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carrying scimitars and wearing short knives strapped to their upper arms. Zara dragged in a shaky breath,lifted her head proudly and stared straight ahead into the vast hall as she approached the throne. Her gaze found Jamal and she faltered. He seemed to be conveying a silent warning that she chose to ignore.
    “The sultan is waiting,” Assad said, giving her a little shove when her legs refused to move.
    Zara stumbled inside the huge hall, righted herself and walked on wooden limbs toward the dais.
    “That’s far enough,” Ishmail said when Zara reached Jamal’s side. Then he waited for her to make her obeisance.
    “Pay homage to your sultan,” Jamal hissed into her ear when she boldly glared at the sultan and showed no sign of prostrating herself before him.
    “I will bow before no tyrant,” Zara contended. Despite her courageous words, her knees were knocking against one another.
    Jamal suppressed a groan. Did the vixen not realize she was flirting with danger? Did her life mean so little to her? He could see that Ishmail was becoming incensed and decided to defuse the explosive situation. Catching Zara by the scruff of the neck, he pushed her to her knees and shoved her forehead to the carpeted floor, holding it there with the sole of his boot.
    “What manner of female is this who insults my imperial person?” Ishmail thundered. “No respectable woman would dress like a man and refuse to pay homage to her master. Release the Berber wench, Jamal. I wish to speak with her.”
    Jamal’s foot eased on Zara’s neck and she leaped to her feet, sending Jamal a searing lookthat singed the air around him. Then she whirled to confront the sultan, her hands clenched at her sides, her gaze defiant.
    “What is your name, lady?” Ishmail asked harshly.
    “I am Princess Zara, daughter of the great Berber chieftain, Youssef,” she said haughtily.
    “Have you brothers?”
    “Nay, none that lived past infancy.”
    “Sheik Jamal tells me you are well loved by your father. He says that you ride at his side and fight like a man.”
    “Sheik Jamal does not lie. I have ridden at my father’s side since the age of thirteen.”
    Ishmail’s probing gaze slide the length of Zara’s body with uncommon interest. “I do not believe you are a real woman at all, but an aberration. Remove your clothing so that I may judge for myself.”
    Jamal suppressed a groan, waiting for the fireworks. He didn’t have long to wait.
    “It does not please me to remove my clothing,” Zara said with quiet dignity.
    “It does not please me to put up with your insolence,” Ishmail roared. “I’ve had men drawn and quartered for lesser offenses. Either remove your clothing, Princess Zara, or I will have it ripped from you.”
    “Do as he says,” Jamal urged quietly. “Your life rests within his hands.”
    Realizing Zara meant to disobey, Jamal helped matters along by stripping away her turban, releasing a bright cascade of blond tresses. The breath caught in Jamal’s throat; he was utterlycaptivated by the shimmering curtain of golden silk floating about her shoulders.
    Equally intrigued, Ishmail couldn’t wait to see more of this unlikely female warrior. “Continue,” he said with a hint of impatience.
    Zara stood still as a statue as Jamal peeled off her
djellaba
, refusing to help him or even acknowledge the affront to her dignity. When Jamal reached for the ties on her shirt, she winced but gave no other other sign of her distress.
    The shirt was whisked over her head and arms and tossed aside. A collective gasp from those in the hall brought a tinge of pink to her cheeks and throat but no other outward display of emotion. When Jamal made no move to release the sash holding up her pantaloons, Zara dared to breathe again.
    “So you
are
a woman,” Ishmail said, his gaze fastened on her full breasts. He stepped down from his throne to examine Zara more closely.
    For some unexplained reason Jamal wanted to tear Zara away when