The Lost Prince Read online

  Her guard escort today was named Riki. He was a gregarious youth who swore he was eighteen, but she’d put his age at closer to fourteen. He was a distinct departure from yesterday’s surly escort, and for that she was grateful.

  “I’ll be with this prisoner for a while,” she informed the boy.

  Riki shrugged and reached for the door. She waited impatiently while he fumbled with the rusty lock. Finally it creaked open and she stepped inside.

  The prisoner was sitting up when she entered, one foot propped up on the ledge and his arm resting across his knee. Their gazes met and locked, their shared secret hanging heavy in the air between them like the scents of cinnamon and curry that hung over the city. She hadn’t imagined a thing. It was all real. The aristocracy cloaking him, the impatience of a man used to getting his way. The sheer royalty of the man. He was the king.

  She stepped farther into the cell. His expression was warm, an intimate caress that pierced her robes to touch her skin in the most disturbing fashion. Katy actually felt herself flush under her veil. Even in heavy gloom, wearing a ruined uniform, his face as battered as a prizefighter’s, he oozed magnetism—heck, outright sex appeal. How could anybody mistake him for a common soldier? But then, maybe it took a woman to sense it. And the Baraqi Army was notably lacking in women in its ranks.

  She waited for the heavy door to lock behind her before she spoke. “How are you today?”

  “My nose feels much better. Thanks for the bandage.”

  His gaze seemed to strip the robe right off her. Instead of feeling safely swathed in shapeless yards of cloth, she felt exposed. Naked.

  “And how are you today?” he asked, his voice mellow and intimate.

  She frowned. She could really do without this whole turn-on-the-charm thing. It was incredibly effective—and distracting. “Fine, thank you.”

  “Have a seat.” He scooted over to make room for her on the crude ledge. “So. What did you find out about protecting my identity?”

  She shook her head regretfully. “The Geneva Convention is clear. You have to tell the Army your name or else forfeit protection under the Convention.”

  He asked soberly, “Are you required to notify them that I no longer have Geneva Convention status?”

  “It doesn’t say specifically that I have to.”

  “So what the Army doesn’t know won’t hurt it. Until they figure out who I am and that I’ve broken the rules, I’m safe.”

  She glanced around at the dank stone walls and replied drily, “I’m not sure I’d call this safe.”

  “Hey, it’s safer than flying around a Formula One race course at two hundred miles per hour.”

  She snorted. “Not in my book.”

  “Well, it’s a lot safer than navigating a room full of social-climbing, money-lusting, crown-seeking women looking to trap me into marriage.”

  “You have a point there.” Her grin faded. “How can you joke around at a time like this?”

  He shrugged, an elegant movement of his broad, athletic shoulders. “How can I not? I prefer laughter over the alternative. By the way,” he added casually, “if you’d like to drop your veil while you’re in here with me, I won’t tell on you.”

  Surprised by the offer, she gazed at him searchingly. Funny, but she was shy about showing him her face. Would he think she was too forward if she took off her veil? Oh, for heaven’s sake. The guy’d lived in England since he was a kid! He was perfectly accustomed to western women. If anything, it must be strange to him to see women all covered by veils.

  “Please,” he murmured. “Give me a pretty face to think about as I languish here waiting for my luck to run out.”

  Was she pretty? She wasn’t exactly ugly, but she’d never been overly concerned with her looks. She wore decent clothes and put on makeup when she thought a camera crew might be lurking outside her apartment, but that was about it. This man was no doubt used to looking at exotic, gorgeous supermodels.

  Had she detected a hint of desperation in his lightly voiced request? She cast a glance around the medieval dungeon. He must be going crazy staring at these featureless and depressing walls in near-total darkness. It was a simple enough thing to grant the poor guy. She reached up and removed the safety pin securing the end of the veil but blinked in surprise when he brushed her hand aside and reached for the veil himself. The black silk caressed her cheek as he slowly lifted the panel of fabric aside.

  Why showing this guy her face should be a big deal, she had no idea. But here she was, holding her breath like some Moorish virgin on her wedding night. Sheesh. She risked a glance up at him. A faint smile curved his lips as he regarded her like a connoisseur observing fine art.

  “Lovely,” he breathed. He let the silk slide from his fingers to trail down over her breasts.

  She shrugged, embarrassed. “I suppose. If you go for that wholesome all-American look.”

  He laughed lightly. “You must remember—in this part of the world, your blond hair and blue eyes are exotic. Very few women here share your coloring.” He chuckled and added, “Admittedly I’ve spent most of my life in England. But to my eye, most people there are one shade or another of paste-white. Your tan is a nice departure from that. And you have extraordinary bones.”

  Bones? Uh, okay. If he said so. He was the connoisseur, after all. And as for being exotic, she’d never thought of herself that way. Belatedly it occurred to her that if she’d been in a bar and he’d said that, she’d have blown off his observation as a pickup line.

  “What’s your first name, Miss McMann?” he asked.

  “Katy.”

  “Is it just Katy or is that short for something?”

  “My real name’s Katrina, but I’ve always hated it.”

  “It’s a beautiful name, like its owner. But if you insist, I shall call you by your so very American nickname.”

  Why in the hell did his blatant flattery knock her off balance like this? Aspiring young lawyers hit on her all the time, trying to get an introduction to the legendary McMann clan. And of course, there were the fortune seekers who mistakenly thought she lived off her brothers’ wealth. And then there were the occasional jerks who’d hit on anything in skirts.

  She mumbled, “What should I call you?”

  He grinned. “Under the circumstances, we’d better stick with Prisoner 1806. Or Akbar,” he added.

  She looked up, startled at the dry humor in his voice. His stunning eyes sparkled like twenty-four-karat gold. No doubt about it, this guy was a lady-killer.

  He spoke in an intimate tone pitched for her ears alone. “Thank you for coming back to see me today and thank you for not betraying my identity. I owe you my life.”

  His face was partially hidden in deep shadows. Beneath his swollen bruises and the big white bandage over his nose, she caught a glimpse of the man he normally was—a man so beautiful it almost hurt to look at him.

  “Dang,” she murmured. “No wonder you’re on the list of the world’s most eligible bachelors.”

  Oops. Had she just said that aloud? Oh, God. She had. She watched in dismay as he threw his head back and let out a rich laugh.

  He gazed warmly at her. “Thank you for that. It was the best medicine you could have brought me today.”

  Katy heard the lock rattle on the door. No doubt Riki had come to investigate why a prisoner was guffawing in here. She started as Nick’s hand shot out and he snatched at her veil. She’d forgotten about it being down. The heat from his touch on her cheek made her draw a sharp breath. His gaze jerked to hers, and he looked as startled as she felt. Quickly he tucked the veil back in place over her face.

  He swore under his breath, then muttered, “Come visit me tomorrow if you can. I have something important to talk with you about.”

  And then he drew away to the far end of the ledge and assumed a beaten-down posture just as the unpleasant guard from yesterday burst through the door.

  “What’s going on in here?” he demanded in French.
/>   Katy stammered, “Uh, I had to check this prisoner’s ribs for broken bones, and he’s ticklish. It’s all right.”

  The guard’s suspicious gaze shifted back and forth between her and Nick.

  Katy picked up her medical bag and stood. “I’m done in here for today,” she told the guard. What does Nick Ramsey want to talk with me about? Surely he knew the limitations on any favors she could do for him as long as he was a prisoner of war. What else was there for them to discuss?

  Curiosity always had been her downfall. She was the proverbial cat, and it killed her every time. And now she had to wait another whole day to find out what was on his mind. She felt like cursing under her breath, too.

  It was a challenge, but she managed to walk out of the cell without looking back at the king in rags behind her.

  The women huddled in a corner of the market. They dared not stand together for more than a few seconds lest they attract attention from the Army troops patrolling the city arrogantly.

  “Did you contact a member of the InterAid team, Hanah?” one of them whispered.

  “Yes. There’s a girl on the team. Young. Pretty. She has kind eyes. Of all the aid workers, I think she’d be most likely to help us.”

  “Did she say she would work with us?”

  “I haven’t asked her directly yet.”

  “You must, Hanah. And hurry. Did you hear the Army arrested a woman for refusing to wear religious garments this morning? They say she’s going to be punished as a whore.”

  The other women sucked in shocked breaths through their teeth.

  A male voice rang out behind them. “You women there, be on your way! Meetings are forbidden!”

  The women started as one and scattered quickly as the soldier slapped a riding crop against his leather boot.

  The walk home from Il Leone was hot and dusty. Some sort of demonstration blocked the square Katy and Larry had passed through last night, and today the pair were forced to detour several blocks through winding, narrow cobblestone streets that were clearly relics from the twelfth century or so.

  Thankfully her crusty coworker had a good sense of direction. Katy was completely turned around when they finally emerged on what appeared to be the other side of the jammed square. The crowd, whose backs were turned to them, struck her as odd. And then it dawned on her. It was completely silent. Intense. They acted as if they were watching something. Avidly.

  “What’s going on?” she murmured to Larry.

  “Dunno. Stay here.” She waited nearly a block away from the edge of the crowd while her ever-brash companion walked up to one of the men at the back of the crowd and put his hand on the guy’s shoulder. The poor Baraqi about fainted in his surprise. Folks were jumpy these days in Akuba.

  And then she heard a woman scream. It rang of terror and pain and something else. Fury. What in the world was going on? Why had that woman screamed? And why was no one apparently doing anything to help her? There must be a thousand men crammed into that square.

  The woman made another noise, this time more of a keening wail than a scream. The crowd surged forward, taking on a life of its own. The now-seething mass of humanity heaved forward, and Katy watched in horror as Larry was swallowed up by it and sucked forward. He disappeared from view, struggling backward to no avail against the crowd who pushed into the square.

  Oh, God. Now what? She was standing out here all alone on a street corner, only vaguely aware of what direction to go to get back to her hotel. This couldn’t be good. A new edict had come out that morning, something about women not going out unescorted into public places. Not good at all.

  She jumped as a male voice practically snarled in her ear. “Get out of here. This is no sight for a lady.”

  She spun around, shoving her veil back into place as it half fell over her eyes. A soldier stood there scowling at her. Yet, as harsh as his words and demeanor were, she sensed a certain rough concern beneath them. What was no sight for a lady?

  “Where is your chaperone?” the soldier demanded. “He should know better than to leave you alone like this. You could end up in the square next.”

  What was this guy talking about?

  A veiled woman hurried up to the two of them. “Ah, Selima, there you are, sister. I thought I’d lost you in the crush. Come. Let us get back inside until the…spectacle…is over and the crowd disperses.”

  Katy nodded, afraid to speak in her foreign-accented Arabic and give herself away. So far, this soldier and the woman seemed to have mistaken her for a local. And her gut instinct was it would be unwise to disabuse them of the notion. For good measure, she stepped close to the other woman.

  “Be gone with you,” the soldier commanded them.

  The woman grabbed her elbow and steered her down the street a little ways and into a small grocery store. They stopped just inside the doorway.

  “What were you thinking, standing alone in public like that?” the woman hissed in French.

  Katy stared. Why had this lady just transitioned into another language with her? “Uh, ma’am, I’m not your sister,” she replied carefully.

  “Of course you are not. You are the American relief worker.”

  Katy stared. “Who are you?”

  The stranger pulled aside her veil, and Katy was suddenly looking at the receptionist from the hotel’s front desk. “Hanah?”

  The young woman nodded and hastily rearranged her veil, looking around furtively. “Come with me.” She headed for the back of the store.

  Katy followed, roundly confused. It was probably stupid to head off alone to who knows where like this, but it couldn’t be any more dangerous than standing on that corner so close to an agitated mob. Plus, there was no sign whatsoever of Larry. He’d been completely swallowed by that writhing snake nest of humanity outside.

  Hanah led Katy quickly out a back exit of the store and down a fetid alley. They turned a pair of corners, and then the Baraqi woman slipped into a doorway, this one leading into the back of an ancient stone building with high, small windows.

  “In here,” she urged.

  Katy ducked under the low lintel and straightened as she looked around a primitive kitchen. A fireplace a person could stand in dominated one side of the room, along with a large brick oven the shape of a beehive and about as tall as she was. Then there was the incongruous sight of a refrigerator-freezer and a dishwasher on the other side of the room.

  “We’ll wait here. There is someone who needs to speak with you.”

  “About what?” Katy asked. There went her curiosity again.

  “We shall wait.”

  And they did. Not for long, though. Maybe five minutes. And then another woman burst in through the same door they’d used. She took one look at Katy and huddled with Hanah for a whispered exchange.

  Katy was alarmed when Hanah nodded, pulled on her veil and slipped outside, leaving Katy alone with this stranger. This woman took off her head scarf and veil and turned to face Katy.

  She was elegantly attractive, probably a very well-maintained sixtysomething-year-old. Katy hadn’t expected such a sophisticated-looking woman under the veil. But then, Baraq was a country full of surprises.

  “Sit, please, Miss McMann. I’d like to speak with you.”

  The woman had spoken in English. American-accented, native-language, fluent English. What was an American doing living in a place like this?

  Katy took off her head coverings and breathed a sigh of relief to be out from under the confines of the swathed layers of cloth. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “My name is not important.”

  “Do you live here?” Katy blurted. It was probably rude to ask personal questions of a total stranger, but this woman was an anomaly in the current setting.

  “Good heavens, no!” the woman exclaimed in genuine horror.

  “Then what in the world are you doing here? It’s not safe for an American like you to be here!” Katy responded.

  “I have personal reasons for being h
ere.”

  The woman’s eyes had dimmed as she’d said these words, as if her personal problem were a grave one, indeed. Katy held her tongue and didn’t pry.

  The woman continued, “At the moment, my purpose is to speak to you on behalf of all Baraqi women—or at least most of them. Normally I wouldn’t call myself an activist, but sometimes a person can’t stand by and do nothing in the face of a great enough injustice.”

  A women’s-rights activist from America. Here? This was one brave woman. At least Katy had the protection of InterAid while she was here.

  Katy sat down at the massive scarred kitchen table and watched her impromptu hostess grab a towel and heft a cauldron of hot water from over the fireplace. She filled a pair of mugs and dipped tea bags into both.

  The woman carried the cups to the table and stirred sugar into both at Katy’s nod. “Don’t drink the local water,” the woman advised. “American digestive tracts can’t take the bacteria. But this is safe.”

  Katy took a sip of the strong tea. It was bitter, but its tang and sweetness made for a tasty contradiction. Kind of like this country and the woman before her. A study in contrasts.

  “Why do you wish to speak to me?” Katy asked.

  “I wish for you to help the women of Baraq.”

  “How?”

  The woman didn’t answer directly. Rather, she took a long sip of her tea and then said, “Do you know what’s happening in a public square a few blocks from here?”

  The crowd of men and the screaming woman. “No.”

  “Several women are being publicly flogged.”

  Katy’s eyes widened in horror. “Why?” she exclaimed.

  “Because they refused to put on the abaya and hijab. They said General Sharaf has no right to force women behind the veil. Baraq is a modern nation ruled by secular law, and they cannot be forced to wear such garb against their will. And the general had them whipped for their protest.”

  The screams she’d heard came back to Katy and sent a shudder down her spine. It was barbaric. It was also not her job to get involved in such politics. She was here to monitor the treatment of prisoners for InterAid and nothing more.