He was managing his fiery steed one-handed, beautifully, better than any stableyard virtuoso she had ever known at ’ome.
His other arm about her was like a hoop of steel.
Or a lobster’s claw.
She felt pinched. And, in truth, she was. She was in the hands of the Shereef.
She tried to scream. But when she did so she only succeeded in eating a section of his flowing white robe.
She tried to think. But she might as well have been her brother, Tawdry.
She tried to smoke. And that was worst of all. Her arms were so encumbered she couldn’t get at any of her cigarette cases.
Not that she was left entirely without tobacco. The Sahara lady-snatcher’s garments rang with the odor of it.
To add to her agony, her snippy little nose smarted keenly and she knew it must be red as a beet from sunburn. And she was helpless to get out her powder puff.