out here. It makes me ill to even look at you, let alone touch you."

The blue eyes glinted dangerously. "But I want to touch you, English. And you, I think, are not the master here."

Ray looked away, unwilling to spar any longer. It hurt. More than the Sheik could know, it hurt. He needed time to think, to sort out the confusion this man heaped upon him moment by moment. "No, Bodie. I can't do this tonight. I have to think. Please, let me be alone."

Bodie had moved to the other side of the room and sat down, leaning back on the cushions. His harsh laugh startled Doyle a little. "Alone? Since when does a chattel make demands? In case you forget, my pet, I permitted you to live so you could serve me. And you have only one service to render."

"You bastard!"

There was a whirring sound and a solid thump. Bodie looked over to where his hand rested on the cushion. The blade of the knife protruded between his second and third fingers. He lifted his hand, watching the thin trickle of scarlet flow over his palm. He licked at the tiny nick absently as he eyed Doyle. "Gaston told me you were good with a blade, but he did not specify how good. Should I congratulate you on your aim or commiserate with you on your miss?"

"I didn't miss," Doyle snapped. "I meant to draw blood. No more. No less."

Bodie's eyebrow lifted. "Then I strongly suggest that next time you make quite certain I am unable to retaliate. Because your next throw will surely be your last."

"I realize that," Doyle said calmly. "Do you accept the reverse?"

Bodie smiled. "Oh, English, do you have any idea how many people have wanted to kill me?" He pulled the knife from the pillow and tossed it back, haft first.

Doyle caught it easily. "Any number, I should think."

"Quite right." The Sheik rose and walked over, kneeling close. He took Ray's wrist gently, turning the hand that held the knife, pressed the point against his breast and waited. "You had best do it now. You will seldom have a better opportunity."

The green eyes were pure poison. "I abhor easy targets." Doyle jerked free of the hold and the blade was thrown with deadly accuracy at the swirling center of the black and silver tapestry.

The Sheik bared his white teeth in a shark smile. "Yes, an excellent eye, even without your spectacles. Impressive. But do you really believe you can succeed where so many others have failed?"

"More pity to them."

"But they are with Allah now and have no need of our pity. I, however, am still tied to earth and you, English, are my houri until I reach that sainted paradise...or tire of you." He moved closer, fingers combing sensuously into the heavy curls at the base of Doyle's neck.

Despite himself, Doyle's breath quickened at the sensual voice and the ripple of cat-like pleasure at nails brushing his scalp. Angry and embarrassed at his body's instinctive response, he pulled away. "No, I told you, not tonight. Leave me alone, damn you!"

Almost effortlessly, the Sheik dragged him back and pushed him down on the carpet, pinning his arms. "Unless memory fails, our bargain was willing acceptance. Are you changing the rules, English? How does it go? `All bets off'? Is that really what you want?"

Feeling the heavier weight and the punishing grip on his wrists, Doyle knew it was useless to struggle. Especially when his own traitorous body was reacting against his will; it remembered only the gratification involved in close proximity with this man. His helpless arousal had to be apparent to both of them. But his mind was still his own, and he wasn't surrendering this easily.

"Take your hands off me, you bastard! I hate you and everything about you!"

The Sheik smiled down at him wolfishly, rubbing his own hardness against the other. "Do you, indeed? But we have both learned to relish this kind of hatred, have we not?"

Somehow, surprising even himself, Doyle managed to free one hand and strike out.

Stunned by the action far more than the blow, Bodie sat back. His nose was bleeding a little and he wiped it away, staring at the blood in a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

"The cat truly has claws. That's twice you've drawn blood from me today. You are tempting fate, English. I warn you, my patience has limits."

Doyle hadn't been sure if he intended to fight or not. All he wanted was time to himself to think. But Bodie was refusing to grant him that, was moving in again with grim determination.

Doyle slid back, trying to fend him off with caustic words. "Aren't you going to drug me again? Isn't that easier for you?"

The vicious smile deepened. "Oh, I do not think that will be necessary. You are hardly a tender virgin anymore, are you? Get up."

Doyle stood. Despair was swamping what remained of his anger. It couldn't be like this, not now. Whatever else had happened between them, there had never been this bitter, ugly wall. No true violence. He was sure Bodie hadn't meant to hit him and he had certainly never expected to throw the knife or strike Bodie. He had never intended to open that dangerous gate. Now that it had begun, he was afraid. Not just for himself, for both of them, because he sensed the blackness in himself, the buried resentment that was waiting for the right spark to ignite. "Bodie, please don't--"

Bodie grabbed him and crushed him in an ungiving embrace, taking the other's mouth in a way that was as much an assault as a kiss. Seconds later, he released Doyle only to drag him into the bedchamber and throw him unceremoniously across the bed.

"Undress," was the callous order as the Sheik stripped off his own clothing.

Doyle lay frozen, totally unprepared for that tone in the voice. He should have been; he had heard it before. But it had never been directed at him. Passion, impatience, even anger he had heard before; but never this chilled, heartless command. Strangely enough, it didn't frighten him at all, it infuriated him. This wasn't the Bodie he knew. Even the cold war of the previous weeks had not produced such bitterness. He recognized that the escalation was partly his own fault, that he had pushed it from the moment Bodie arrived. But he refused to accept the blame, because Bodie had been pushing him from the very beginning. From that day at the well in Aden. So arrogant, so sure of himself. Too sure.

Naked, Bodie approached the bed. Doyle felt as much trapped by the burning eyes as by his situation. Like the wild horse, he felt the cut of the bit, the sting of the spurs and knew he had taken enough -- more than enough. The spark was here now, flaring. Enough. Rebelling suddenly, he spat squarely in the other man's face.

The Sheik paused, staring down at him with eyes of blue ice and smoldering fire. Both the frost and the flame were so much a part of Bodie, it didn't register at first. The true danger of such a cold, dark fire took a couple of seconds to sink in. And then it was too late.

"Striking me was unwise, English, but not unforgivable," he said quietly, serene as a drifting leaf in the eye of a deadly storm.

Very slowly he straightened to wipe the spittle from his cheek. "But that, my pet, was a serious mistake."

---

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The night was very silent; so much so that Doyle wondered how much had been overheard earlier. Enough perhaps that everyone had withdrawn to a discreetly safe distance from the tent. He remembered screaming at one point, when the pain was more than he could endure. No one, of course, would have dared to interfere. Doyle had overheard some of the confrontation between Gaston and Bodie two weeks ago, and had been grateful to the Frenchman, but even then he had known it was hopeless. Cambridge had warned him at the beginning that the Sheik held total power here and brooked no interference. Yet his total aloneness hadn't seemed so real or so unbearable until now.

A single lamp sputtered, low on fuel, hissing and crackling noticeably in the hushed air. In the dim flicker of light he could see the man beside him. He edged away to watch him as he slept, waiting for the resentment to grow; the seeds so purposely planted by the sleeper to sprout and flower into violence. Bodie had wanted to be hated and had succeeded wonderfully. God help him, right now, he did hate Bodie. Enough to...

His mind sought the image of the knife embedded in the tapestry in the adjoining room. Enough to take that knife and use it. Or either of the two carefully honed razors in the bath. He could do it now; it wouldn't be difficult. The throat was open and unprotected. One quick slice up toward the ear, and it would be over. His hand wiped reflexively on the sheet at the phantom feel of the warm spill of blood.

But he wouldn't, he couldn't. Beyond the outrage and resentment there was still something more. Perhaps the unwillingness to kill everything good about himself. Perhaps simply the instinctive knowledge that Bodie was in some strange way more trapped than he.

Doyle sat there for a long time, observing the sleeper, remembering all that had taken place in this bed -- not just that night, but so many other nights.

Still, the anger lived and grew, burning in him, choking him, pulling his hand into a fist as if to strike out and deliver some small degree of the pain he had experienced. Oh, Bodie had hurt him. Not just the bruises and bites and deeper aching invasion, but pain in a place the Sheik had never known he had reached -- his heart. The damage there went beyond the physical, and that pain was choking him, smothering him. He was sick with it.

He had to leave, get away. Forget his bargain, break his agreement. It didn't matter now. What was that against his desire for murder? And he would kill Bodie, he knew that. There were limits to his passiveness, to his ability to accept abuse, and the Sheik had crossed that border. He was dimly aware that the boy he had been only a few months earlier might have taken such use, head bowed, submissive, as if it were his due. But that boy was gone now. A few short months had forged the natural iron in him to steel. There were some things a man could not accept -- bargain or no bargain. For the first time in his life he knew he was capable, and even hungry, to take another life. Revenge was an ugly word in any language.

He must leave or kill Bodie. And he could not -- quite -- bring himself to do that. Not yet.

Better to leave now before the temptation proved too great. For his own sake as much as Bodie's.

It was embarrassingly easy to make his escape. Obviously no one had expected the attempt. That, too, was insulting and cemented his resolve to stone, determined to show them all he was more than they had thought, more than a sheik's toy. He stole a waterskin and bread and circled the oasis to the horses, called the mare with a familiar soft whistle. At this point, the idea of theft was not of primary importance. Putting distance and time between them seemed far more vital. He was terrified of what he would do to Bodie, and ultimately what that would do to his soul.

---

The Sheik rolled over in the bed, sensing he was alone even before his arm touched the empty sheet. He lay there for a second, fuming. Naturally the English had raced off to whimper on Cambridge's shoulder -- or Gaston's. The little devil had both fools so blinded they couldn't see the cunning behind those wide, oh-so-innocent green eyes. But he knew, and he'd made an end to the softness last night. No more catering to a sweet face and deceptive manner. Doyle pushed him too far; his insolence had been beyond bearing. The situation would be different now.

Strangely enough, the concept didn't appeal to him as much as it should have done. Instead, Bodie felt empty and vacant inside; sensing the loss of something he had hardly touched and never possessed.

Dismissing the disquiet feeling, he got up, wincing a bit at his own bruises and scratches -- Ray was more formidable than expected -- bathed and dressed, ignoring Gaston's silent disapproval. Obviously he was to be a villain in his own tent, so be it. Better that than to let the saucy little cat have free rein. A man had to be firm in his own household, didn't he? If the previous night had been excessive, it only made up for his earlier laxness. Everything would be proper now. Stricter, more straightforward. And he could afford to be ...kind... now that his rule was clear.

Cheered by the thought, he stood and stretched his muscles, ignoring the persistent ache in his leg. Kind to Doyle...gentle. That was a pleasant thought for it evoked sweet memories. The English responded so well to kindness; like a desert bud opening after a rare and precious shower.

Truth be told, he wanted that -- needed that. He wished it could be like before. Yearned for that gentle smile and the shyly happy gleam to those emerald eyes. The boy had a great capacity for happiness. It took so little to make him content. He would give him anything, everything to make Ray happy. Because after last night, he knew he could not bear to lose him.

He paused a moment, remembering the previous night. Some black memory took him and he sat back down abruptly, covering his face. Red and black. So much red....

He lay back on the bed, suddenly nauseous. Rape. It had been rape, and that thought had always turned his stomach. Oh Allah, had he really...?

No. It wasn't the same. Last night was....different. He was harsh, perhaps, but he would make it up to Ray. Jewels, gold, silks, horses, whatever he desired. He would make Ray happy somehow. He would never hurt him again. Would never let himself be goaded again. However necessary, such extreme reaction would not be repeated. He would find another way.

He wanted...

Red and black.

Disaster. Bodie sat up and shook himself mentally. He must control his wayward thoughts and accept what was safe. If that meant keeping his distance from Doyle -- except at night -- then that was what he must do. The only alternative was losing those nights completely and Bodie knew he couldn't do that. Not just yet. The pleasure was too intense, too perfect to throw away.

He had no appetite for breakfast; in fact, the thought of food turned his stomach. It was unusual for him, but he put it down to the heat. He was sweating already and the sun had hardly been up an hour.

Instead of going to the horses as was his normal routine, he detoured to Cambridge's tent. Not that he intended to make amends for the night before, of course, but he wanted to measure the level of damage done to their strange relationship -- and to Doyle himself, although Bodie hesitated to admit his concern on that matter.

Cambridge looked startled at the question. "Raymond? No, I haven't seen him since yesterday morning actually."

Bodie straightened, a shiver of unease racing up his spine. "Are you sure? Where could he be but here?"

Cambridge put down his pen and stood. "Bodie, you look terrible. Are you quite all right? Gaston was telling me the wound in your leg is not healing properly."

Holding onto the doorpost, Bodie fought a bout of dizziness. "I am fine. You are certain you have not seen Ra--Doyle?"

"No. I've been meaning to talk to you about Raymond, however. Bodie, have you never considered what you have done to the lad? I have held my tongue for a long time, but I think you--"

"I don't have time for this," Bodie interrupted. "If you haven't seen him, where has he gone?"

Belatedly understanding what Bodie was saying, the older man paled. "Are you saying he's not in the camp? That you can't find him at all?" He closed his eyes and shook his head, pained. "Dear God, is it happening again? Running from you?" He opened his eyes and regarded the Sheik darkly. "Have you learned nothing from the past? Are you really such a fool?"

"We do not know he has fled. Perhaps, he simply went riding..." But he trailed off, hearing the half-desperate sound of his own voice and seeing on Cambridge's face that he heard it as well.

"You don't believe that. He has run from you."

The breath left Bodie's lungs and the leaden weight in his stomach revealed the truth. Still, he couldn't accept. "He gave me his word..."

"Under duress," Cambridge reminded him brutally. "For the life of his friend. Yet he is a man of honor, I know this. So do you. What have you done to break this bond?"

Feeling defensive, Bodie snapped, "I merely taught him his place."

"I see. And what form did this lesson take?"

Bodie didn't answer.

Cambridge took a step forward and stopped. "Did you hurt him, Bodie? Did you?"

"I was provoked," Bodie retorted stubbornly.

"That's a poor reason, not an excuse."

Bristling, Bodie snarled, "A sheik of the Jafarr needs no excuse for his actions!"

Cambridge shut his eyes tightly. "Then you did hurt him. I had hoped... Oh, Bodie, what have you done?"

"I--" Bodie's voice faltered, reliving the violence, the cries echoing in his memory. You will never fear this bed. His own words mocked him, the lie sickened him. Whatever he had intended, he had hurt Doyle, used him viciously and turned his promise to ashes.

He let out his breath in a sigh. "I must find him. He cannot survive in the desert alone."

Before the Sheik could leave, Cambridge caught his arm. "And when you find him, what then?"

But Bodie pulled free and swept from the tent. Cambridge sat down tiredly and buried his head in his arms.

"Remember, my son. Please remember and take a different path."

---

Jasmine had long since played out, and they were walking now as the sun rose high in the morning sky. Doyle held the reins loosely in his hand as he plodded through the sand on foot. He had taken a bearing on their direction, but had purposely veered from the obvious route. By dawn the Sheik would have noticed his absence and started the chase. The odds were against out-running his trackers, but there was a chance he could outwit them. Instead of making directly for Aden, Doyle had chosen a different route, taking into account the oasis on one of Cambridge's maps. He calculated it would take him nearly a week to reach Aden on this route, but it would be more difficult for possible pursuers. If Bodie bothered to pursue him.

He had only enough bread for three days at most, and water for two. But he had learned a few things living in the desert these months, and he thought he could survive with luck. Suicide wasn't high on his agenda; although at the age of eighteen it was never ruled out entirely. It was still a romantic notion that wavered like a mirage in the back of his mind (and wouldn't he be sorry!). Life, however, still held a stronger attraction. He had no intention of dying out here if he could prevent it. Concentrating on reaching the first oasis, he blocked everything else from his mind.

By late afternoon, he was considerably wilted and had already depleted what he had figured was a two-day supply of water, sharing it with the lagging mare. When he spotted the shadowed hollow of the oasis, he whooped for joy and ran to it, leaving Jasmine to follow. It was small, only a dozen palms and a tiny pool of water, but Doyle wasn't complaining. He lay on his belly and gulped up the water thirstily with the muzzle of the horse sucking it up inches away.

Afterwards, he took off the saddle and chopped some palm leaves for Jasmine. She nudged them disapprovingly.

"Listen, love, I know you've been used to pampering, but until we get to Aden, this is the best I can do."

The horse snorted and wandered away, disgruntled. Doyle lay back in the sand, feeling much the same. He wasn't hungry yet, but he knew he would be. It should be a novel experience for he had never been truly hungry in his life. He tried to dredge up a fear of it, but came up at a loss. Having no experience, he didn't know what to expect. With the optimism of the very young, he dismissed the entire subject.

Thirst, however, he understood, and worried the problem for a time, realizing he hadn't brought enough waterskins to comfortably take him and Jasmine to the next oasis. He would have to be more careful on the next leg of the journey. Experience was the best teacher of all.

Propped against a palm tree as Jasmine rolled in the sand nearby, he watched the sunset and wondered what Bodie was doing in his absence. With night came a cold he was only vaguely familiar with, his previous nights having been spent in comfortable tents, first with Zachery and then later at the encampment. And usually enfolded in the Sheik's warm embrace...

He pulled his single thin blanket around him and burrowed deeper in the sand, trying to block the memory. He reminded himself firmly of why he had left, but for every painful image, a dozen sweet ones slipped past his defenses...Bodie smiling, a gentle hand cupping his cheek...the warm sound of his laughter....

No! The man was a savage, a monster. Heartless, cruel, unfeeling. He labeled the Sheik with a succession of hard names, all of which were quite accurate. None explained nor dismissed the other things he was. Yet those, too, were real and too strong for even anger to burn away. A tender touch, a thoughtful gesture, an insightful comment, eyes like a moon-bright midnight and lashes like a fringe of black velvet, skin like cream silk...

All the turbulent, unclassified feeling he had for the Sheik welled up and spilled over into the tears he had denied himself before. He saw it then for what it was, as much as he had tried to mask it with duty and obligation.

He loved Bodie.

Doyle wiped his wet face furiously, cursing the other man for making him feel such forbidden things. "Damn you! Damn you to hell!"

Honesty, however, forced him to turn his anger and disgust where it rightly belonged -- on himself. What must he be that he could love the man who had held him captive? Who had used him thoughtlessly for his pleasure time and again? Who had brutally raped him less than twenty-four hours past?

Yet up to a day ago, the Sheik had held to his part of their bargain almost religiously. He had promised nothing more than to take Zachery to safety. The second promise -- never to hurt him -had never been a thing Doyle had thought to ask, certain such a relationship necessitated pain and humiliation. Yet it had been offered freely by the Sheik to calm him and ease his fears. Certainly not the action of a sadist. And Doyle doubted if Bodie had derived much pleasure from the act of rape; fury had driven him, not lust. It could hardly compare to so many other nights in that bed.

He closed his eyes, recalling his own cruel words, his viciousness, purposefully needling Bodie to the limit and past it, perhaps unconsciously hoping for some final blow, for some reason to run from him, seeing Bodie's strained expression, the tortured, furious blue eyes. He had succeeded in his quest. Bodie had exploded, pushed beyond endurance. But there had been no hint of satisfaction in Bodie either before or after the attack. Only a blackness, a secret pain Doyle had been too hurt himself to acknowledge or accept at the time.

Doyle slammed his fist into the sand. What was this? Was he now making excuses for his rapist? There was no excuse! Such a brutal act could never be forgiven!

But was Bodie himself unforgivable?

How could he love such a man? It hurt to love him, a pain that tore like claws inside him. Love in the romance of his imagination was joyous. The feeling now held little joy, only a need that cut sharp as razors, an aching like homesickness for a touch that should by rights disgust him. Bodie had hurt him -- yet for every pain hadn't there been a thousand shivers of delight on other nights? It excused nothing, but despite the pain, his mind was swamped with memories of gentle pleasure.

Exhausted by the endless treadmill his mind ran, Doyle rolled over and buried his face in his arms, abandoning himself to the realm of dreams.

---

Cambridge looked up as Bodie entered the tent, upset more by the expression on the Sheik's face than his sudden appearance. He was deathly pale and the circles under his eyes were dark with exhaustion. The young man dropped down on the cushions and accepted the coffee thankfully.

"No sign of him?"

"None. If he traveled to Aden, there is no hint of his passage."

"And if he took a different route?"

"He would be mad to try it or..."

"Didn't care?"

The eyes were even more pronounced in the pale face, anguished. "I cannot believe that. Whatever I-- whatever his reason for leaving, he was not suicidal. No. Nor is he stupid."

"But there are other ways, longer but safe if one is cautious."

"No, not safe. The only other route with reasonable water..." He paused. "Ali Fasik's men have been seen in those areas."

"Do you think they are planning something?"

"They always plot and plan. Whether they have strength or not is something else again. It depends on whether the English have furnished the money for arms."

"And if they captured Ray?"

Bodie flinched from the idea. It was impossible to bear.

---

Doyle woke to a sword at his throat. Wisely, he didn't move. The man spoke in Arabic and Doyle understood it enough to reply.

"Doyle...I'm English, yes. Who are you?" Obviously, it wasn't one of Bodie's men, and as the man smiled with broken and blackened teeth, he rapidly regretted that it wasn't. The man lifted his sword, and Doyle tensed, ready to roll to one side and make as much of a fight of it as he could, when a voice called out, halting the arc of the weapon.

Doyle scrambled to his feet as the rest of the band rode into the oasis and dismounted. If he had thought Bodie's men rough and savage, he was now forced to revise his opinion. The sheer smell of this group could unman one -- goats, onions and sweat the most sweet odors they exuded. As the leader approached him, Doyle was even forced to appreciate Uncle Hassid's finer points.

"You English...Doyle English? Jafarr owned?"

It took a moment for him to decipher that and decide what to answer. His own Arabic was still unreliable, but he gave it a try. "I am English, yes. My name is Doyle. I belong to no man."

The Arab glanced at his compatriots and grinned nastily. He grabbed Doyle's curly hair and jerked his head back into a stream of fading sunshine through the palm trees.

Again in Arabic he said, "Green eyes, see? Red hair. It is English boy of Jafarr. Pretty prize, yes? Fasik pay much for."

Doyle eyed his captors and judged that this wasn't the time to break for freedom. They were obviously more eager for reward than causing him harm at the moment, and there were far too many of them to fight. He looked straight into the man's eye and said sharply in Arabic, "Take me to Fasik. I have a deal for him."

The man's eyes narrowed, then he nodded to one of the others. They brought Jasmine around and Doyle mounted, wondering whether he should make a run for it now. Jasmine could probably outdistance them all, but the only oasis within miles was this one, and he didn't have the water to try it. The other horses boxed him in quickly and the idea became moot.

They rode for some time. The sun set and the stars blazed in the black velvet jewelbox of night sky. Doyle's mind wandered as they cantered slowly across the sand, remembering other rides, the clean smell of a man he could never forget, tinged with nothing more offensive than turkish tobacco, horse and the musk of fresh sweat. One learned the difference very quickly in this company. The wind was not brisk, but it was enough to forcibly remind him of his captivity.

When they reached the camp, there were stronger differences. Trash tossed on the sand, tents haphazardly anchored, animals running loose through the living quarters, their waste obvious and potent. True, these were nomads and barbarians, but they bore no relation to the well-kept, almost fastidious encampment he had known for months. Having nothing to compare it with, he had thought the Jafarr camp primitive. Now he knew better. The few people he noticed peering out from the tents or hunching near the fires looked thin and frightened and/or diseased.

The leader growled at him to dismount and forced him at knife point into the largest tent. It was richly furnished, but gaudy and dirty, the hangings smoke-stained, the splendid oriental rugs splotched with spilled food and wine.

"A present, my lord. The plaything of Jafarr."

Doyle blinked, eyes stinging in the smoke of the poorly tended lamps. Assuming this must be the infamous Fasik, he wanted to see him clearly.

The man looked up from his dinner, chin still dripping grease. He was extremely fat. He might have been attractive once, for the bone structure buried in the fleshy face was good, but dissipation had long robbed him of it. What was left was greed and gluttony and lust. And intelligence. For all his apparent sloth, he was not a stupid man at all. And his eyes were still striking, liquidly dark, large and thickly fringed with long, delicate lashes. Brightness gleamed in those dark eyes as he surveyed Doyle shrewdly. His English was almost as unaccented as Bodie's.

"Ah, the little English captive I have heard so much about. I have longed to see what attracted my dearest enemy. He has despised the British so much, I was amazed he chose one for his catamite." He smiled, the teeth incredibly white and even, almost obscenely beautiful in the ravaged, pudgy face. "Then again, how better to degrade what we hate than to use them so? And I see Adu Bodie has not lost his eye for beauty. You are a tasty morsel."

Doyle stiffened. "If you know who I am, you know your ends would be better served to set me free. Sir Melvin favors your position and if you wish help from the British consulate--"

"Bah! Sir Melvin? Like all British his promises are cobwebs, spun to quiet the natives as he sucks out their life blood. The help he offered me was bait while the fat spider runs back home, safe and secure."

It was no more than Doyle had already guessed. Still, it was hard to accept. "You must know we were sent as a decoy for a gold shipment meant for you."

"Forgive me, my friend, but permit me greater knowledge than you on this point. I have heard this story and discovered the truth of it. You were sent to cover his own greed. The gold you speak of lines his own pocket. There was never a shipment to decoy. He kept it for himself with you as the scapegoat. You would die in the desert and no one would know the gold had not been taken by thieves or the Jafarr. Meanwhile Sir Melvin holds a tidy fortune, tax free as you British say. Oh, you are a clever lot."

Doyle remained silent. It was all very plausible. He had suspected something like this since they found the strongbox empty. He wondered now what had happened to Zachery when he returned to Aden. Sir Melvin would not have been at all pleased to have him return, very rightly expecting their murder at the hands of Bodie's people. Then again, Zachery believed their guide had robbed them. And since they were captured by the Sheik, it might fit Sir Melvin's scenario perfectly.

Worry for his friend was rapidly swallowed by concern for his own fate as he was shoved down on the pillows beside Fasik.

Fasik wiped his greasy hands on his robe as he eyed his captive. He gestured toward the guards and they salaamed and left the tent. Doyle sat up but didn't try to move away, sensing that the men were still close outside.

The coal black gaze raked over Doyle greedily. "The rumors about you are true. Green eyes. Very pretty. I can see why Adu Bodie held you so long. What little tricks did he teach you, I wonder?"

"Take me back to Aden and you will be rewarded," Doyle offered. "My family will pay for my safe return."

Fasik laughed. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Your Sir Melvin would no doubt pay more for your silence -- have you not considered that small point? Yes, that is where the reward lies. I am not a fool. And while we wait..." His hand reached out to stroke the tangled curls. "There can be some amusement in your visit. I am not so proud that I cannot use something my enemy has enjoyed. Even if he has cast you off, you are still a lovely piece. Be nice to me and I shall be gentle with you, boy. A man of my years is easily satisfied. Adu Bodie is a young man, hard and cold from all accounts. His use of you must have been trying. You can please me in easier ways. I am not so demanding...at least not at first." He brushed his thumb against Doyle's lower lip. "You have a most beautiful mouth. Demonstrate its talent and your stay with us can be made more pleasant."

Doyle's stomach lurched at the very thought. That last, hurtful night with Bodie seemed a thousand times preferable to anything this man could demand of him.

And the mere thought of Bodie brought with it all the images he had tried to purge from his mind -- the taste and scent and feel of the young Sheik. The love for him rose up like a new sun, and he could do nothing but laugh at Fasik's suggestion. What he had done with Bodie -- good or bad -- was not for anyone else to take. They might very well kill him first, but this was where he drew the line. And this was how the final certainty came. He loved Bodie, for better or worse, and while his anger at him was still keen, what he could endure from Bodie, he would die before accepting at another's hands.

"Bugger off," Doyle said bluntly.

Fasik drew back, surprised. "He did not train you well at all, I see. No matter. Giving pain is amusing as well."

His distaste and contempt for Fasik made him careless, and the man moved much faster than Doyle expected, trapping him under the immense weight, his hands eagerly exploring, brutal and stronger than imagined. For all his fat, there was muscle, too. Not so many years ago, Fasik had been a hard, dangerous man -- the same man who had defeated Bodie's father. Why had he forgotten that? One of the first rules Gaston had taught him was never to underestimate the enemy, and he had made that fatal mistake.

Immediately, Doyle went limp, mind swiftly reviewing the layout of the room and possible weapons, holding back the panic and letting the adrenaline work for rather than against him. Gaston had said `never let them get hold, but if you do, be of a limpness, like death -- a cat will step back to view its catch... and ze smart mouse will wait.'

Wet lips fastened on his neck, and Doyle shuddered but lay still, biding his time as the rough hands pawed at his clothing and stroked his body. He moaned a little and arched up as if to encourage the exploration, and Fasik chuckled.

"Perhaps I was wrong. You are well trained. So Adu Bodie likes a pretense of resistance, does he not? Good...very good."

Doyle waited, enduring the sweaty, ugly feel of thick fingers moving up his thigh to his groin, the smell of unwashed flesh making him gag. But the longer he waited, the more difficult it was to breathe, the heavy body crushing his chest. As red sparks danced through his vision, he knew he was close to passing out, and if that happened he was done for.

Reaching out stealthily, exploring blindly past the edge of the cushions, his hand finally grasped something solid. The leverage was poor, so the blow he managed to deliver only stunned Fasik, causing him to grunt and roll away, clutching his head. Doyle dropped the bronze seal and when Fasik growled and sat up, he used one of the tricks Gaston had taught him, kicking the man sharply just beneath the chin.

Making certain his adversary was out cold, Doyle took a moment to regain his breath before silently rifling through the tent for things he would need to make his escape.

He bound and gagged the unconscious sheik, draped the waterskins around his own neck along with a leather bag stuffed with bread and fruit, then, using the stolen knife, he cautiously slashed a small cut at the rear of the tent. Once sure the way was clear, he enlarged the opening enough to slip outside into the darkness. He could hear voices at the front, a grumbled argument and then a laugh. Not far away, he heard the sounds of hooves against the sand and the snort of a horse, answered by a soft whinny.

He would have to pass through several feet of torchlight to reach where the animals were tethered. He had to have a mount; on foot across the sand, he didn't stand a chance. Any horse would do, but there was only one he wanted -- Jasmine. She could easily outrun any other horse here, and she would recognize him. And she was his, a gift from Bodie. He wouldn't leave without her.

It was late and the camp was quiet except for the guards outside Fasik's tent and probably a few sentinels posted around the perimeter. Judging his timing to when the men were engrossed in their gaming, Doyle darted across the open space to the safety of the shadows beyond. He crept soft as a cat past one dozing sentinel obviously set to guard a line of weapons propped on a long rack. He paused, looking them over thoughtfully. From what he had seen of Fasik's band, they were no real threat to Bodie's sharply trained men. And yet, a gun in an idiot's hand could be just as deadly.

Doyle pressed tightly against a palm tree as the guard's snore turned into a cough and he woke, standing and yawning widely. Although the Englishman didn't move a muscle, the man must have sensed the watching eyes, for he stiffened and brought up his weapon, edging forward. Making a swift decision, Doyle stepped out from the shadows and kicked with graceful precision, landing lightly on his feet as the guard went down with no more than a startled umphm. Pleased at his success, Doyle took the time to pour a handful of sand in most of the rifle barrels, taking care to wipe the telltale grains from the bores so the tampering wouldn't be noticed immediately. They would give the bastards a nasty surprise when fired.

He moved on to the horses, approaching slowly so as to not stir them up. He gave a whistle almost under his breath, and a head bobbed up fighting against the rope. Reaching Jasmine, he put his cheek against her velvet muzzle, and murmured to the mare who nudged him lovingly. He released the rope and led her to the edge of the oasis. There were no saddles nearby and he wasn't inclined to linger long enough to find them, reckoning he had pressed his luck already. He slipped up onto Jasmine's bare back and sent her flying across the moonless sand with only the stars to light their way.

---

There was a decision to be made in the long pre-dawn hours after Doyle was comfortable with his escape and reasonably sure they would not catch him easily. He wrestled with the dilemma as Jasmine paced on in no specific route. Doyle could read the stars well enough to have a rough idea of where he was, but it didn't help him decide where he wanted to go. Aden was to the South, Fasik's men to the West, and Bodie to the North. He was traveling Southeast at the moment, but that was mainly because there was a tiny waterhole somewhere in that direction and it seemed logical to make a stop before choosing his final route. It shouldn't be this difficult to make up his mind. In the South was Aden, civilization and freedom. But the North meant Bodie and everything he had fled.

For one of the first times in his young life, there was no one to give him orders or even advice. He was free and reasonably confident that he could make his way back to the city barring another ambush or dismal luck. After that last night in Bodie's tent, he didn't think he owed the Sheik anything more.

Perhaps it was time to stop thinking in terms of debts and payment, and consider giving.

He could think of so many things he wanted to give.

---

"So we attack?"

Bodie didn't look at his uncle's eager face, nor across the expanse of sand to Fasik's encampment. He was too occupied with the increasingly difficult business of simply remaining in the saddle. He wiped the back of his hand over his eyes, ostensibly to brush off sweat, but actually in an attempt to clear the dizziness. His right leg was hot and swollen, pain shooting up his thigh in throbbing rhythm. The sword wound had never healed properly, and in his carelessness he had permitted it to fester. Now, it was infected, poisoning his bloodstream and building a fever that brought beads of sweat to his brow and weakness to his limbs. Gaston had been right -- he was foolish. He knew better than to let an injury go unattended. But he had done so, assuming he would heal as swiftly as he did usually. And now he had no choice. He had to continue, could not afford to relax and spend the time needed to heal. He had to find Ray.

"Nephew! Do we attack?"

Bodie started, amazed that he had momentarily slipped out of focus. "What?"

His uncle looked at him suspiciously. "Are you well? You are not--"

Bodie interrupted tersely. "Why do you think they are here in our territory?"

"Obviously they are scouting our defenses. There are no children in the camp and few women. It is a war camp."

Bodie agreed. "It must be. But why so foolish, unless they have superior arms?"

"Perhaps. Or they could be testing our strength."

"Are you certain Moshen saw Doyle in their possession?"

Hassid eyed him coldly. "Does it matter so much to you? Is it not enough that Fasik has trespassed on our lands?"

Bodie met his eyes coldly.

Hassid surrendered. "Yes, he followed the band for miles. Your pet was with them, bound."

"So it appears he is not the traitor you thought him." Again Hassid was loath to agree, but found no alternative. While Moshen remained at a discreet distance, the Englishman's resistance had been more than evident. Hassid chose to remain silent, however reserving his judgement.

Instead, he said, "If Fasik has him, he has used him. You know his tastes. By this time your pet is not worth salvaging -- if he is alive at all."

Bodie's jaw tightened. "Yes, we attack."

Although this was what Hassid had wanted, it was far from the reason he had hoped for. This English had an unhealthy importance that he had unsuccessfully tried to dampen. He didn't particularly object to the use of the English with the comely green eyes, but only to the liberal freedoms granted with a catamite. Now, he was not pleased that Bodie's reasons for attacking Fasik had more to do with saving or revenging the English boy than the inherited feud between their peoples.

And his nephew did not seem entirely well. Hassid looked him over worriedly, noting the clammy, pale skin and the feverish eyes. His affection was very real and his concern was honest. "My nephew--"

"Now, Hassid," Bodie snarled, eyes red with fury. He lifted his arm and the fighting tribe of Jafarr fell upon the oasis.

There was much smoke and blood and screams of horses and men, but oddly enough, many of the opposition's guns misfired, exploding in the owner's faces. Surprising as it was, it simplified taking possession of the oasis, and limited the casualties on both sides.

Bodie entered the Sheik's tent, sword drawn. Fasik stood facing him, his own sword unsheathed.

"So, at last I meet the whelp of Satan who rules Jafarr."

Bodie cocked his head, amused. "At last, indeed." He had only once before stood face to face with the murderer of his father, and a part of him was horribly disappointed. This was not the brutal monster of his vision, but a fat, dissolute man.

"There are changes in both of us, I would imagine," Fasik said, smiling. "The last glimpse I had of you was of a skinny, light-eyed boy who spit in my eye and tried to bite me as I took the livestock from your father's camps."

"And the man I remember was as worthy of respect as hatred."

"I should have killed you then. As I said, we have both changed, my pretty youth. Years of poverty and defeat can sour a man. We were friends once, your father and I. But his ideas of power did not agree with mine. Still, you may discover I am still worthy of some respect."

"The English captive?" Bodie demanded tersely, not interested in rehearsing the past. "Where is he?"

Fasik's eyebrow lifted. "At last I see your father in you. Such an appreciation of beauty."

Bodie's patience evaporated. "Where is he?"

"A pretty thing, was he not? I cannot fault your taste."

Bodie paused, unable to accept the implication. "We will find him--"

Fasik laughed. "You think so? You had much more than you suspected, my friend. A succubus, indeed." The older man chortled, lifting his greasy hair to display the crimson mark on his temple. "Your lovely little pet was well trained, Adu Bodie. He put up quite a fight before the end."

Bodie's sword dropped, stunned at the other man's matter-of-fact tone. "You...used him?"

"But of course." The fleshy face lit up reminiscently. "How can one regret paradise, yes?"

Images of what Ray must have endured flashed through Bodie's brain, tainted even more by memories of what Ray had recently suffered at his own hands. With a vicious scream the young Sheik leapt at him, hands fastening around the older man's throat.

Fasik fought him. He was stronger and heavier, and now that Bodie had abandoned the sword, the battle was more even. More than Fasik had hoped. When Fasik's weight landed on Bodie's injured leg, twisting and ripping open the festering wound, the young man fell unconscious.

Amazed by his good fortune, Fasik stared down at him. Outside, the battle raged on and would take a while to settle; perhaps even longer before anyone dared breach this tent.

In his hands was the leader of the Jafarr, lying helpless and limp. Fasik smiled. The battle could easily go against him, in fact, it would inevitably do so. As he had told Doyle, he was no fool, and this had never been intended as more than a scouting expedition. It would have remained only that except for this Englishman who had become so strangely important to Bodie. One took chances in life, and sometimes one lost. He was losing now; he knew that.

Now, however, for a brief moment, he had his young enemy in his power. And the man was unquestionably beautiful. The eyes were closed, but the lashes were as long and seductive as any female's. They quivered on the pale cheeks as he moved in his swoon. The face was exquisite, the body young and fresh. Even if he had been robbed of the pleasure the Englishman promised, this was far better. Before died, he would possess the power of this man, if only for a few moments, and the young Sheik would never forget.

Breathing heavily, Fasik began to strip the unconscious body, hungry to feel the soft flesh. Beyond the canvas walls there were screams of pain and outrage, the sound of guns and grunts of men battling hand to hand. Isolated inside was the soft moan of his captive regaining consciousness, as hands stroked over his body.

"Ray..."

The blue eyes flickered open, soft and strangely yielding. Fasik grinned down into the startled eyes. "Ah, so that is how things are. Did you let him take you, this English? How odd. Then you should enjoy being taken by a man who rules--"

Bodie twisted and bucked upwards, fighting the iron hold. Fasik just laughed, careful this time to keep track of roving hands. His superior weight gave him total advantage in this position, the flesh only concealing the hard muscles beneath, and there was little Bodie could do but squirm beneath him.

"Your men may win outside, Adu Bodie. But in here, who will be master? They will kill me after, but once I have planted my seed in you, who will have truly won the battle? You will always remember my dominance. I loved your father. He could have been my ally, my beloved friend, had he chosen, as we were from childhood. You, I now have to enjoy just as I enjoyed your mother. Did you know that I captured her once, when she ran from him? She was so much like you. I seldom remember women, but when I look at you, I see her. That is why your father hated me, why we became enemies. Did he never tell you? We lived in peace until then. I found her after she ran from him. I could not resist her. She was so very lovely, so wild. She fought like a little animal -- just as you fight me now. It was exquisite. After that he swore to destroy me -- over a woman! Impossible! Idiotic, to battle over something so pointless. But he could not live with the thought that I possessed her. He could never forgive me. She was so beautiful, as you are beautiful. And I will take you as I had her.... and your English catamite."

For an endless second, Bodie was filled with panic, unable to grasp what was being said, terrified at the thought of being taken in such a way. Then, suddenly, sickly, he thought of Ray. Is this how he had felt? Helpless against hands on him that he didn't want, useless against a stronger will? Had he done this to Ray? Not only that last, terrible night, but from the very beginning? He found the thought almost as unbearable as his present position. Telling himself it was not the same did not help; in all essentials there was no difference. A loss of choice, robbed of dignity. Ray had tried to tell him that, but he hadn't understood. The last rape had at least honesty to its credit.

As the hands moved over him, Bodie swallowed his nausea and tried to concentrate on putting his confused mind to coordinating his weakened limbs.

Gaston's teachings had not been lost on Bodie after all. Relaxing totally, still feigning grogginess, he waited for an instant of preoccupation and brought his knee up into a brutal disruption of passion. Fasik cried out and belatedly tried to protect his groin. It was enough to enable Bodie to wrench free and turn the tables neatly. His own, rarely used knife, found its way to the fleshy throat.

"Where is the English?"

"I killed him," Fasik snarled, startled and resentful at how easily he had been bested -- again.

The blade pressed deeper. "You lie. Where is he!"

For the first time, fear glinted in the sunken eyes. "He...ran away. Escaped."

The wave of relief was so intense Bodie came close to passing out again. For once his fury was a blessing, anger flaring up again and saving him. "You hurt him?"

"Yes..." He gasped as the knife pressed harder. "No...he ran first..."

"You expect me to believe that, you pig?"

"Believe as you will! He took his horse, disappeared last night... Give me mercy!"

Someone swept inside the tent and Bodie didn't bother to turn, sensing the presence was friendly.

"How goes it?"

"They have surrendered. They say their guns were cursed by the captured green eyes."

Bodie smiled. "Perhaps they were. My father always said that the English seldom make comfortable enemies. He could have been right."

He looked down at the man beneath him, eyes dark and unfeeling. "My father tried to be your friend, but you betrayed him. You say you hurt my mother? And you brag about this? You tried to rape Ray? You ask mercy? You abuse what is mine -- try to abuse me, and you ask for mercy when you offer none? I refuse it."

He slit the Sheik's throat with a butcher's detachment and stood, wiping the blade on an oil-stained tapestry, ignoring the gurgling sound that rapidly stilled.

Swaying a little he demanded, "How many have we lost?" He located his torn shirt and pulled it on.

"Only two, my lord. Asher and Dezri." If he spared a look for the corpse, it was of contempt. "The rats' nest is cleared now. There are no other threats in the desert."

"Very well, we leave now."

"Now?" He looked surprised, having expected to gut the camp entirely. "Surely you don't mean--"

"I said now. Ray...the English is still out there somewhere. I must find--" Bodie broke off suddenly, swaying forward, and his uncle caught him.

"What is it? What is wrong?"

Bodie regained his own legs with difficulty and ran his hand over his sweating brow. "We must find Ray. He will be heading for Aden."

"You are ill, Nephew. You should--"

But Bodie was already leaving the tent and the cooling body of his enemy without a backward glance.

It was Shaizar, some hours later that signaled a halt to the search. The stallion slowed his gait to a canter then a trot and finally came to a careful halt, sensing his master's distress. The Sheik very slowly tumbled from the saddle.

---

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Doyle surveyed the encampment from a safe distance. Even after coming this far, he was unsure of his ultimate course. It was still not too late to break away. While common sense urged him to reject this infatuation and run while he could, another, more powerful force, held him back. He had escaped his captivity, but he was far from free.

The mare made the final decision, scenting the other horses and eager to join them. Doyle smiled and gave Jasmine her head.

He was relieved that the first to greet his entrance into the camp was Gaston.

"Raymond! Mon Dieu! You have returned! You are safe, mon petit!"

Doyle slid down from his horse, a little startled by his friend's pale countenance. "Of course I'm safe. What is it, Gaston? What's wrong?"

The servant swallowed painfully, unable to speak, his dark eyes wide and troubled. "Monseigneur ... the Sheik. He is so very ill--"

Doyle ran to the Sheik's tent without waiting for details. Inside he met Cambridge as he emerged from the bedchamber. His drawn expression implied the seriousness of the situation.

"Cambridge, tell me what's happened."

He looked at Doyle blankly, too burdened with worry to concern himself with the young Englishman's abrupt reappearance. "It's about time you got back. We have an unpleasant night ahead of us, my boy."

"What--?"

"Be silent. I have a nasty task to perform; don't make it more difficult with questions."

Frozen in place, Doyle watched as Cambridge gathered his instruments onto a white cloth, then followed him meekly into the bedchamber.

Bodie was twisting feverishly on the bed. He was awake but obviously delirious. The blue eyes were wide and glassy with his body's burning. He didn't recognize either Cambridge or Doyle.

Ray paused at the entrance, shocked at Bodie's condition. "What has happened? How--?"

"The wound in his leg infected. It is poisoning his blood."

"Like Zack's wound?"

"Far worse than your Zachery."

"But when I left--"

"He was sick even then; it had not reached the critical stage yet. The young fool left it too long."

"What do you mean ... too long?"

"He was searching for you, of course. He wouldn't accept his weakness until he collapsed." There was no censure in the older man's voice, only worry and a dark resignation.

"Looking for me....?" Doyle swallowed painfully. "Please, tell me what I can do?"

"You will have to assist me. Hold him as still as possible."

Eyes wide, Doyle asked hoarsely, "Hold him? What do you mean? What will you do?"

"What I must to save his life."

Observing the instruments Cambridge laid out on the table, Shocked, Doyle's blood turned to ice. "You can't mean to--"

"What else do you suggest?" Cambridge snarled, his own pain and uncertainty apparent.

Gazing at the writhing figure, Doyle had no answer. The man was dying. What was a leg compared to life? But what was life to a man like Bodie maimed?

"English! Ray...Ray!"

Doyle moved forward quickly, kneeling by the bed. "I'm here beside you."

The Sheik's hand reached out and Doyle caught it, trying to soothe the distraught man. "I'm here."

Bodie nearly crushed his hand in his grip. "You can't leave me! I will not permit it!"

"Bodie, I'm here."

The Sheik calmed for a second, then said softly, "I'll lose him ... I'll be alone again."

The bereft look frightened Doyle; it was so unfamiliar and the vulnerability imposed on one so strong was more than he could bear.

"No, no, never, Bodie. I am here."

But the Sheik began tossing again, oblivious to any comfort Doyle could offer.

---

He had never known fog before, but he had imagined it must be much like this, thick and heavy, blurring his vision; a sensation of being lost. The mist swirled in his mind, hot and cold by turns, muffling sounds and sights, then telescoping them with crystal clarity, hurtfully sharp. Time slowed and ceased to exist. Sometimes the pain was the only reality, seizing him in its razored mouth and tearing, shaking him like a lion ripping its prey. Then the pain would ebb and the fog would swallow him down into darkness. The cycle repeated endlessly with only those sudden, incomprehensible bursts of clarity where he could see and hear and almost understand. Could nearly touch the reality beyond the fog.

He heard Cambridge's voice. Saw his troubled face. Felt his comforting hand.

And once he saw Ray.

Ray?

But when he tried to rise, the fog sucked him back down, drawing his strength from him, as merciless as Bram Stoker's vampyre.

And Poe's Raven was there ... tap, tap, tapping....

And the Jabberwock with eyes that bite and teeth that catch....

And then he was lost in Chillion's prison, stumbling through stone dungeons, searching ... searching...

"Bodie, I'm here. I'm here."

He shivered at the sound of Ray's voice, happy Ray was not really in this place. He wouldn't like it here at all. It wasn't a good place. It was scary; dark and hurtful. But Doyle had run from him, escaped. Ray was safe. Not that it mattered. He held the keys, didn't he? He couldn't leave, but he would let Ray free. Wouldn't he? He wouldn't make Ray stay in this prison. It was cold here....and so hot. So lonely. No, he couldn't make Ray stay here in Chillion's prison. But if he let him go, he would be alone again. He didn't think he could bear it.

There were other things in the prison...uglier things. In the darkest, deepest part of the dungeon. He had seen them once.... black and red... and he wouldn't look again. It had something to do with holding Ray, keeping Ray.... He had the key. He knew he had the key. He could let Ray go, couldn't he? Save him.

But if he did, the loneliness would crush him.

To love or not to love, that is the...

He had to question himself. Could he afford to lose his heart? What price would be paid if he gave it away? Who would pay the price? Red and black. It was always there waiting. Someone would pay the price.

How could he bear to lose him?

But if he did keep him, would Ray, like the Prisoner of Chillion, learn to love his chains....?

---

Opening his eyes was strangely difficult. He was so immensely weary that even that tiny effort had to be forced. But the fog was gone. His vision was blurred, clearing rapidly as he blinked. The pain was still with him, like a constant companion, but at least it was confined to his leg again, not engulfing him.

His leg.

The thought brought a bolt of horror. Somewhere back in the fog-laden past he recalled the voices talking ... arguing ... almost shouting ... About him. About--

"No!" he screamed, jerking upright and almost passing out at the resultant flare of agony. Hands caught him, pushed him down.

"Shhh. Lay still, my boy."

Bodie turned his head, gasping. "Cambridge...." His voice sounded rusty, his mouth dry. A cup of water was held to his lips and he drank thirstily, momentarily forgetting his panic. He lay back, more exhausted than he could remember being in all of his life. But the fear returned and he had to ask. Had to know.

"My leg....? Cambridge, tell me...."

"It's all right, son. You're mending now. Slowly, but you're mending, thank god."

Eyes black with dread, he asked hoarsely, "You didn't--"

"No. No, my son. I was going to. God help me, I couldn't see any other way. He stopped me. Now I'm grateful, but at the time .... I was sure we would lose you. Do you understand that? Can you forgive me for that?"

"I am whole?" It was the only thing that mattered, having assumed that the "he" was his uncle.

"Yes. Perfectly."

He shut his eyes in the wash of relief. The next thought intruded automatically, as if waiting urgently for its turn. "Good.... I must look for Ray. I have the keys."

"What?"

He was sinking again, but the fog was no longer dangerous. It was soft and welcoming, restful. "I can't let him go, but I have the keys. There's a way out.... Find him first..."

"Bodie, Raymond is here. Bodie, can you hear me? He came back."

But the effort sapped the last of his strength and he slept.

---

It was a long time before he woke again, and this time Gaston was beside the bed.

"Monseigneur! You are feeling better, no?"

"No," Bodie growled, head and leg both throbbing horribly. Yet he did feel better in some indefinable way. Still horribly weak, but his mind was much clearer.

The Frenchman beamed at him. "Ah, when you snarl like so, me, I know you are mending. You are always the ill-tempered one when you are healing. I have some good soup you must now drink."

Grimacing, the Sheik accepted a spoonful, then another, before pushing it away impatiently. "Where is Cambridge?"

"He sleeps. It is such a struggle I have to make him rest. Almost as insensible about ze necessity as Monsieur Raymond--"

Bodie's eyes had begun to droop closed again. Now they opened wide and focused sharply on the Frenchman. "What did you say?"

"I said--" Gaston paused uncertainly. "Is there something wrong, Monseigneur?"

Almost afraid to ask, Bodie stared at him silently, only his eyes questioning, demanding.

"But surely you remember...." Gaston trailed off. "I did not realize you did not know, Monseigneur. Raymond is--"

"Ra-- The English is here? He is in the camp?"

"He has been here since almost the beginning, Monseigneur. Only a few hours after ... after you fell so ill. For days he sits with you--"

"Who found him?" Bodie demanded coldly. "Who brought him back?"

Gaston seemed offended. "No one. He comes alone. When he finds you are ill, he is so very--"

The Sheik waved him silent. "Where is he now? Is he being guarded?"

The Frenchman's mouth tightened. "Non."

"Then order Abdul to keep watch. If he escapes again, someone shall suffer for their carelessness."

Torn between pampering his injured Sheik and defending his innocent Raymond, Gaston clamped his teeth down on any response. Now was not the time to put forward his own views on the situation. Blandly, he offered, "He has been very worried about you, Monseigneur. Shall I bring him?"

"No!" Bodie answered sharply, his own mind whirling, trying to make sense of it. He returned alone? But why? He needed time to calculate Doyle's game. Noticing Gaston's raised eyebrow, he hedged, "Not now. I am weary. Go now. Let me sleep." Let me think.

"Bodie!"

But there was no time to think. Doyle was there, at the doorway, glowing with delight. "You're awake!"

Their eyes met for one long intense moment. As the tension rose, Doyle's face fell. His gaze shifted nervously, and he flushed pink. "I thought I heard your voice. How are you feeling?"

Bodie considered a dozen possible replies, none having to do with his physical state. Instead, he said mildly, "As you see. Too weak to defend myself against Gaston's horrible soup."

Doyle relaxed a little as the Frenchman protested, "It is not at all horrible soup! It is very good soup."

"It is cold soup," Bodie said pointedly.

Gaston looked thoughtfully from one man to the other. "Quite right, Monseigneur. I shall reheat it." He picked up the tray and hurried out, casting a quick glance of reassurance at Raymond.

Doyle moved closer to the bed, but stopped awkwardly. "I'm pleased to see you better."

The Sheik regarded him without expression.

"Does your leg hurt a great deal?" Doyle inquired uneasily.

"Yes. And if I understand correctly, I have you to thank for it."

Doyle looked startled. "But I--"

"I hardly think you need to apologize for saving my leg. It was you, wasn't it, who stopped Cambridge from amputating?"

"Yes. I ... I couldn't bear ... I mean, I thought you would not ... But, if I had been wrong--" Doyle stumbled over his words, eyes downcast with guilt.

"You were quite right. I would have preferred death. Nevertheless, my survival must be a great disappointment to you."

"I didn't want you to die!" Doyle protested.

Bodie's eyebrow lifted skeptically. "Are you certain of that?"

"Yes!"

Again, their eyes met, remembering in black detail the last time they had been alone together. This time, it was the Sheik who looked away.

"Under the circumstances, I find that difficult to believe." Voice laced heavy with sarcasm, "I have never found the English to be so forgiving."

"No one said anything about forgiveness."

The blue eyes snapped up. "And no one requested it!"

Doyle took a deep breath. "And I am not so foolish as to think you wanted to be forgiven. I know you too well."

Bodie closed his eyes tiredly. "Do you, indeed?"

Surprised, and not a little hopeful, Doyle sat down beside the bed. "Bodie--"

"Your trip in the desert seems to have brought you to no harm," the Sheik cut in coldly. "But I trust you now realize how incredibly stupid you were."

Whatever Doyle had intended to say faded before it reached his tongue. "What do you mean?"

"If you wish to kill yourself, English, there are easier and far less painful methods."

Doyle bristled. "You flatter yourself. For what you did, I wanted to kill you, not myself."

"You had ample opportunity for both," Bodie pointed out.

"And will again in the future," Doyle retorted, goaded beyond patience.

"In either case, permit me to lend you my pistol. It is far more efficient ... for either option."

"Shut up--" Doyle's voice broke and he swallowed painfully. "Just shut up. I don't want to kill anyone, damn you. That's why I had to leave, don't you see?"

Bodie's laugh was ruthless. "And you believe going off into the desert was not suicidal?"

"I can take care of myself."

"You are a fool. That proves my point. You think you know the desert now? There are a dozen deathtraps for every one you think you know, English. You worried about thirst? You would be thankful for that simple need if you ever drank bad water and your belly swelled with cramps and you vomited blood. You worried about sunstroke? Worry more about a sandstorm that rips your skin from your face like ground glass and clogs your nostrils until you suffocate. You worried about losing your way? There are places in the desert where the sand will suck you down like a starving mouth and drown you in minutes--"

"Stop it!" Furious, Doyle stood and glared down at the Sheik. "Are you trying to frighten me? Do you think I came back out of fear? Or that any of that would matter if I wanted to leave? Do you believe anything would stop me? Do you really think I came back because I was afraid? Do you?"

The silence was thick with emotion on both sides, neither ready to admit the truth that unwillingly pushed them to the present moment.

"Why did you return?" Bodie finally demanded, praying the answer would be something he could cope with in his current unsteady condition. Fortunately (or unfortunately), it was.

"We have a bargain," Doyle replied flatly. "I don't break my word." He abruptly turned and left the tent.

"Unlike me," Bodie whispered, fist clenching helplessly, remembering his shattered promise not to hurt Doyle.

If only he'd had some time to think before confronting Doyle, the meeting might have gone very differently. But his fear for the boy's safety had blocked out any softer feelings; the anger at his carelessness with his life uppermost in his mind.

Now all he could think about was how he had hurt Ray. It wouldn't happen again. Never. The private oath seared his mind. Even if it meant never touching him again, he would control his passion. His feelings for Doyle terrified him, they were too intense, far too deep. Avoid the danger --

The argument had taken what little energy he had gained, and he felt himself slide back into darkness, the pain in his leg was as nothing to the pain in his heart.

---

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The young Sheik healed swiftly; within a few days he was strong enough to rise from his bed, in little more than a week he was walking with a crutch -- although cautiously. Before the end of the month he had only a slight limp to remind him of his nearly fatal brush. He was well on his way to forgetting he was ever ill and becoming quite annoyed when Gaston or Cambridge tried to remind him not to overdo.

During his convalescence, he and Doyle reached an uneasy truce that slowly became a comfortable plateau in their strange relationship. Absent the pressure of sexual tension, they oddly enough became friends. Confined at first to his bed and then to his tent, the athletic young sheik would have exploded out of sheer frustration had Doyle not discovered ever new and creative ways to keep him entertained. They read and talked for hours -- their conversation strained at first, but rapidly falling into their previous pattern of give and take, and soon moving on to something even more precious -- companionship.

Doyle worked on his art and even tried to teach Bodie how to draw, to the amusement and chagrin of both, since the Sheik's efforts were less than artistic even by the most indulgent standards. His portrait of Doyle, as the subject pointed out sourly, looked a great deal like a camel with curly red hair.

The Englishman's continued practice at knife throwing soon became quite a competition, with Bodie determined to match Doyle through sheer stubbornness if not natural talent. He never quite succeeded, but came close enough to make it a heated contest.

They played endless games of chess, and Doyle taught him how to play cribbage. Bodie taught Doyle some Arabic and read him passages from the Koran.

During this period, Doyle continued sleeping on a pallet Gaston had fashioned in the outer tent. Neither commented on the new arrangements, nor seemed to notice there was anything different from the old accommodations.

But as the days, then weeks, passed, it was Doyle who became restless. Having expected the Sheik's returning health to include a reinstatement to the inner sanctum, he was relieved at the absence of either an order or an invitation. Expecting the summons daily -- it was the basis for their infamous bargain, after all -- he was torn between reluctance and anticipation.

Then, as time passed, his uneasiness at returning to the Sheik's bed resolved into a puzzled disappointment, followed swiftly by a nagging, secret anxiety. Perhaps Bodie didn't want him anymore. Perhaps he was bored with him.

While that didn't equate with the Sheik's increasing demand on his time, his appreciation of his conversation, or the ever softer expression in the blue eyes, Doyle couldn't fathom Bodie's sudden reticence.

The evenings became an uneasy dance of manners. Once supper was cleared and the lamps lowered, the Sheik metamorphosed into a gentleman of the old school. Asking after his "guest's" comfort before awkwardly retiring with strained haste behind the safety of the dividing curtain.

In the first few weeks, Doyle chalked it up to the obvious -- Bodie's weakness from his illness. That excuse rapidly faded as the Sheik's health blossomed. Nor did it correspond with some of the inadvertent glances Doyle intercepted.

Confused, he lay awake one night on his solitary pallet pondering the significance of everything that had happened to him since he had come to Arabia.

While he had no brilliant flashes of insight into the meaning of life, he was positive of one very pertinent fact. He was sexually aroused and although his tried and true method of solitary relief would still work, it didn't appeal in the least.

He tried to think of Helga.

He tried to think of the pretty street women in Aden.

He tried to think of his ex-tutor, Phillipe.

He tried very hard not to think of the man separated from him by no more than a sheet of silk and canvas.

Infuriated, he called himself a myriad of names for becoming rock hard at even trying not to think of Bodie. What kind of person became stimulated at the thought of their rapist? What did that make him?

But he wasn't thinking of the rape. He was thinking of all the other times. And they wouldn't go away. Too many times. All so gentle, so sensual, so filled with unforgettable pleasures.

The pain of the rape would never be erased, but the balance was hopelessly tipping in favor of the other times. And despite his determination, the horror did fade. Perhaps because he knew it was not the true Bodie that inflicted it. A part of him, yes. A dark, ugly element that might exist in anyone if pushed to the extreme. Given Bodie's background and culture, his actions were not even particularly unusual. In fact, his previous forbearance with his captive was unexpected.

But it was still rape, whatever the excuses, whatever the provocation. And Doyle reluctantly admitted there had been some provocation. Acting on it was the sin, and having acted on it, the eternal question remained of whether the sinner was ever to be forgiven his transgression? Or was he doomed forever to be hated for his loss of control?

Doyle wrestled with the question, worried not so much about Bodie's soul as his own. Forgiveness was divine, but it had a sour taste. Understanding and forgiveness were in different pews.

He understood Bodie's rape -- he did not forgive it. It was violent and ugly and unpardonable.

Having settled that, he turned to his side, closing his eyes tightly. But he still burned. He still ached.

Why the hell didn't Bodie demand he return to his bed? He was tired of this uncertainty. Tired of waiting. Tired of--

And truthfully he didn't want the responsibility of asking.

Even now, it was difficult to admit what he wanted, but months of sexual satisfaction had conditioned him. He had fallen into the sensual pleasures easily, whatever his conscious reservations, and now his throbbing body was protesting the abstinence.

The memory of the Sheik's touch on his fevered skin was like that of his first oasis in the desert. The answer to a devouring thirst after being deprived for so long.

So if the crime was rape, who was being punished now? The perpetrator or the victim? Did Bodie even care?

Suddenly angry, Doyle got up and went to the curtained doorway separating the rooms. Refusing to think, he pushed it aside and stepped inside.

One firepot still glowed in the corner, spreading a soft reddish glow.

"English?" A silken rustle of sheet as Bodie sat up in the bed. "Is there a problem?" He was instantly alert, indicating Doyle wasn't the only one having trouble sleeping.

"Yes. No." Doyle swallowed and began again, suddenly feeling like a fool. "I mean .... I thought I heard something. Are you all right?"

Amused, Bodie replied softly, "I am no longer an invalid."

"No...no, of course not."

"English?"

"What?"

The dark figure approached him silently, outlined in the red glow of the lamp. Doyle's heart hammered wildly against his ribs.

The Sheik's hands unerringly found his face in the dimness. The kiss was sweet, passion held in oh-so-careful check, the fingers sliding with exquisite gentleness along his jaw and throat up into the curls at the back of his neck. Doyle's head fell back helplessly and he shivered at the sensuality of the familiar touch, stifling a moan of pleasure.

Bodie released him and stepped back. "Good night, English."

Doyle blinked, trying to bring the shadow into focus. "Bodie--?"

"Sleep well." The Sheik turned back to his own couch.

Left with little choice, Doyle went back through the barrier of silk curtain to his own solitary pallet.

---

"Where are we going?" Doyle asked curiously. He left the reins loose for Jasmine to follow the stallion up the tortuous rock trail, knowing his direction would be useless on such terrain.

"There is a place I know. Few have seen it. My father brought me here when I was a boy. Since he died, I come here often when our winter camp is near. Sometimes the seasons are unkind and it is better to go elsewhere. This is a good year."

"Your father showed you this? Like the bat caves?"

He could hear the smile in Bodie's voice. "Not exactly. I think you will appreciate this much more. My mothe-- It is more to an Englishman's taste, I think."

Pulling up Shaizar at a sheer cliff wall, he dismounted and began removing the saddle and bridle. "From here, we must climb."

Doyle's eyebrow lifted as he stared up the rock wall. "I hope you know where we are going." He dismounted and began removing the tack from Jasmine. Following the Sheik's lead, he placed it in a hollow of rock. The horses shook their heads and began grazing on the rich grass that grew along the rocky pathway and clustered wildly around the hint of moisture. A trickle of water moved down the rock face to a tiny pool.

"The spring goes underground at this point and reappears at the oasis where the camp is based," Bodie explained.

"Will we stay here?" Doyle wondered, glancing around at the few spindly palms and barren rocks. The size of the pool was hardly more than enough to satisfy the animals, although it bubbled down continuously from the cliff.

Bodie looked amused. "I promised you paradise, did I not? Does this look like your vision of it?"

"I was thinking of your vision, actually," Doyle admitted ruefully. "You're the Bedouin."

Bodie chuckled. "Even Bedouins have imaginations. Come, the animals will be happy here for a day or so."

"Will they stay?" Doyle asked doubtfully, even now more accustomed to tethering horses than leaving them free, as was often the case in the desert.

"Of course. There is water and enough grass to keep them occupied. Come," he repeated, shouldering his pack and taking a route through the cliffs Doyle had not noticed. Through a trick of the light and the position of the boulders, the pathway was like an optical illusion, invisible until you entered it. Hastily, Doyle grabbed up his own pack and followed. The path was narrow and treacherous, inclining steadily upward, occasionally almost impassible. Twice they were forced to climb straight up a sheer wall of rock with only a few niches for toes and fingers to cling to. Doggedly, Doyle followed the leader, determined to do at least as well as Bodie. He had no idea of where they were going or why, but he had infinite faith in Bodie's purpose.

Squeezing through the last barren jumble of boulders, Doyle stopped dead still, his mouth open in total amazement.

Before him was an Eden.

Walls of gray and rose-colored stone lifted around them in lofty heights, encircling and protecting this haven, the walls glittering with the sparkle of quartz. A fall of water gushed from an aperture in the eastern wall thirty feet above, pouring with a deep musical tone into a large, clear pool.

The sound echoed sweetly against the cliffs, a mist sparking a dozen rainbows in the streams of sunlight slipping in from the west.

There were tamarisk and juniper trees growing hungrily around the pool and in the large crevices of stone, some gnarled and ancient, but lovely in the strange and graceful shapes they had found in seeking moisture from the often unfriendly climate, their leaves emerald green, with white and gold buds falling in erratic showers as the soft breeze caught and moved the branches.

Close around the pool, peeking jealously among the water-smoothed stones and rapacious green ferns was a carpet of flowers, blossoming in brilliant flares of orange and scarlet, nature tinting the wild hues so they didn't clash but bled color back and forth in vivid, comfortable splendor, reflected double in the crystal pool. A dozen hummingbirds suckled nectar from blossoms entwined in vines on the cliffs, their wings glinting iridescent as they sprayed drops of moisture from the falls.

He couldn't speak; had no idea how to express the delight he felt. Only God could have landscaped such beauty -- primitive, wild, yet perfectly balanced and harmonious. Doyle had never been particularly religious, but he subconsciously gave thanks for the simple, soul-deep magnificence he was offered here. It seemed only proper.

"Do you like it?" Bodie asked, strangely shy.

Doyle turned to him, eyes wide, winded both by the climb and the unexpected wonder.

Bodie smiled. "There was a chance the flowers would be open. As it rained in the mountains this morning, I thought perhaps they ..."

"Bodie!"

"Yes?"

But that was all Doyle could bring to mind to say. Just the name. It seemed enough. He shook his head and continued looking at the scene before him with awe. Then, belatedly, remembered the words he needed, "Thank you."

Pleased, Bodie said, "I hoped you would like it."

"How could you doubt it?"

Bodie shrugged. "After all the months in the desert, I thought perhaps a change would be welcome. It is not all so austere. There are places -- times, that are special. Not like your England, I know, but--"

"Bodie," Doyle interrupted, breathlessly, "I have never seen anything like this. Ever."

Satisfied, the Sheik tossed his pack aside and stretched out on the sun-warmed stone. He removed his headdress and ruffled his short locks contentedly. "It is quite comfortable here, is it not? Relax, English. Enjoy. It is only temporary. In a few days the flowers will close and the grass will brown, but for the moment it lives as it is. Nothing lasts forever, but sometimes only a moment is enough."

But the other man was too enthralled by the vision to trust its reality. He touched one of the red flowers, discovered it was a poppy, and trailed his hand through the crystal water, finding it unexpectedly warm. He looked a question at the Sheik.

Bodie smiled, understanding the quizzical glance. "There is a hot spring below. It mingles with the falls from above. The temperature is quite pleasant, depending on the season."

Impulse, for one of the few times in his life, impelled Doyle to begin stripping off his clothes. Casting a mischievous glance toward the Sheik, he asked, "Is it all right if I swim?"

Bodie's eyes narrowed, judging the fall of water. "As you like. But stay away from the southeast corner, or you will be parboiled. When the season is dry, I have seen this pool boiling. You are fortunate, it's been a wet year."

Doyle grinned and dove in, emerging a second later to swim toward the falls.

"What are you doing?" Bodie demanded, a little surprised at how quickly Doyle took him up on his permission.

"It feels wonderful!" Doyle called back, reaching the rocks and finding a flat base on which to stand. It was out of the main power of the fall, catching the side spray without jeopardizing his balance. The water off the mountain was very cold in contrast to the warmed pool, but it felt wonderful, invigorating, shameless. And the freezing water made him temporarily forget his yearning for Bodie. As the liquid rushed down over his body, all he felt was clean, pure and new. Untouched and inviolate as this secret place.

Tilting his head back, drinking in the clear water and letting it wash over his face and saturate his hair and body, he felt reborn. A new man, refreshed and stronger.

Then, glancing out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bodie, lying on the blanket, but up on his elbows, staring fixedly at him, the expression even from this distance, hungry and somehow troubled.

Doyle turned his face back up to the spray of water. A new man, perhaps, he mused, but the goals haven't changed.

It had been nearly two weeks since his abortive attempt to cross into Bodie's space. Two weeks of intolerable frustration.

Judging by the look on Bodie's face, he wasn't alone in that. While he didn't understand the Sheik's hesitation, he had enough of it. It was time to take the initiative. For the first time in Raymond Doyle's young life, he was quite positive what he wanted and was prepared to do what was necessary to achieve it.

---

Bodie tried very hard not to watch. He was not a masochist, and after his secret oath to himself, watching Ray and being unable to touch the golden flesh was a torture he would prefer to avoid. The temptation to peek, however, was irresistible.

He should never have brought him here. But how could he have foreseen Doyle's first act would be to strip naked and leap into the water? It was not a cultural tradition Bodie was familiar with. If it was British, he hadn't heard of it and certainly couldn't have foreseen the hopeless temptation it presented.

No, he thought resignedly, it was pure Doyle.

The boy had been impossibly, incredibly innocent when he first found him, but the unconscious sensuality was as much a part of him as his green eyes. Devil green eyes, as Hassid insisted.

Hassid knew too much by far.

Holding himself firmly in check, Bodie looked away, refusing to be tempted. Get thee behind me Satan.

It was easier said than done. He stood up and turned his back.

"Bodie! Come on, join me!" Doyle called out happily. "It's wonderful!"

Bodie, pretending to be busy gathering firewood, just shook his head.

"Why? Don't tell me you can't swim?"

"And where in the middle of the desert would I learn such a thing?" Bodie retorted, stung. Impatient at the suggestion of any lack of talent, he looked up. It was a serious mistake.

Doyle was standing beside the falls on a flat rock, a tiny spray of water rushing over his body. Shaking his wet mop of curls, the water droplets sparkled in the sunlight, glinting on his shoulders and hips and ... Bodie bit his lip on a whimper of need as a prism formed in the mist around Doyle, rainbowed light catching and reflecting like multicolored diamonds in the droplets in his hair and eyelashes and groin.

Bodie's breath caught in his throat and, exercising an iron will, he turned away from the sight, his heart pounding wildly. He was as violently and instantly aroused as he had been at fifteen with his first woman.

He concentrated on his task. The dead wood was sparse and not easy to locate.

He stooped to pick up a branch and straightened to find Ray by his side, still bare and gleaming, the green eyes glowing hotly.

Bodie stepped back, startled. He hadn't heard him approach against the low drone of the waterfall.

"Why?" Doyle demanded curtly.

"What?" Bodie dropped the wood and faced him. He tried to ignore the way the drips from the drenched curls slipped down the naked chest, finding an erotic path to the matching curls in the groin.

"Why don't you want me anymore?"

Stunned, Bodie forgot his promise to himself and looked Doyle straight in the eyes. Emerald eyes...exquisite eyes. But I can not touch, Bodie vowed again. And at that moment he hated Doyle. It hurt to want so much, and it was all Doyle's fault. He shouldn't look so entrancing, be so desireable...

"Bodie, why? What have I done?"

"Nothing... Why do you ask--"

Doyle cut short the weak lie. "Are you bored with me? Is that it?"

Vows be damned, Bodie took him in his arms and kissed him as a starving man, wild with the need to taste him, feel his heat and heartbeat.

Doyle moaned in his throat and melted into the kiss, matching the need with a hunger of his own.

It lasted no more than a moment before the Sheik thrust him away violently. Losing his balance on the discarded branch, Doyle ended up sitting on the sand, looking up with a stunned expression.

"No." Bodie said flatly, but he was shaking. "No."

Bewildered and frustrated, Doyle said helplessly, "No? What have I done? What--"

"Stop it! You are behaving like a cheap whore in the market!"

Doyle's expression transformed like magic. It skipped the emotions behind the change -- hurt, anger, rejection -- and became a mask of studied indifference. "But that's all I am, isn't it? Or so you've told me. Bought and paid for. I'd hate to ruin my reputation for services rendered."

To Doyle's amazement, it was Bodie who winced at the reminder. He turned away, unable to face Doyle. "How can you say such a thing? It is not true. It has never been true."

Shakily, Doyle stood, only now beginning to believe that his words had finally found a chink in the Sheik's armor. He could feel Bodie's fear like a prickle of electricity, and it enlivened him as nothing else could. Bodie afraid. Of what? Of me? Why?

He pushed his advantage without understanding it. "You took me as your whore. That was the deal, wasn't it? It was your choice, not mine. I agreed. I haven't backed out."

Disturbed as much by Doyle's nudity as by the conversation, Bodie tried to move away. "You are talking crazy, English."

"Are you saying I imagined the entire thing? Our bargain?" He caught Bodie's wrist and forced him to stop.

"No. But you are exaggerating ...."

"How can you say that? You told me what I was to you. What you wanted from me. Now I want to give it, and you don't want me? Is that it? Please tell me plainly. Isn't this what you wanted me to be?"

"Yes...no. No! Stop it, Ray."

"Oh no. It was a whore you wanted, and I'm willing now. I have no shame. You've awakened feelings in me that I can't ignore. Whatever that makes me, so be it. Teach me more. I'll be whatever you want. I'll be --"

"NO!" Bodie shook free of the grip and backed away. "Stop saying that. You are no man's whore. Forget this. Forget our damnable bargain! What you are to me is .... please, just stop this."

Doyle's shoulders slumped, confused and a little afraid of what Bodie meant. Did he want him to leave? Or did he want only friendship? That wasn't enough now, his heart and body in unison screamed it was not nearly enough. "So it's true. You don't want me. I'm sorry. All I want is .... please look at me ... please ..."

Reluctantly, Bodie lifted his eyes, as if a man facing an impossible task but resigned to endure.

Doyle bit his lip. "I just wanted you to .... touch me. If that's so .... If I'm so ugly to you--"

Bodie laughed harshly, "Ugly? No, you are not that, English."

"Then why won't you look at me? Why have you avoided touching me these last few weeks?"

"You wish to be raped again?" Bodie snarled, patience frayed to tatters.

Doyle stared at him reproachfully. "No, not raped. Not drugged. Not even because of our bargain. Oh, god, Bodie... isn't there another way?"

Bodie looked down at the sand helplessly. "And what way is that, English?"

"Perhaps that ... I want it, too. Want you. That we could want each other? That we forget everything....just for a little while at least? If nothing else, I'll settle for just a day where we can disregard the rest of it. In this secret place, just for the moment. Just for us, just for now. Is that too much to ask?"

Slowly, hesitantly, the Sheik looked up. "I have hurt you. Treated you-- How can you want....?"

Doyle flushed but held the other man's gaze defiantly. "I tried to despise you when you forced our bargain. To hate you when you drugged me. I wanted to kill you when you raped me. Now, all I can do is ... want you. Most terrible of all, I can't be ashamed of that."

Bodie took Doyle's face in his hands, searching it inch by inch, utterly tender. "There is nothing in you, English, to cause shame. I will hear no more talk of such foolishness. You bring only honor and beauty to anything you touch. You have honored me more than I can say."

Doyle leaned into the caress, drinking in the unspoken emotions. "Do you still want me, Bodie? Do you?" His words were less than a whisper, almost inaudible over the sound of the water. As was the Sheik's reply.

Somehow they were on the sand, the kisses deepening as passion supplanted affection. Doyle wanted so much, he wound up with very little as his excitement peaked far too soon. A second later he discovered the Sheik was no more controlled.

He pushed Bodie away petulantly. "Why did you do that? I wanted--"

Chuckling, the Sheik pulled him back into a tight embrace. "That was not me, that was youth. Now, we try for something more artistic."

"Oils or pastels?" Doyle muttered drowsily.

"How about on the blanket? After we wash off the sand."

The deep rhythm of the falls echoed in their chests as they moved together in the shallow water, touching and stroking like new lovers, soft with tenderness, then bold with passion. And this time Bodie asked, in a soft, hungry voice for Doyle's submission. It was granted eagerly, as Ray would have given long before if he'd had a choice.

The rainbows and sparkle of sunlight was long gone from the grotto, but still resonated through them both long after the moon had risen over the dark cliffs.

---

That night beneath the star-washed sky, lying on the rough blanket with his head pillowed on the Sheik's chest, Doyle came to accept something that he had long suspected and never wanted to believe.

He was in love with Bodie. Totally and unequivocally in love. Oh, he had thought he was in love that night alone on the oasis, but he had not known this feeling. The clawing, dark emotion that left nothing of his own ego, that accepted all the blackness and unpleasant sides of the loved one and still loved, still yearned. He had wanted to love someone and now he did and it had very little to do with happiness. None of the books said that.

Staring at the sleeping man's face in the dim glow of the dying campfire, the hopeful moon long set, the emotion that swept through him was bittersweet. All the volumes he had read, all of his vague imaginings of love, had not prepared him for this. It wasn't a happy feeling, the euphoria he experienced earlier dimmed like a lamp starved of oxygen. It was a coal lit deep inside and smoldering; warming him, but it hurt, too.

Blackly, he knew the feeling could never be returned. While he was sure Bodie was fond of him, how could he ever love him in the same way? Even if he was no longer merely Bodie's whore, he was still bought and paid for with Zachery's life. Bodie was a sheik -- a king among his people. What was Doyle? Nothing. Spurned by his family. An unworldly, ingenuous boy. Any relationship they had would be so unequal as to be laughable.

The most terrible thing was that he wasn't sure he even liked Bodie. Certainly he didn't like his savagery, his occasional cruelty. His unconscious vanity and arrogance that came with being born a prince. And yet, wasn't that all part of what he admired as well? Wasn't all of that, black and white, what made him love him so intensely?

Suddenly he recalled Bodie's own words on another night, "Even dark things can have a beauty to them." The ache in his heart made him sigh.

The Sheik awoke and draped an arm over him sleepily. "English?"

"Go back to sleep," Doyle murmured.

Bodie moved closer, lips nuzzling the other's throat. "Must I?" His free hand slipped down Ray's chest and paused at his groin. "Are you sleepy?"

His body's reaction was automatic and more intense for his sudden revelation. "No," he moaned, encouraging the hand with his thrust of hips, helpless as he had always been with their strange, erotic chemistry.

The Sheik chuckled appreciatively. "I did not think so."

Ray's doubts were subdued by the hungry touch. This was something he could offer. His heart and his body combined. All he had was here to give. And he could never again deny the pleasure of giving. Did true love ever ask anything in return?

---

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Weeks later, in a new encampment, the grains of sand pelted against the tent in a steady, soothing rhythm.

"Sounds almost like rain," Doyle murmured sleepily, snuggling closer to Bodie's chest. He was content as he had never thought he would be, the days calm and satisfying, the nights incredibly sweet. He had never known such peace and, with the innocence of youth, was certain it must go on forever, his earlier ambivalence pushed blindly aside. He had found the happiness he had only dreamed of and had no need or desire to look beyond.

"Does it?" Bodie stroked down Ray's bare side, cupping the round behind possessively in his hand. "And what is it like?"

"Rain?" Doyle lifted his head to look at him. "You're never heard rain?"

"Of course. In season. But it is hard and fast and the sand swallows it before one knows it has been. What I have heard of England, it is different there. Softer, longer, sweeter. My mother told me she loved the rain. I think she missed it very much."

It was the first time Bodie had ever openly spoken of his mother and his tone was relaxed and wistful -- totally unguarded.

Ray kissed his shoulder, "The rain is lovely there ... but it rains a lot. Too much perhaps. People always complain about the weather."

"And you," Bodie said suddenly, oddly intense, "Do you miss it? Your English rain?"

"A little. It always made me sad, but it was a sweet kind of sadness, if that makes sense."

Bodie turned, pinning Doyle to the bed and looked down at him fiercely. "Do not be sad, Ray. Please. Do not miss the rain."

He kissed him then, and the weather was the last thing on Doyle's mind.

But the Sheik pulled away abruptly.

"What is it?" Ray asked, hungry and eager for more. "Come back..."

"No. Wait." Bodie sat up and turned away, leaving Doyle shivering in the night chill.

"Bodie! What is it?" Cursing under his breath, Doyle followed him into the other room, where the brazier still glowed hotly, trailing the blanket around him. The Sheik was sitting on the cushions before it, toying with the chain on his wrist.

Doyle tossed the corner of his blanket around Bodie's bare shoulders as he knelt on the cushion beside him, reaching past to stir up the coals with the poker. "It's freezing."

"Uhmm."

Feeling the goose bumps on Bodie's arms, Doyle began to scold, then fell silent at the expression on the other's face.

"Bodie... are you all right? Is there a problem?"

"The rain," Bodie murmured, turning the chain on his wrist. "Just the rain...."

"But it's not raining. It's a sandstorm. And it's cold. Why--?"

The clean snap of metal silenced him. The broken chain lay in Bodie's palm, gleaming in the firelight.

Doyle stared at it blankly. "Bodie?"

"Will you accept this from me, Ray? I can never give you rain, but ... please take this?"

Doyle took the chain, meeting the blue eyes in confusion. "But what does it mean? Why?"

The Sheik looked away, flushing. "A whim."

Studying the finely made silver links, Doyle hesitated. "There is no clasp."

"No. If you put it on, it is ... forever."

Even more confused, Doyle pointed out, "But you broke it--"

"It gets in my way with the horses; catches on the tack," Bodie snapped impatiently. "Do you want it or not?"

"Bodie...?" He looked down at the glittering links, sensing the emotion, knowing it would never be spoken -- yet knowing somehow that this was important.

Bodie glanced up, strangely shy. "Do you really want it, Ray? Do you?"

Doyle met the intense blue eyes, felt something very deep and sure inside him, scary and warm all at once. This was a vow. A pledge. Without words, he knew this, and knew it was a seal that already bound his heart. "Yes, I want it. Will you put it on me, please?"

"Yes, of course. Come here." He took Doyle's offered wrist, holding it tenderly. When the links were forged and cooled, he kissed the inside of Ray's wrist and then his palm. "It is almost too large for your wrist. I remember my mother wore it twisted to hold it secure. Yours is hardly much larger."

"I'll be careful," Doyle promised softly. "I'll never lose it. Never."

"Good."

"It belonged to your mother?"

Bodie turned away, running his hands through his clipped hair, obviously uneasy. "Yes. But I didn't give it to you to start an inquisition."

Enjoying the sensual feel of the fine metal against his skin, Doyle asked quietly, "Why did you give it to me?"

Bodie laughed shortly. "It looks better on you, English."

"You won't tell me, will you?"

The blue eyes gleamed hotly, avoiding the question. "Shall I tell you what I want from you now? In detail? Shall I tell you how beautiful you are, turning blue from cold? Shall we return to bed and I will tell you all manner of lovely things to warm you."

The skillful hands on his naked flesh were already accomplishing that. Doyle moaned, happily moving with the sweet caresses. Oh, Bodie could warm him in a blizzard, let alone a desert winter. And his touch could always make him forget everything ... cold and rain and silver bracelets ... everything but the blissful, erotic moment.

---

Cambridge's tent was its usual mess of books and newspapers, more disarranged than usual because they had just received the newest shipment from Aden. Doyle ambled around, idly perusing whatever caught his interest as he waited for Cambridge to return for their daily chess match.

Bored, he pulled out his knife and cut open the binding on a stack of newspapers. He flipped through the first two and set them aside, then caught the headlines on the next.

He froze. It was almost a minute before his shaking hands could pick it up and read further.

By the time Cambridge breezed in, the color had returned to his face and he was furious.

"Have you seen this!"

Taking the paper, Cambridge read it without expression. "No. I'm very sorry, Raymond."

"Sorry!" Doyle jumped up angrily. "Did you know about this?"

"How could I?" Cambridge pointed out. "The caravan only returned yesterday."

"But this happened months ago!"

"The news of the world reaches us late--"

"Late!" Doyle exploded. "This is Zachery rotting in prison because we didn't know. I didn't know. Damn--" He started to turn away and Cambridge caught his arm worriedly.

"What are you going to do?"

"What do you think? I have to clear him. They've convicted him of stealing the gold. There was no bloody gold! We all know that. He's suspected of murdering me, for god's sake! The only reason they haven't hung him is because they didn't have a corpse to prove it! I have to help him." He jerked away from the grip and headed for the door.

"Raymond, wait!"

Doyle turned.

"What are you going to tell Bodie?"

Doyle looked surprised. "The truth. I have to help Zachery. I have to go to England and clear him."

"And do you think he will understand that?"

"Of course. Zack needs me."

Cambridge sighed as Doyle rushed out. He rubbed his eyes as the headache formed behind his brow. If Doyle believed things would be that simple, there was a storm brewing. Inevitable perhaps, but one Cambridge had hoped would be delayed until at least one of them was ready for it. This was too soon, and the outcome was grim for anyone in the vicinity.

Doyle found the Sheik with his horses in the training area, as he had expected at this hour. Surprised at Doyle's call, Bodie turned, smiling. He did that a lot when Doyle was near; the boy's presence made him strangely happy. And he was very beautiful standing there in the sunlight, hair glinting red-brown, his skin bronzed, his eyes very green.

Unusually indulgent at the interruption, Bodie waved for Ahmed to continue and met Doyle as he crossed the training area.

"Did you come out to watch?" Bodie asked softly, his hand moving up to tuck in a stray curl of the untrimmed hair. All he could think was how lovely it would be to take Doyle back to his tent and seduce him right now. It wouldn't be the first time; and he remembered how the afternoon light complemented the golden tint of Ray's skin, and the sinfully sweet beading of sweat on their bodies in the heat.

"I must talk to you," Doyle said urgently, oblivious of anything but the problem at hand.

"Yes?" Bodie's brow knotted as he took in the intensity of the request and Doyle's troubled expression. "What is wrong?"

"I don't know how to-- I must leave."

For a long moment, Bodie merely stared at him. It was apparent the words hadn't quite sunk in. He shook his head, his face blank. "We will speak later. I will--"

"No." Doyle grabbed his arm before he could turn back to his horses. "This is important. I have to leave now. Right now!"

Again, Bodie didn't speak, studying him. His features gave nothing away and again Doyle wondered if he had understood what he was saying. Finally, the Sheik freed himself of the vise-like grip on his arm and said quietly, "Wait in my tent. I shall be there soon."

Doyle started to protest, then realized he was being unreasonable. It was important to explain, and that couldn't be done here. He nodded and turned away.

Twenty minutes later, Doyle paced the tent. After a time he realized his urgency was wasted and dropped down limply on a cushion. Months -- nearly three months from the date on the paper. Longer, much longer since Zachery was jailed and indicted. Another hour or so couldn't matter. It couldn't help Zachery. And the Sheik -- Bodie -- deserved to understand why he had to leave. Doyle didn't even think he might not want to understand.

The Sheik swept into the tent and pinned Doyle with his eyes. "What is this nonsense?"

Doyle stood eagerly. "Zack is in trouble. There was a paper in Cambridge's tent. It-- Should I get it?"

"You tell me."

Doyle took a deep breath. "It seems they laid the loss of the gold on Zack. Accused him of theft ... and of murdering me to get it, although since they had no proof of that, they left it at suspicion. In any case, they shipped him back to England, tried and convicted him of theft against the government. They sentenced him to twenty years with no parole."

"I see." Bodie removed his headdress and ruffled his short hair, wiping away the sweat.

Gaston entered, surprised to find them there at this time of day. He looked from one to the other, puzzled at the very different expressions.

"Some tea would be pleasant. Tea, Gaston."

The servant nodded, glancing warily at Doyle. "Ou, Monseigneur." He left.

"I can't believe they've done this to him! Zack was the most loyal, honest person I've ever met--"

"And you have met so many," Bodie interjected, seating himself near the brazier.

Ignoring the interruption, Doyle continued, "--how they could have blamed him for what happened. I can't understand it. When he returned to Aden, he was wounded -- shot! That should have made it clear--"

"Has it taken you this long to understand, Ray?" Bodie said coolly. "Why do you think the lockbox was empty?"

Doyle stopped in mid-stride and looked at him. "Sir Melvin? It was a setup? Fasik was telling the truth?"

Bodie waved a hand at the obvious.

Doyle took a deep breath. "I had wondered, yes. I didn't like it from the beginning. It didn't make a lot of sense, actually. If he wanted to get the gold to Fasik, we were hardly the logical couriers ... we were totally inept. If you were in control of the passes, you would have caught us--"

"And the blame would have fallen on my broad shoulders," Bodie put in helpfully.

The green eyes were wide and dark. "And you would have been blamed for both the gold and our deaths. But since Zack survived--"

"And was foolish enough to say the lockbox was empty before touched by my hand," Bodie prompted.

"--they ...Sir Melvin, decided to blame him."

"The disparate stories were an embarrassment to your superior. It would have simplified matters tremendously had I killed both of you out of hand, as they expected. Your Zachery's reappearance must have been a terrible nuisance."

"Why didn't they believe him?" Doyle was stricken. "Zachery knew what happened!"

"He knew there was no gold. Somehow I doubt this is what Sir Melvin wanted proclaimed since it was undoubtedly already in his own bank account. With such knowledge, your Zachery is fortunate he lived to be put into prison. I am surprised this Sir Melvin did not have him killed out of hand. Since he did not, your Zachery would have been wiser to have said I stole it."

"Zack would tell the truth," Doyle snapped.

The Sheik's eyebrow lifted. "His stupidity is obvious."

"Stupidity! Because he told the tru--" He broke off at Bodie's expression. "All right! I see your point. I don't have to like it."

Doyle began pacing again, an angry light in the green eyes. "So Sir Melvin pockets the gold, sends us out as sacrificial goats, knowing we would be caught--"

It was Bodie's turn to be impatient. "But you must have known all this when you found the box was empty."

"Yes.... Or I thought it likely. I didn't want to believe it, but--"

"You English are so trusting," Bodie remarked nastily.

Doyle stopped and stared at him. "Sometimes. Is that so terrible? That I'm able to trust? That I want to trust?"

Bodie met his eyes squarely. "You tell me."

Doyle dropped his gaze and returned to his pacing. "I suppose I thought Zack would return to Aden, tell them what happened, and everything would--"

"What?" Bodie demanded. "Did you believe Sir Melvin would confess his crime? And your Zachery would be a hero?"

Doyle covered his eyes, unable to remember what it was he had expected. At first his only thought was of getting Zachery back, safe and alive. Beyond that...he hadn't even considered. And that was stupid and unforgivable.

So much of his life in the last few months had been Bodie-Bodie-Bodie, he honestly hadn't spared too many thoughts for Zachery at all. The guilt of that cut in him now. Maybe he should have realized what it would look like when Zachery returned without him; the position Zachery would be in explaining his absence. Zachery loved him too much to ever tell the complete truth of why he remained; would never sully Ray's name in such a way, had given his word not to seek his rescue. At the time, it had seemed the only solution. But that was months ago, and he hadn't even pondered the mess his disappearance might cause, so inured was he to being totally insignificant in the scheme of things. Obviously, this was one time when his presence might have made a difference.

And it wasn't too late.

Straightening, Doyle looked at Bodie. "So you understand that I must leave. I have to set things straight."

Before the Sheik could answer, Gaston returned with the tea tray. He set it down, poured out two cups, and sensing the charged emotion in the air, left immediately with a short bow.

Bodie added sugar to his and watched the other man over the rim of the cup as he sipped the hot liquid.

Doyle hesitated, waiting for a reaction to his pronouncement, and when he didn't get one, he sighed and joined the Sheik by the tea tray. He poured in goat's milk, wondering what Bodie was thinking, only now realizing that the idea of his departure might be a problem.

The controlled calm told him much. The total cold steel of expression told him more. The Sheik was not pleased by anything he had been saying.

He leaned forward, "You know I must go. I have no choice."

"No," Bodie agreed flatly. "You have no choice.

Torn between relief and chagrin that Bodie found it so easy to let him go, Doyle continued, "We are not so far from Aden now--"

"Mars is not so far from Aden as you are." Bodie's voice was cold and unemotional.

Doyle toyed with his cup nervously. "But you said... you admitted I had no choice but to leave."

"You misunderstand," Bodie said flatly. "You have no choice; this is true. The choice is made. You will go nowhere."

Doyle blinked. "What? But..."

"Again you forget who is master here. You make no decisions, you do nothing without my permission."

Heart sinking, Doyle put down his cup. "I apologize. I suppose I should have asked your leave. I was stupid enough -- blind enough to think we had gone beyond that. Very well, I need to go. I have to help Zachery. The reasons are very clear. If I return to England and testify, they will have no choice but to release him. As much as I despise my family, they do have a degree of weight. No one will dare call me a thief or a liar. Therefore, I ask--"

"No."

"What?"

"The answer is no. You will not return to England. You will not go beyond this encampment. Would you like more tea?"

"Bodie?"

The Sheik ignored the stunned look and poured another cup, adding milk as he knew Ray liked it.

"You can't be serious."

The Sheik met his eyes directly. "Do you doubt it?"

Ray stared at him, appalled. "Bodie, please... you know what this means. A man is unjustly in prison. It's Zack, my friend. Are you saying you won't let me help him?'

"You will not leave here."

"But that's the only way--"

"Then he will suffer the consequences of his foolishness."

The tea tray went flying as Doyle's rage ignited. "You bastard! You know what's at stake. Zachery's in prison now, for god's sake!"

Outwardly unaffected by the outburst, Bodie lit a cheroot and sat back, smoking it. "So you have told me."

"And that doesn't matter to you? That an innocent man is in jail?"

"Not in the least."

"Well it matters to me.

"That changes nothing. You will be and do what I dictate. No more or less."

Their last weeks together were swept away as if nonexistent. Doyle stood, feeling as if something critical had been stolen from him -- his dignity perhaps. Silly to worry about something like that, things like self-worth and independence and love. Illusions, of course. Dreams he had let himself believe were possible. They had never existed for him before, why did he think they did now? Loving someone never changed them. It was a lesson he thought he had learned.

And none of that was important. He could only focus on Zachery and his crisis; his personal dilemma would have to wait.

Knowing Bodie, knowing it was useless, he still tried one more time. "Bodie, I have to help Zack. The only way is to go to England and tell them what really happened. At this point, they will hardly accept a telegram. You know that. I don't want to leave you, I have to. Please see that."

"Your altruism is admirable, but I do not share it. The subject is closed. Would you like one of the scones Gaston prepared? They're on the floor here, somewhere. He must have made them for you. I prefer the seed cakes."

Doyle said leadenly. "Even now, after.... even now you do this to me? Treat me like a possession? How? Why, Bodie?"

The Sheik leaned over and began picking up glass shards from the floor. "This was valuable china, you realize. Imported from your own country. Very careless of you, to destroy something of such great price."

"Bodie, why won't you listen to me?"

Bodie continued to pick up the pieces. "I have listened. You will not leave."

Doyle covered his face with his hands. "I wish you could see. Could understand. I'm sorry, Bodie."

"Sorry?" Bodie looked up from righting the tray. "For what?'

"I'm sorry you refuse to understand. What Zachery means to me, the importance of loyalty ... and that I cared for you. Loved you."

Abruptly, Doyle was gone and Bodie stared down at the wreckage on the carpet, the words echoing in his ears.

"Loved?" he whispered. It sounded very final. And in the past tense. As something finished.

He started to get up, then hesitated, kneeling there for a long time, staring into the red coals of the firepot, trying to unravel his feelings of possessiveness and jealousy from .... love.

He sat there for a very long time. And the dark side won.


...Continued in Chapter 20...

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