Her Desert Prince

She’d mentioned another garden, too, the Garden of Enchantment.

The names had delighted Lauren and she knew she had to see them while she visited there. She considered the medallion a talisman she hoped would one day bring her the same kind of magic that had bonded her grandmother to her beloved sheikh, Malik, body and soul.

With her grandmother now gone, Lauren had wanted to rid herself of her intense sadness and had decided to come on this adventure. She intended to take the same trip her grandmother had taken years before, done in the exact same way.

Celia had been the only mother Lauren had ever known. Now that she was alone, Lauren’s whole focus was on traveling to a spot that had resulted in a life-changing experience for Celia. To revisit the spot that had held such treasured memories for her grandmother.

Paul had begged to accompany Lauren on her trip. Earlier in the month he’d met some minor prince from the northern Arabian kingdom at one of the gaming tables at the casino in Montreux. Always looking for something newsworthy, Paul had taken the opportunity to get an interview and had snapped a few pictures of the prince and his retinue for the paper.

During their conversation, the prince, obviously flattered by Paul’s attention and wanting the notoriety, had rhapsodized about the beauty of the Nafud, an area full of great photographic opportunities. He’d boasted that one day he would rule over the entire kingdom. Paul had confided to Lauren that even if it was only wishful thinking on the prince’s part, it made a good story.

When he’d passed on this information to Lauren with so much eagerness, she’d hated turning him down, especially after he’d been so good to her grandmother toward the end of her life. But Lauren knew that Paul already had strong feelings for her and she’d refused to lead him on. He was an attractive man who deserved to fall in love with a woman who could love him back. Lauren wasn’t that person.

Lost in thought now that she’d had hours to become accustomed to the jostling of her camel’s strange gait, she hardly noticed the change in the topography to the southwest. It seemed there was a ridge of brownish mountains appearing as if out of nowhere. She frowned. Yesterday on her flight from Geneva, she’d studied a map of this area, but there’d been no indication of mountains alongside her proposed route to the oasis. She was positive of it.

Suddenly there was shouting. To her ears, the Arabic language always sounded a little like shouting, but these were guttural shouts of a different kind. They sent a thrill of alarm through her body.

“Mustafa?” she called to get his attention before realizing he must have moved further back to talk to the other men. She turned her head to find him. The caravan had stopped. “Mustafa?” she shouted so he’d hear her. “What’s happening?”

His camel came up alongside hers. “A sandstorm! We must take cover at once! Pull on the reins so your camel will sit. Quickly!”

Sandstorm. The dreaded violent phenomenon of the desert. At full force more terrifying than a hurricane or a tornado. Only a few days ago she’d read about a caravan many years ago with two thousand people and eighteen hundred camels being overtaken by a storm. Enormous surges and clouds of red sand were raised and rolled forward, burying the whole tribe in its way. Only one Bedouin had survived to write about it.

The surge of wind he’d described in his account now snatched at her cloak without mercy, as if determined to remove it. A strange yellow color stained the blue sky, blotting it out as if it had never existed. It moved fast toward them like a pyroclastic flow from a volcano, but she heard no sound. Panic attacked her because she was finding it difficult to breathe.

Suddenly Mustafa pulled her off her camel with almost superhuman strength and pushed her against the camel’s leeward side. “Hold on to the trappings, mademoiselle! Cover your entire head and burrow against the animal.”

“But where will you be?” she cried out in fright.

“Next to you, mademoiselle. You mus—” But she wasn’t destined to hear the rest. His words were muffled as he pulled the ends of his scarf around his face. One second he was there, the next second she saw … nothing.

There was an eerie din in her ears.

“Mustafa!” she screamed, but sand filled her nostrils and throat, gagging her. She covered up, feeling herself start to suffocate. She was drowning in sand. Her head spun like a top, gaining momentum.

We’re all going to die, was her last thought before oblivion took over.

Prince Rashad Rayhan Shafeeq, acting sheikh of the northern Arabian kingdom of Al-Shafeeq whilst his father was ill, had only experienced two moments of real jubilation in his life. Both times had been in his early teens. The first was when he’d broken in the stallion his father had given him. The other time had been when his father and the pilot had survived the crash of a small plane and had been missing in the desert for three days.

This afternoon at the mining city of Raz, he was feeling a different kind of elation mixed with personal satisfaction. This moment had been a long time in coming, three years in fact. Gold had kept the royal family prosperous for centuries and would continue to do so for the next thousand years, but his gamble to do more drilling—a secret those involved had strenuously guarded—had paid off.

Rashad glanced at the heads of the various departments seated around the conference table. He’d called in the most trusted of those who worked for him.

“Gentlemen. Today I met with the chief geologist and engineer who’ve given me the news I’ve been waiting for. The recent finds of minerals are so vast, my vision of opening up whole new industries to benefit my father’s kingdom has been realized. Besides thousands of new jobs over time, it will mean more education opportunities for the tribe. More hospitals and health care.”

Cheers resonated off the walls of the conference room.

This land had belonged to his family for centuries. They had rights to all the minerals and metals being taken from the ground. Various tribes throughout the years had coveted this area rich in resources beyond anyone’s dreams and had come against the people of Al-Shafeeq, spilling too much blood, but they’d never prevailed. Thankfully, in these modern times, there wasn’t that same kind of strife. Any problems today came from within the circle of Prince Shafeeq’s own extended family, but he didn’t have time to think about that now.

“Tonight when I return to the palace, I’ll inform the king, who will be overjoyed.” These days his father suffered from diabetes and had to be more careful in everything he did and ate. “I have no doubts he’ll declare a day of celebration. Your hard work has not gone unappreciated and each of you will receive a large bonus for your excellent work and your loyalty to the royal family.”

With spirits so high, he barely heard someone calling to him. He turned his head. “Your Highness,” the gold-plant manager beckoned to him from the doorway amidst the escalating noise. Rashad saw the concerned look on his face and excused himself to go out in the hall.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, but there was a sandstorm between El-Joktor and Al-Shafeeq, catching a caravan en route unawares.”

The bad news tarnished an otherwise red-letter day. “You have eye witnesses?”

“A passing horseman saw what was left of it from a distance and rode here for help. He noticed some camels wandering, but had no idea how many tribesmen survived or are dead and buried beneath the sand.”

His gut clenched. “How far away?”

“Twelve miles.”

“Assemble a search-and-rescue party to head out on horseback with supplies immediately. Have water loaded on to my helicopter and I’ll fly over the site to assess the damage and look for survivors. If needs be, I’ll airlift the worst casualties to Al-Shafeeq.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Rashad rejoined the men in the conference room and told them what had happened. The news galvanized everyone into action. They ran out the door behind Rashad to help in the rescue effort.

“Tariq? Come with me!” At a time like this, they would need all the help they could get and Tariq was a trusted colleague at the plant. His help would be invaluable.

At the waiting helicopter where water and other emergency supplies were being loaded, Rashad climbed into the pilot’s seat and did a pre-flight check. One of his bodyguards sat in back, followed by Tariq, who finished loading supplies then strapped himself in the co-pilot’s seat.

It was always dangerous to approach strangers in the desert, but with the knowledge that his own tribesmen might be involved, Rashad couldn’t look the other way. Within seconds he had the rotors whining and they lifted off.

He wished he could fly this machine as fast as his tribe’s famous streamlined falcons flew. When they went into a stoop for their prey, Rashad had clocked them doing 200 mph. Getting to the scene of the tragedy quickly was crucial if it meant lives could be saved.

This part of the desert was known for violent winds that rose up suddenly without warning. Sandstorms weren’t so common in the area, but when they did come, they could be devastating.

Before long he spotted cloaked figures and camels clustered together. Tariq handed him the binoculars for a better look. All were waving. The situation might not be as bad as first reported. He gave back the glasses and set the helicopter down a short distance off, willing to take the risk to his own safety.

“Careful, Your Highness,” Tariq cautioned. “It could be bandits luring us into the open. Someone may have planned an ambush and is waiting for us to walk into it.”

Rashad supposed it was possible, but then a group of men from the caravan came running toward them and Rashad recognized Mustafa Tahar before they bowed down to praise the prince for their deliverance.

“It’s all right,” Rashad advised his companions. Even as the blades were still rotating, whipping up sand, Tariq began lowering supplies. Rashad shut off the engine and jumped down to help carry water, that vital necessity meaning life or death under these circumstances.

Mustafa, a reputable caravan cameleer from the oasis whom Rashad had known for years, motioned him over to a spot where he saw a body laid out on the sand and covered by blankets.

“This one is still alive, but without a doctor to rehydrate her, she will not live. I tried to give her the little water I had left, but it ran out of her mouth.”

“She?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Rashad hunkered down and lifted the blanket off her body, surprised to see a woman lying on her side wearing a man’s kandura. His fingers felt for a pulse at her slim wrist. It was slow, but it was there. She wore no jewelry on her delicate hands, only a gold watch around her wrist. Rashad noticed that she was already feverish.

His gaze traveled over her, stunned by the sight of hair as diaphanous as gossamer despite the sand particles. Her beauty was a revelation. It caused him to pause for a second before he reached down and picked her up; her slight weight filled his arms, sending an odd sensation through him.