Crossing the Chasm — Part 2. She needed a savior — but the devil…
By: Lynda Coker
Tags: Fiction, Jessica, Books, Romance, Novel

Califar shoved one of the guards out of his way and surged toward Jessica. She hung like a slaughtered lamb, fresh blood streaking down her arms. He lifted her limp body and jerked his head toward her hands, giving the two guards a command that didn’t need words. His gut gnawed with primal fury as they uncoiled the wire from her wrists.

Her full weight tested his grip. Tossing her gently upward, he secured her more firmly in his arms. Heat radiated from her body. She burned with fever.

He’d never experienced the intense urge to kill that suddenly choked him. Vengeance burned through him, leaving an array of mental images, the strongest being his merciless grip on a man’s throat. Cursing the circumstance that prevented him exacting justice, he vowed that when Jessica was safe, he’d do whatever it took to eradicate this band of desert vermin.

Striding out of the tent into the open, he stopped to fill his lungs with clean air, air without the stench of human misery that defiled his nostrils and left a sour coating in his throat.

With no other option, he headed for his temporary quarters. Little more than a hovel constructed of old packing crates and smelling of goats, it was the best he could do for her now.

He kicked the door open and bent to enter through the low opening, then kicked it shut. Placing Jessica on the room’s single cot, he eased the filthy robe over her head and tossed it toward the door to discard later. A short, Western-style blue dress clung to her thighs.

Irritation deepened the worried scowl furrowing his forehead. He should be accustomed to the feeling. This strangulating irritation had always been the second strongest emotion he’d endured in this woman’s presence, the first being an unwelcome attraction.

His hands shook as he turned and opened the bag beside the cot. Retrieving a small medical kit and bottled water, he cleaned and bandaged her wrists. The depth of the cuts worried him. It would not have taken much more pressure for the wire to cut into a vein. The skin on her wrists festered with infection.

He wanted to strip her clothes from her, to see for himself the whole extent of her injuries. But she’d endured enough atrocities, better to wait until she could tell him of her needs.

He pushed two fingers under the edge of her black headcloth. A gentle tug removed it completely, allowing a tangled mass of curls to escape. Impudent curls that persisted in constantly invading his dreams. The first time he’d gazed upon their coppery luster, they had tumbled in glorious profusion down the back of the most animated and beautiful woman ever to cross his path. Now, they lay lifeless, their sheen dulled by dirt and sweat.

He winced from the sharp pain cutting deep wounds in his heart. Walls of indifference he’d tried to build toward this woman shattered. He wanted to cradle her like a child. He wanted to promise that never again would she suffer, that he would forever stand as her protector. He wanted those things more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life… but a man could not do those things for a woman that did not belong to him.

Frustration clawed at his control. How was he going to save her, this woman who despised him and everything he stood for? A woman his mind rejected…and his heart craved.

No longer able to hold them in check, his hands cupped her face. His lips joined the rebellion and pressed to her forehead with fierce anguish. He traced the contours of her eyes and lips with the gentlest of kisses. The sickening fear that had taken residence in his soul since learning of her capture loosened its grip, inch by stomach-churning inch.

To find her alive in a camp of militants known to execute their prisoners was a gift from Allah. He wanted Jessica safe, away from this place. It was a thing easily desired, but not easily obtained. Since her captors had allowed him access, he could only hope they intended to negotiate her release.

Rising from the side of the cot, he searched the medical kit for the antibiotics and pain medication it contained. It was an easy matter to dissolve the tablets in a little water, not so easy getting them down Jessica. He sighed with relief when her body’s natural swallowing instinct took over. Not all the liquid made it down her throat, some of it spilled onto her cheek and neck. At least, it was a start.

He felt, more than heard, the presence of someone at his back. Easing to his feet, he turned to confront the intruder.

“You are Califar Cadin, First Regent to Prince Davar?”

Califar eyed the well-armed stranger dressed in a uniform of desert-camouflage and whose demeanor was one of authority despite his youthful appearance.

“I am.” Califar lowered his chin and stared at the stranger through tightened eyelids.

“I am ZaKar, the leader in this camp.” His lips twisted into a cynical smile. “I was much amazed when told of your arrival. What does the First Regent of Ahalamin want with this woman?”

“She is a personal friend of Prince Davar’s wife.” Califar allowed a challenging glint to sharpen his gaze. “The Prince wishes to spare the Princess further distress over her friend’s welfare and respectfully requests that you release this woman to me.”

ZaKar studied him in silence. Califar did not think he could be older than twenty-five, but his eyes were those of a tested fighter, calculating and watchful.

Without a reply, the man skirted him and walked toward the cot where Jessica lay like a lifeless doll.

Califar stiffened and cursed himself for not having covered her. Projecting a calmness he didn’t feel, he passively allowed ZaKar to approach the edge of the cot.

“For an infidel, she is strangely beautiful, is she not?” Zakar tilted his head toward Jessica, a carnal smirk lifted the corner of his mouth.

It was an obvious fact; nevertheless, Califar didn’t like hearing it from another man’s lips. Before he’d detected Zakar’s intention, the man boldly reached for a limp ringlet of hair resting against Jessica’s cheek. The delicate curl clung to his finger.

Califar’s stomach clenched as he tried to keep his posture loose. His arm muscles quivered. He didn’t speak. He didn’t trust his voice not to reflect the jealousy devouring his control.

“I have heard that there were women whose hair captured the glow of the setting sun, but never have I seen such before. It is most alluring.” Zakar dropped the curl and transferred his gaze to Califar.

“Prince Davar does not fight with his Arab brothers in this Holy War; however, he has not interfered in the past. It is strange that he would bother with this hostage, an insignificant woman.”

Shifting his weight to one leg, Califar let a few seconds lapse before answering. “You must remember that he took an American woman as a wife. His interest is personal.”

“And you, is it only the interest of the Prince that you serve? Perhaps there is a personal involvement of your own?”

Califar stiffened at the question, knowing he’d underestimated the man’s astuteness. Self-disgust sharpened his reply.

“Prince Davar considers this woman as part of his household. He will view further harm to her as an act of aggression.” Califar kept his countenance calm as Zakar’s assessing glare studied his face. The young leader didn’t like the veiled threat but he was doing a better job of masking his feelings than he was.

“Since this woman is of personal interest to the Prince, perhaps I should make sure she has no further injuries. She is a Westerner, exposing her body to our eyes will be of no consequence.” ZaKar reached toward Jessica.

Califar’s nostrils flared. Before ZaKar’s hand could make contact, Califar manacled his wrist with a crushing grip. They stood on either side of Jessica’s cot like two competing jackals over a fresh kill.

“I do not think that Prince Davar would object to an examination under the circumstances.” Zakar pulled back on his wrist.

Califar’s fingers tightened. “I object.” His words sliced through the pretense.

“Aaah…And what rights do you have over this woman?”

“She belongs to me.”

“You are married?”

“She is promised.” The shock of his own words altered the rhythm of his heart and allowed a desire, long subjugated, to surface. He tightened his eyelids until they were dark slits of lethal intent.

“Remove your hand and back away from my woman.” The sinister warning hung in the air, sharp as the sheathed dagger Zakar wore at his side.

ZaKar nodded in assent and pulled backward on his imprisoned arm.

Califar released his grip.

The camp leader circled the cot and strode toward the door, pausing at the opening. “It seems we both have an interest in this female. I, at the present, am her protector. You are her betrothed. At times like these, is it not our custom to discuss the matter of a bride price? We will talk of it tomorrow.”

Califar stared at ZaKar’s back as he vacated the hut. He never expected to free Jessica without cost, but thanks to his accursed jealousy, Zakar now possessed an advantage, one that would certainly elevate the price.

He glared at the woman whose image invaded his waking hours and tormented his sleepless nights. His obsession with her would be the death of them both.

He should have taken Prince Davar’s advice and married, putting an end to this inexplicable insanity. Fatima, the daughter of Sheik Hassid, would make a suitable choice.

Grabbing a goat-hair blanket from the side table, he tossed it across Jessica. Since there were no other beds, he extinguished the oil lamp and lowered himself to sit on the floor, resting his back against the side of the cot.