Rashid felt his pulse quicken in response to the feel of her breasts crushed against the thin fabric of his shirt. He gently lifted her in his arms and carried her through the house and out to his waiting Mercedes.
She clung to him in shocked silence during the ride back to the Palace, and while Rashid stroked her fine golden hair, he fought for control over the rising passion stirring his loins. To have her in his arms like this was pure torture, and he was greatly relieved when the car finally came to a stop.
Sara remained silent as Rashid gently eased her out of the car and carried her to her suite. He laid her down on the bed, but she clutched at him, fear showing in her wide blue eyes.
"Please, don't leave me."
"Oh, little bird, there is no need to fear anymore. I was not going far, just into the other room for a moment. I will be right back," he assured her.
The panic receded with his words, and Sara nodded as she let go of his arm. When he returned, he was carrying a snifter filled with brandy. He handed the glass to Sara.
"Here, this should help you to relax."
"Thank you." She took the glass, her hand visibly shaking, and sipped the fragrant liquor.
Rashid sat on the edge of the bed, concerned for her state of mind. She looked like a small, frightened child, and he longed to take her in his arms and make her forget, but then a sudden thought hit him. What if he had been too late? He really didn't know how long Abdulah had been alone with her. He had to know if his uncle had raped her.
"Sara ...," he started. She looked up at him, and he asked, "Did Abdulah ... did he ... hurt you?" and when she shook her head, relief flooded over him, but he instantly regretted his question as her eyes filled again with tears. He took the glass from her trembling fingers, set it on the table next to the bed, pulled her close to him, and let her sob like a child in his arms.
Sara welcomed the comfort of his embrace, drawing strength from him, until all her tears were spent. Then she pushed away from him, wiping her cheeks. "I'm sorry."
Rashid laughed softly, "Do not think anything of it. My shirt needed a cleaning anyway."
She couldn't help but smile at his attempt at a joke.
"Here," he said, "use my handkerchief." He dabbed at her eyes with the soft linen cloth. "I have never understood why carrying handkerchiefs went out of style. American women, especially, never seem to have one when needed."