Embrace The Twilight - Maggie Shayne Mills & Boon Silhouette

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behind, speaking in one of the tribal dialects. “Where are you going in the middle of the night? Is something wrong?”

      He froze. He didn’t turn. He swallowed his fear, told himself not to blow it, not now, not when he was this close. He replied in the man’s own tongue. “Did you not hear the gunfire?” he asked. “It was coming from this way.” He pointed ahead of him, toward the edge, and downward.

      “Gunfire?”

      “Yes, I’m sure of it. Maybe the Americans have come back.”

      The other man sucked in a breath of alarm. Then he said, “But it cannot be the Americans. The border is east of here, not west. And they could only come from that way.” He sighed. “I should wake Ahkmed.”

      “Wait,” Will said. “I see something. Down there. Look!”

      The man came hurrying closer and ran right past Will to stand in front of him, peering off into the distance, down over the steep precipice into utter darkness. “Where? I don’t see anything.”

      In one smooth, silent motion Will stepped forward, clapped a hand to the man’s mouth, put the other to the back of his head and jerked it roughly, fiercely, to the side. The man’s neck snapped with a sickening crack, and his body went limp. Lowering him to the ground, Will bent over him, gripped his shoulders, and dragged him into the cover of some nearby boulders.

      As quickly as he could, Will stripped the body of everything on it, which included a rifle, some ammo, a large curving blade with a sheath and the robes of the man’s tribe. Will put the robes on over the clothes he wore. He intended to use the man’s shoes, as well, American-issue Army boots, but they were far too small. His injured foot wouldn’t have fit into any shoe, even had it been a few sizes too large, anyway. He did take the socks, putting them both on his good foot. Then he rewrapped his injured one in swaths of the dead man’s turban before peering out from the sheltering rocks, sitting very still, looking and listening.

      No sounds reached him from the cave. He dragged the body to the edge and tossed it over the side. It fell in near silence, except for the dull, distant thud when it hit bottom. Then Will began making his way down the mountain, heading in the direction he surmised, from the other man’s comments, was east.

      When he reached the bottom, he just walked. He used the rifle as a staff, and walked despite the pain of his foot and the raging fever. He wondered if it would be better to make use of the large blade, leave the foot behind before it killed him. But he was afraid to stop long enough to do it and worried that he would never get going again if he did.

      So he walked. The sun rose, and with its first touch, it burned away the night’s cold. He welcomed its warmth for a short time; then he cursed it, as it blazed relentlessly down on him. The mountain was far behind him. He’d made his way from it, down into the desert, and the farther he walked, the hotter it became. He was dehydrated already from lack of water, illness and fever. The way the sun blasted him now, he thought he would soon be reduced to a man-shaped pile of dust. But the sun did serve one useful purpose. It allowed him to gauge his direction.

      At least it did until it was directly overhead and he was frying like bacon in a pan. He tried to keep moving, keep on course, just plodding, putting one foot in front of the other. He had no idea how long he managed to keep going, or how much distance he had covered, when he finally fell facedown in the sand.

      He lay there, clinging to consciousness with everything in him, knowing that if he passed out there, he would die there. The vultures would pick his bones clean. He tried to get up, and, failing that, he tried to crawl.

      And then he passed out.

      When he opened his eyes, he was lying beside Sarafina, watching as she stirred slowly awake. She looked pale, Will thought. Her face tight, there were dark rings beneath her beautiful eyes.

      She sat up, looking around her, frowning at the beam of sunlight that slanted through an open spot in the tent flap. She got up and went to it, pushed it open and peered at the sky. “Already so late. The day is nearly done, and I’ve slept it away yet again.”

      Sighing, lowering her head and the flap at the same time, she turned, reaching for the dress she’d left hanging from a nail in the wall, then thinking better of it, and taking, instead, the green velvet robe and pulling it on over the white nightgown she wore. She thought of the nightgown as a shift. It was more like an elaborate slip, with lots of lace and embroidery.

      She smoothed her untamable curls with her hands, glancing back at the bed just once and smiling gently as she remembered her dream of the night before. “My beloved spirit,” she whispered. “I wonder if he’ll come to me again tonight.”

      “I’m here. I’m here right now,” Will told her, but she didn’t hear him. She only turned again, parted the tent flap, stepping outside this time, down the folding steps of her wagon, until her bare feet touched the ground. Will floated along, as if attached to her somehow. She was looking around the camp, noting the smoldering, charred remains of yet another wagon-tent and frowning as Andre came up to her. Will bristled. He hated the man.

      “Fina, we’ve been so worried. Are you better now?”

      She frowned at him. “Better?”

      “We could only assume you were ill. Why else would you sleep the entire day?”

      She shrugged. “I was up very late tending to Belinda. I was only tired. I’m not ill.”

      She would have walked on, but he caught her chin, lifting her face to his as if he would kiss her, but instead he only studied her closely. “You do not look well, Sarafina. I think you are ill and only denying it.”

      “I wouldn’t lie to you, Andre.” She moved closer, as if to press her mouth to his, but he turned away quickly.

      Will saw the flash of pain in Sarafina’s eyes, even as Andre said, “Just in case, love. I wouldn’t wish to share this illness with you.”

      “I told you, I’m not ill!” She stepped quickly, moving past him, toward the fire that burned and danced in the middle of the encampment. “What of Belinda?” she asked the man who caught up and fell into step beside her.

      “We buried her this morning, with most of her possessions. We burned the rest with her wagon. I wanted to wake you, but Gervaise commanded we let you rest. He, too, believes you to be ill.”

      “I keep telling you, I’m fine. What of Melina? How is she this evening?”

      Andre shook his head slowly. “She’s in mourning. We did manage to get her to eat some dinner, but very little. Speaking of which…” He picked up his pace, hurrying ahead of her to the fire and fetching a cloth-covered bowl that rested on a rock beside the flames. Bringing it back to Sarafina, he motioned her to take a seat on a nearby log, and when she did, he set the very warm bowl in her lap. “You should eat. You haven’t had a thing since last evening’s meal, and you look pale and faint.”

      She smiled up at him. Her eyes were warm with gratitude, and when she smiled like that, really meaning it, she was the most beautiful creature Will had ever seen. It took too little to make her beam like the sun. Just the slightest consideration from this unworthy man she thought she loved and she became luminous.

      She looked at the stew, and her stomach rumbled in hunger as she removed the cloth and picked up the spoon. “Oh, Andre, it was so thoughtful of you to save this for me. Thank you.” She took a bite, then another.

      “It wasn’t me, though it ought to have been.”

      “No?” She ate more. Her appetite seemed ravenous.

      “Hmm, perhaps I should keep my counsel and let you give the credit to me.” He smiled at her, stroked her hair as she scooped bite after bite into her mouth. “Actually it was your sister who saved the stew for you.”

      Sarafina stopped with the spoon halfway to her mouth. Will felt his heart jump in his chest. “My sister?”

      “Gervaise has commanded

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