Adding to her distraction was `Abla, who pirouetted around the room, clad in the new clothes her father had furnished. The little girl was thrilled with his gift of a red thobe. Like Bryna’s, her dress was exquisitely embroidered at the neck and the sleeves. Her hair was clean and glossy, pulled back neatly into two fat braids that bounced against her thin back with every springing step she took. Bryna had spent hours the night before brushing the tangles from `Abla’s unruly mop and this morning, convincing the unwilling little girl to join her and Pamela in the bath.
Many of Fatmah’s objections to the friendship between the tall American and Sharif’s daughter melted away in spite of herself when she saw `Abla dressed for the feast. The child would never be the beauty Noorah was, there was too much of her father in her, but the improvement in her appearance was astounding.
At midmorning the Selim relatives began to arrive at the villa. The men greeted each other loudly and lounged about the tent beside the house while their wives and children were shown to the women’s quarters. Careful of her finery, `Abla joined her cousins playing in the courtyard.
Since most of the servants labored in the kitchen, Bryna and Pamela, observed balefully by Fatmah and Latifeh, served refreshments. The older women had drilled them for days, and now the foreigners proved to be excellent hostesses, making the guests feel comfortable and welcome. The sisters, cousins, aunts, and nieces of the Selim clan also watched the infidels but found no fault with their behavior. Nassar’s new slaves were demure, subservient, and remembered always to serve with the right hand. The dark one even smiled a little and attempted a few clumsy words of Arabic.
At last the Arab women gave up their scrutiny and started a dozen conversations, chatting among themselves, catching up on news of family and friends. They were not unkind to the white women, they simply ignored them, no longer interested in monitoring their every move.
But there was one whose sharp eyes still followed Bryna as the girl moved through the room, listening, trying to understand. Alima realized uneasily that this Bryna bint Blaine was one to be reckoned with. Her manner, while gracious and gentle, still revealed great pride and strength. She was more fit to be the wife of a sheik than of slothful Nassar, the old woman decided. True, she had blue eyes and she was an infidel, but...
Irritably Alima Al Selim put the thought away from her. The foreign woman belonged to Nassar, and it was an old woman’s foolishness to dream of what could not be.
After a while Sharif’s servant, Abu Ahmad, tapped on the door to the harem and told the women that the distribution of meat to the poor was about to begin. Chattering and donning their burqus, the women poured from the apartments. Fatmah caught Bryna’s arm before she could follow and handed her a pair of black cloaks and stiff burqus.
“You must not wear these outside,” she insisted, tugging on the sheer veil the girl held in her hand. “Cover yourself like the rest of us. We are going out to where the men congregate, and some of them will not be family. I will not have anyone say my son is to wed immoral women who do not have the decency to veil properly before strangers.”
Understanding the gist of her tirade, Bryna reluctantly accepted the garments and handed a cloak and burqu to Pamela.
“What’s wrong with this veil?” the English girl protested, ignoring Fatmah’s irate glare. “It’s much cooler.”
“Just because Nassar gave it to you does not mean you should wear it,” Bryna said determinedly, plucking the sheer length of fabric from Pamela’s hand. “It is too revealing to be worn in public.”
“But—”
“Listen to me, Pamela,” Bryna cautioned when the other girl opened her mouth to argue. “I just heard the women speaking of a woman who was put to death by her husband because he thought another man looked at her. Nassar may think he wants others to admire you, but if he became jealous—”
“Don’t say it.” Pamela shuddered, donning the burqu at once.
Then they joined the others in front of the house, where the poor of Taif waited. Involuntarily Bryna’s eyes sought and found the head of the household. Sheik Al Selim was known for his generosity as well as his wealth. He did not lack in grace, either, for he greeted each almsman as though he were an honored guest.
She could not help but think he was magnificent, dressed in a snow-white thobe and an aba of gray woven with gold. His white headdress billowed in the wind, secured by a gold-wrapped aghal. A sash of purple belted around Sharif’s trim waist held a pair of jeweled daggers and his ever-present sword in place.
Quickly Bryna ducked her head when Nassar, bored with the proceedings, allowed his eyes to drift toward the bevy of women. The young man frowned when he saw his two slaves standing beside by his mother, unmistakable by her bulk. Fatmah had made them wear cloaks and burqus. The effect of the clothing he had chosen was ruined, he realized.
Beside him, Sharif carved steaming sheep carcasses to distribute to the poor. The sheik’s gray eyes drifted continually toward the women clustered outside the door to the courtyard, the children ranged in front of them. There she was, he thought, his knife slowing its carving motion. The tall one at the back was Bryna, he decided, oddly pleased with the discovery. When her blue eyes met his fleetingly before she looked away, Sharif was disconcerted by a sudden rush of feeling. He jabbed at the slab of meat in front of him and sawed at it viciously.
He was disturbed by the effect the girl had on him, not just today, but every time he saw her. Only yesterday, returning from his ride, he had directed his mount to where she sat beneath the tree, grinding meal. He had stared down at her, but when she had turned her face toward him, her eyes questioning over her veil, he could not frame a simple phrase. He could not find the words even to tell her he was glad of her friendship with his daughter.
`Abla was like a wild creature, Sharif brooded. After Noorah’s death in childbirth, his grief had been so intense, he had not been able to bear even to look at his daughter. He had shunned her, leaving her to Noorah’s father, who had loved the child dearly. But the old man had died when `Abla was only four, and then she had had no one.
With no women in the harem, Sharif had assigned her care to the household servants. Although `Abla’s presence was a physical reminder of his wife’s death, he had wished when he brought Fatmah and Latifeh into his home last year that they would take `Abla under their wings. But his hopes were in vain. Fatmah was engrossed in Nassar, and Latifeh was mostly uninterested in the girl. Once again there was no one for `Abla—until Bryna bint Blaine.
He had wanted to tell this to the foreign woman yesterday, but he had stumbled, tongue-tied, like a green boy. So the mighty sheik had scowled down at her, spurring his mare fiercely in his haste to escape her expressive gaze. Târiq had sensed his anger and reared, lunging away.
Determinedly putting the memory from his mind, Sharif glanced around the assembly. `Abla stood in front of the women, a spot of bright red against their black cloaks. Her little face was clean and her hair was combed and braided. She reminded him of her mother, but for some unexplained reason the pain he usually felt at the thought had lessened.
He smiled at her as he bent over the joint he was carving. Catching his eye, the little girl grinned her gap-toothed smile in return. Unusually happy, Sharif cut a large portion of meat and gave it to the next person in the long line that wended by him.
* * *
A moody frown on his aristocratic face, Derek carelessly laid out another game of solitaire on the crude wooden table. Once the cards were dealt, he did not play but slumped back on his chair to brood over the inactivity. It could drive a man mad.
Tripoli was worse by far than any of the backwater posts he had known so well during his military career, the Englishman thought bitterly. Having resigned his commission, he had hoped for more adventure than he had seen in the army. But for more than two months he and Blaine had waited here in the heat and the flies and the dust, first for the arrival of Gasim, then for a message from Suleiman Ibn Hussein.
And they had nothing to show for it but an irritating little Arab slave who worked daily to convert his infidel masters to Islam.
Heaving a lethargic sigh, Derek sat up and began to play, if only to pass the time.
“It’s here!” Blaine burst into the room, waving a small paper excitedly. “The message from Baghdad has finally arrived.”
Derek was on his feet at once, the cards in his hand forgotten. “Where is she?”
“‘Tis as we feared,” the big Irishman answered soberly. “Ibn Hussein sold her in Arabia.”
“The bastard.” Derek watched the other man pace the room.
“Aye, Bryna is with the Selims, one of the most powerful families in the entire country. We’re going to have a hell of a time getting her back.”
“But we will get her back,” the young man insisted quietly.
“Sit down, Ashburn,” Blaine requested. He took the seat across the table and spoke urgently, “You and I must talk, for there’s something I must know. I do not like to think of it, but you do realize that it is possible Bryna is now a slave in some fat emir’s harem?”
Derek’s face paled at the blunt question, but he gazed steadfastly at the older man. “I realize it. I just hope it is not so.”
“No more than I,” Blaine said passionately. “But what I am trying to say is that my love is a father’s love. It will not change because of what has happened. Bryna is still my daughter.”
“I still plan to marry her,” Derek declared evenly.
“Are you sure, lad? Because you are not compelled to go with me to Arabia.”
“Not compelled to save the woman I intend to make my wife?” the young man asked coldly. “Whatever has happened to Bryna is not her doing. I will go with you to rescue her.”
“So you do care for her.” Bryna’s father nodded in satisfaction.
“Of course I do.” Derek’s frown deepened. “Do you think I would have come all this way if I didn’t?”
“I’m not sure what I think, Ashburn.” Blaine leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “You’re a hard one to figure.”
“Well, there is one thing of which you can be sure, Colonel,” Derek retorted. “An army of Arabs can’t keep me from Bryna.”
“‘‘Tis a good thing,” Blaine muttered, “for it may be an army of Arabs we’re facing before this is over.”
CHAPTER 10
Slowly life settled into a summer routine at the Selim villa. Latifeh began the religious instruction of the foreign women. In many ways the teaching of Muhammad did not differ markedly from those of the Christian church, but the convent-educated Bryna still dreaded the day she would be asked to make her shahada.
The days were busy, full of housework and broken occasionally by visits from Alima or another female relative. Bryna and Pamela were assigned various responsibilities, simple household chores. In the desert it would be different, harder. Pamela sometimes complained, but Bryna was pleased to be occupied with other tasks besides the mindless grinding she had done before the feast. Still, when the opportunity presented itself, she worked in the cool shade under the carob tree, where she had spent so much time before Eed al Adha.
One day, near kef, as she shelled nuts there, Bryna heard a piteous whimpering coming from the mountain behind the house. She stopped what she was doing and listened. The whining continued. It sounded like an animal in pain.
Jumping to her feet, she ran toward the sound. In a clearing surrounded by boulders, she found Sharif’s saluki, little more than a puppy, with one front paw wedged tightly in a fissure between two huge rocks. The dog tugged frantically at the trapped paw, bloodying the brown fur on his leg and yelping all the more when he saw the girl.
Bryna comforted the animal and gauged his situation. He had apparently stepped in the hollow between some jagged rocks, cut his foot, and become stuck. In his frenzy to escape, the dog had created a small avalanche, dislodging several large loose stones nearby, which slid into the fissure and trapped the paw even more firmly.
While the grateful saluki tried to lick her face, Bryna carefully began to remove the small pile of rocks mounded around his leg, hoping to free it without causing further injury. She was so intent on her rescue, she did not realize Sharif had arrived until he halted Târiq beside her and dismounted. Although Arabs usually valued dogs little, they were generally attached to their graceful salukis, and the sheik’s face was concerned as he knelt beside Bryna.
“How badly is he injured?” Sharif asked in slow, careful Arabic so the girl could understand.
“I cannot tell.” She did not look up, continuing to lift stones from the fissure. “I think he hurt himself more trying to escape.”
“Let me help.” Sharif bent to the task, murmuring to the dog as he worked.
Behind the screen of her lowered lashes, Bryna’s eyes flickered between the man’s intent face and his strong brown hands as he lifted the rocks away.
The closer the puppy was to release, the louder he whined and yipped and the more he twisted and tugged.
“Hold him so he cannot run, Bryna bint Blaine,” Sharif instructed. His gaze swept her face to see if she had understood.
The girl nodded and obligingly shifted her position, placing her arms around the dog’s body while Sharif freed the trapped paw. The man frowned in concentration, trying to ignore the fragrance of sandalwood that wafted to him from her hair. She held the puppy gently, though her arms tightened around him when he was freed. Although the little saluki was in pain, he now wriggled happily, trying to reach his owner, who had risen once the rescue was complete.
The dog’s joyful gyrations threw Bryna off balance when she attempted to stand with the saluki in her arms. Sharif grasped both her arms, steadying her as he pulled her to her feet. When Bryna’s eyes met Sharif’s over her burqu, his grip tightened and everything around them seemed to recede—the forest, the heat of the sun, even the dog squirming between them.
Sharif recovered himself first. Suddenly aware that he still held Bryna’s arms, he released her. Nodding down at the saluki, he said gruffly, “Here, let me take the dog. I know he is heavy.”
Awed by the rush of attraction she felt for the sheik, Bryna did not trust herself to speak. She transferred her burden, disconcerted that the act necessarily brought her even closer to the man. She all but shoved the puppy into Sharif’s waiting arms, and retreated a step before bending to examine the dog’s injury.
“I...I must look at the cut,” she said, gratefully averting her face. “He’s getting blood all over your thobe.”
“No matter.” Sharif glanced carelessly at the once snow white garment before returning his gaze to Bryna. All he could see was the top of her head as she inspected the puppy’s paw. “How bad is it?”
“It must be cleaned and sewn,” she answered hesitantly, searching for the right words. Taking off her sash, she wrapped it expertly around the wound, then petted the puppy, which had ceased its struggling and lay, whimpering, in Sharif’s arms. Her hand on the animal’s nose, she said falteringly, “Hot and dry.”
“Come, we will take him to Abu Ahmad to be doctored. Stay close behind me.” Sharif turned and started down the mountain with only a quick glance to make sure she followed. At a low whistle from her master, Târiq trailed behind them.
As the couple neared the house, they were met by Abu Ahmad, who was making his way slowly up the mountain, having heard the dog’s yelps. The servant’s eyes widened when he saw Sharif, his clothing spattered with blood. “My sheik,” he stammered, “are you—”
“It is not my blood, Abu Ahmad, but the saluki’s. I would ask you to treat his injured paw while I take Bryna bint Blaine back to the harem.” Passing the injured dog to his servant, Sharif stepped back to reveal the girl standing behind him.
Abu Ahmad’s eyes bulged as he regarded her with alarm.
“Is there anyone else around?” Sharif asked.
“They are resting—at kef—as all of us should be.” The old man glared at Br
yna almost accusingly.
“Alhamdillah,” Sharif breathed with relief. Turning, he explained carefully, “You have performed a service for me today, Bryna bint Blaine, but no one must know you wandered from the house alone, nor that I found you on the mountainside. Abu Ahmad will say nothing.” He glanced toward the old man for agreement and received it. “Nassar, your sidi, would be very angry if he knew—angry enough to beat you or even to sell you—because you were alone with another man. It is his right, and there is little I could do to protect you. Do you understand?”
Bryna nodded, angry and a little frightened as she realized the possible consequences of her impulsive, kind action. It was unfair. Scorching words rose to her lips, but she swallowed them, unwilling to offend Sharif. She knew he protected her at risk to his reputation if anyone ever discovered their meeting on the mountain.
“Go, then,” he ordered gently. “We will not speak of this to others.”
Safe in her room, Bryna wept, knowing she had missed an opportunity to plead her case to the sheik.
For days afterward she was tense, fearing that someone had noticed her absence that afternoon, but she relaxed finally when no one spoke of it. Certainly Fatmah’s behavior toward her had not changed. Once Bryna and Pamela had learned their household tasks, the old woman supervised only sporadically, coming in at odd moments to criticize.
During one of the hottest days of summer, Bryna and Pamela refilled the huge pots set in the corner of the harem’s main room to cool it. It was a job usually left to servants, but the servants were slaughtering and drying meat for the impending journey to the family home in Riyadh.
Her face flushed with heat, Pamela suddenly put down the jug she carried with a decisive thud and sat on a bench. “Let’s rest for a moment, Bryna,” she urged. “We have been at this all morning, and my back hurts.”
The Bride Price (A Historical Romance) Page 14
