The Bride Price (A Historical Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  “My Olivia dinna need this in Louisiana. I thought ye might use it.” Aggie held out a simple, elegant hat with a thick lace veil for Bryna’s inspection.

  “Oh, no, Aggie, I cannot,” the girl protested. “You and Gordon have done too much for me already, letting me stay with you, taking me to see the sights and listening to my problems.”

  “Nae such thing. We’ve enjoyed yer company the last two days.” Aggie patted Bryna’s hand fondly. “As for yer problems, if ye’re only hurt the once in love, ‘twould seem ye’re ahead of the game. Besides, Derek Ashburn is nae worth the tears ye’ve shed oer him. One day ye’ll find a good and true man. Naow go on, lass, try on the hat.”

  “Merci, Aggie.” Bryna smiled and obeyed, turning so the woman could adjust the heavy netting over her face.

  “‘Tis only a wee thing,” Aggie said ruefully, “but it has a veil, which ye’re goin’ to need in Tangier. Moslems are nae keen on seein’ a woman’s face, nae even one as bonny as yers. And Islamic law is the law of Morocco, of all the Arab world.”

  “Senora Moore...” The maid’s quiet voice from the doorway startled the women. “Your husband asks you and the young lady to come downstairs, por favor.”

  Whipping the hat from her head, Bryna smoothed her hair and followed the Scotswoman downstairs, where they found Gordon waiting in the hall outside the ornately decorated parlor.

  “There ye are, ladies. Come in, come in,” he greeted them heartily, ushering them into the room that looked as if it had been whisked from Edinburgh in the twinkling of an eye.

  Stopping in the center, Gordon cleared his throat noisily to alert its only occupant. The tall man who stood at the window overlooking the garden, his back to them, turned, and Bryna found herself staring into blue eyes that exactly mirrored her own.

  “Bryna, lass, I want ye to meet...” Her host foundered, seemingly at a loss.

  “Blaine O’Toole, my father,” she finished for him, her voice level and expressionless. She stared at the big Irishman with no welcome in her eyes.

  “Petite maîtresse, can it be you?” Crossing the rich Turkey carpet in two strides, Blaine took Bryna’s unwilling hand in his. “You are beautiful, as beautiful as your mother.”

  “Merci.” She accepted the compliment coolly. Freeing the hand he had captured, she increased the distance between them.

  A shadow crossed the man’s handsome face, but he forced a charming smile and turned to Agnes. “Hullo, Aggie, m’dear, welcome home. Thank you for looking after Bryna until I could get here.”

  “It was nae hardship, O’Toole. Ye’ve a fine daughter.”

  But neither O’Toole heard. They scarcely seemed to realize the Moores were still present. From opposite corners of the room, they regarded each other intently.

  Uncomfortable in the prolonged silence, Aggie fluffed a pillow on the hard horsehair couch and said nervously, “Well, sit down, then. Can I get ye a cool drink, Blaine?”

  With effort, the man transferred his attention from his daughter to his hostess. “No thanks, Aggie. Gordon has already seen to my comfort. You’ve taught him well,” he teased.

  “Well, then...” Meaningfully she caught her husband’s eye.

  “Ah, yes. Well, then.” Gordon took the hint with relief. He tucked his wife’s hand in the crook of his arm and led her toward the door, calling over his shoulder, “Aggie and I will leave ye for a while. Ye must hae a lot to catch up on.”

  “A lot to catch up on indeed,” Blaine muttered, watching the couple leave. Turning, he invited, “Won’t you sit down, ma petite?”

  “Non, merci,” Bryna replied, her chin lifted rebelliously. “I prefer to stand.”

  “As you wish,” the man agreed amiably. Dropping onto a chair, he stretched his long legs out in front of him. “I hope you do not mind if I sit.” The smile he turned on the girl was disarming as he asked, “Where do we begin, Bryna O’Toole?”

  “Why don’t you tell me why you sent for me?” she answered evenly.

  “Because I wanted to see you, to have you with me.”

  “After all these years?”

  “Yes, after all these years.” He nodded gravely. “I decided ‘twas time.”

  “And you never thought I might not want to come?”

  “I thought of it.”

  “Or that I would have plans for my own life?” she continued in a rush. Her color high, she paced in front of his chair.

  “I knew you had no real plans.” He dismissed her objections with a shrug.

  “What!” Bryna’s head swiveled, and she glared at him through narrowed eyes.

  “Mother Superior wrote that you were not destined for a life in the church. Thank God,” he added incongruously. “And I knew that you had no prospects for marriage.”

  “Mother Veronique wrote to you about me?”

  “Someone had to,” Blaine responded dryly, “since you did not answer my letters.”

  “I never read them.”

  “So the mother superior wrote me. She was most concerned that you never opened them. I thought it curious, too...since you kept them.”

  “She apparently wrote you a great deal.”

  “Twice a year, the sainted lady sent me reports on your progress. So you see, I know you better than you think.”

  “Based on some thirty letters?” Bryna cut in sarcastically. “You do not know me. You might know that I was a good student or that I broke my arm when I was ten, but you do not know me any better than I know you.”

  “I know you’ve got a sharp tongue.” Bryna’s father frowned. His limited supply of patience was dwindling. “I must tell you, chère, for all you look like your mother, you certainly do not have her sweet disposition.”

  “If my mother had not been so sweet, perhaps she could have made you remember your responsibilities,” the girl retorted.

  “I never forgot my responsibilities.” Blaine sprang from his chair and scowled at his daughter.

  “Oh, yes.” Bryna met his gaze defiantly, showing no inclination to retreat. “You always sent money for my keep, didn’t you? Perhaps someday I can repay you.”

  “With what?” the man roared, bending so his face was close to hers. “Your sewing money? ‘Twould be a fine life for the daughter of Blaine O’Toole. I’m the one who’ll be taking care of you, young lady. You might be interested to know that I am a successful merchant. I thought you might be willing, even glad, to share in my good fortune.”

  Bryna looked singularly unimpressed, but before she could reply, a rap sounded on the door and Aggie peeked into the room. Behind her lorgnette, her weak eyes blinked at the two irate faces turned impatiently toward her.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she apologized with a determinedly cheery smile, “but dinner is nearly ready and I thought you might want to freshen up.”

  “Merci.” Bryna swept from the room without a look back.

  “It got noisy in here quickly, O’Toole,” their hostess said accusingly as Blaine looked after the girl, frowning.

  “Ah, Aggie.” He sighed. “I’ve undertaken a great project here, winning over my own daughter.”

  “Aye,” she concurred, “but ye’re not likely to win her wi’ a display of yer Irish temper.”

  “She was showing just as much temper as I was,” he muttered.

  “No doubt. She inherited yer finer points—enormous pride, a quick temper, winsome blue eyes—and she canna sit still when she’s upset.”

  “She’s an O’Toole all right.” Blaine chuckled despite himself.

  “Aye. Since neither of ye are especially forbearin’, ye’re goin’ to hae to gi’ each other time. That’s what it takes to build love and trust.”

  “Trust is liable to take a great deal of time,” he remarked soberly. “She’s been hurt. I see it in her eyes.”

  “And I see it in yers, Blaine. I have for as long as I’ve known ye,” Aggie said softly.

  He shot her a harassed look, then returned to his post beside the window. For a
moment the woman thought he was not going to speak. When he faced her again, his expression was bleak. “I don’t think the ache has stopped since I left New Orleans all those years ago. Oh, it ebbs and flows, but ‘tis always there.”

  “And ye always faced it alone.”

  “Aye. I see now that I left Bryna to another kind of loneliness.” Blaine began to pace. “The child thinks I did not love her. I cannot excuse my behavior, Aggie, but I can explain it. I have always planned to have her with me.”

  “I believe ye, but ye must make Bryna believe,” the woman said softly. “And it’s been so long.”

  “Do you think it is too late?” He halted his pacing midstride.

  “Naooo.” Aggie’s watery eyes gauged his apprehension before she added, “But ye must talk to her.”

  “I will, if she will give me a chance.”

  “She will.” She nodded wisely. “But as I said before, hae patience. And once ye’ve won her trust, O’Toole, take care ye ne’er let her down again.”

  * * *

  “Welcome to Mahgreb al Aqsa, the Land Farthest West,” Blaine boomed as their sloop neared the dock. “And welcome to Tangier la blanche.”

  Blaine loved the panorama of his adopted city, sunbaked and whitewashed, scaling the cliff that rose behind it, but he was hardly aware of it. Stealing a glance at Bryna, who sat silently beside him, he was pleased to see the first signs of interest she had shown since they’d sailed from Gibraltar. During the short passage, her face had been closed and guarded and she had spoken only in polite response to his efforts at conversation. At last he had given up.

  Aware of her father’s scrutiny, Bryna was grateful for the veil she had donned when they’d neared the coast of North Africa. She had taken care with her dress this morning, selecting a dark, sedate frock with long sleeves.

  “Ye may swelter in the heat, my dear, but ye’ll be extremely proper to the Arab way of thinkin’,” Aggie had assured her.

  While the boat tied up, the girl surveyed her surroundings curiously, watching raptly as dark-skinned men wearing turbans and the loose-fitting robes called djellabas milled about. Some of them worked, some waited, but all seemed to be shouting. Loud and strident, the cacophony engulfed the travelers the moment they stepped ashore.

  Suddenly, from the heights, a haunting cry rose and hung in the air, seeming to increase in volume as a hush fell over those assembled at the dock. Most of the men turned and walked silently toward the city, disappearing into the narrow streets. After a moment, only a few laborers were left.

  “Where is everyone going?” Bryna spoke voluntarily to her father for the first time that morning.

  “To mosque for prayer. The muezzin just summoned the faithful. Moslems pray five times a day—at dawn, noon, midafternoon, sunset, and nightfall.”

  “Why didn’t they go?” She nodded toward the men who remained on the dock.

  “Either they’re not faithful or not Moslems.” Blaine grinned. “Actually, the ones in yellow robes are Zoroastrian.”

  “What is he?” The girl nodded toward a shapeless figure swathed in heavy black fabric from head to foot.

  “She could be most anything. That’s the costume for women in this country. The cloak is a haik and the veil, a yashmak.”

  “Will I have to wear one?”

  “I don’t think so.” Blaine chuckled at the distaste in Bryna’s voice. “But all females above the age of twelve must be veiled and modestly clothed. Come along now and mind you keep your face covered. We don’t want to make any zealots angry.”

  They met no zealots, for the narrow streets were nearly deserted, and they reached Blaine’s house without incident. Built of stone and plastered with buff clay, the walled house perched on the edge of a cliff, washed in the early October sun. From the outside it looked like the others in the exclusive neighborhood, flat-roofed and windowless where it faced the street, but behind and down a flight of stairs from the terrace was a tiny private garden. Beyond the garden wall the land dropped away, leaving open a breathtaking view of the harbor and city spread out below.

  Blaine opened an elaborate brass-studded door and ushered his daughter into a pleasant courtyard. In the center a fountain played, shaded by a huge pomegranate tree. Assembled beneath the tree, his servants greeted the master and his daughter. Yusef and Fatima, the houseman and maid, an ancient couple wearing the brown robes of Coptic Christians, were French-speaking Egyptians. The skinny cook, a Syrian woman named Hannah, spoke no French, but she bobbed her head agreeably and smiled in welcome.

  “No doubt you’re tired and would like to rest,” Blaine told his daughter after the introductions were made. “Fatima will take you to your room and Hannah will bring you some lunch. I am sorry, chère, but I must go back to the harbor. I noticed one of my ships arrived while I was away. I will see you at dinner.”

  “If you will follow me, mademoiselle,” Fatima requested respectfully.

  Bryna nearly gasped in amazement when the arched double doors to the house swung open. It was magnificent and not at all what she had expected. The courtyard through which they had entered gave the house a Moroccan flavor, but the interior was a curious but comfortable blend of East and West. It had been built according to Blaine’s specifications. In the huge entry hall, a curved wooden staircase that could have graced the finest home in New Orleans led up to an open gallery. On either side of the hall were a library and a dining room. There was no parlor. Blaine had not wanted one. He chose instead to make the common rooms spacious and cool with high cedar ceilings and to decorate them with colorful native mosaic tiles.

  Along the gallery upstairs, four carved doors opened into four splendid bedchambers. Bryna felt a stir of excitement when Fatima opened the one at the far end and gestured for her to enter. She had never had a room of her own.

  Poised in the doorway, she did not stifle her gasp this time. The room was huge, almost as large as the girl’s dormitory at Hotel Ste. Anne, and it was beautiful. Here, too, foreign melded with familiar. It seemed as if Blaine had drawn from bazaars and markets around the world to make the room a refuge for his daughter. Colorful mosaics adorned the walls, rich Turkey carpets were spread on the tile floor, and polished brass lamps hung from the blue-and-gilt ceiling. But under latticed windows, open to admit the breeze, was placed a tester bed, incongruous with its rose silk hangings and spread. Later Bryna learned he had imported the bed from England just for her.

  After a light lunch of thinly sliced cold lamb, Bryna slept until late afternoon, awakening to the cry of the muezzin. As she bathed behind a rattan screen, she could hear Fatima shambling about the room, lighting a lamp against the dusk, laying out her clothes for dinner.

  The girl lingered until her water cooled, postponing another meeting with her father. If they argued again tonight, it was no more than he deserved, she told herself rebelliously. Rising, she reached for a towel and began to rub her body vigorously.

  Everyone—Mother Veronique, Sister Françoise, even Aggie—seemed to think she could simply forget sixteen years of neglect, Bryna fumed. Everyone found Blaine charming. A silver-tongued rascal, Aggie had called him. They urged her to hear his side of the story. Well, in the entire twenty-four hours she had known him he hadn’t told his story, if he had one, she thought disagreeably.

  Although she hadn’t really given him a chance. The towel still clutched in her hand, the girl slowed her actions as she guiltily recalled his efforts to draw her into the conversation at dinner last night. And this morning he had been solicitous while she had been silent and unresponsive. I suppose I could listen to what he has to say, she thought grudgingly, but he is not going to charm me. I will have the explanation he owes me.

  * * *

  Downstairs, Blaine wandered restlessly from the courtyard to the library. How could he say what he needed to say to his daughter? How was he to deal with her coldness? True, he hardly knew her, but damn it, she was his daughter, his and Catherine’s. Surely the girl had some feeling fo
r him—he was her father.

  She looked so much like Cathy, Blaine reflected sadly, but there was a steel about Bryna that his delicate wife had never had. Bryna was a survivor, he suspected, a strong, unforgiving survivor. He did not know if he could win her love or her trust.

  Heaving a deep sigh, the man stepped out onto the terrace. The city sprawled below him, and lights flickered on a hundred rooftops where Arab families gathered in the cool of the evening. There, mint tea was being sipped and stories as old as the desert were being told. Faint laughter carried up to him in the still night, and he listened in a melancholy mood.

  He was unaware when Bryna entered the dark room behind him. Catching sight of him through the open doors to the terrace, she did not make her presence known, taking a moment to watch him.

  Her father was a virile man, his lithe, muscular body hardened by years of soldiering. His erect carriage, another reminder of his military days, made him seem even taller than his six feet. Blaine’s wavy auburn hair was sprinkled with silver at the temples, the only evidence of his forty years. Time and the sun had had surprising little effect on his lean, bronzed face. A network of wrinkles at the corners of his twinkling blue eyes seemed to add to his appeal, as did the lines that played beside his sensual mouth each time he smiled his ready smile.

  He was handsome, Bryna had to admit. She remembered almost nothing of her mother, but Catherine’s picture revealed a delicate beauty. What a delightful couple they must have made.

  “Bon soir, my dear. You look lovely this evening.” The man turned.

  “Merci,” Bryna responded uncomfortably, on her guard as Blaine entered the room, clapping his hands loudly, Instantly Yusef appeared to light the lamps,

  When the old servant had gone, her father gestured toward a pair of chairs that flanked a small table and suggested almost shyly, “Shall we have some wine before dinner? I would like to talk to you.”

  “Très bien.” She sat down on one of the chairs, busily arranging her skirt to keep from meeting his eyes.

  Blaine poured two glasses of fine red wine. Handing her one, he sat across from her and lifted his glass for a toast.