The Englishman was mad, and madness followed in his wake. How else to explain why he, a Sherif of the Harith, a man who owed only Feisal allegiance, followed this green-eyed madman into a Turkish garrison town, alone and unarmed?
Better that he had never met the English. Better that the English had never come to Arabia, had never planted the seed of madness that now bloomed in Sherif Viggo's breast.
And yet, when the Turkish soldiers had taken Sean, had beaten him, had left him a broken and bleeding rag doll, it was not madness that shattered Viggo's heart.
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