“No, daughter,” the sheik responded with a smile.
“But she does not remember me.” She nearly wept. “I am her friend. Doesn’t she even recall that I taught her to speak our language and she helped me with my French?”
“No, but that, too, is just as well, for all she spoke this afternoon was our tongue. She seems not to remember her old language. With her past forgotten, perhaps she can be happy here with us.”
“I hope so.” `Abla threw her arms impetuously around her father’s neck. “I want her to be so happy that she will not leave us, even if her father does come for her, don’t you?”
“Her father seeks her?”
“Perhaps not. Bryna feared he would never find her,” `Abla explained earnestly, “and it made her very sad.”
“She shall be sad no longer. She has us now.”
“I will be good for her, Abu. I will not say anything or do anything to remind her of her old life. I love her and want her to stay here. You do, too, don’t you?” She looked at the man shrewdly, wise beyond her years.
“Yes, `Abla, very much,” he admitted. “But that must be our secret for a time.”
“All right.” the girl agreed at once, delighted to share a secret with her adored father. “Now, how can we keep her from remembering?” Immediately she set about hatching a plan.
“We will not keep her from remembering, `Abla,” Sharif commanded gently. “But we will not bring up memories, either, good or bad. We will speak only of today and tomorrow, and we will speak only in Arabic. I must warn you, `Abla, she will surely ask questions, and you must not lie to her, for that would be cruel.”
“But what if she remembers?”
“Insh’allah.”
“Oh, all right.” `Abla sighed. Although she did not like the order, she would obey. “But I do have a suggestion.” She brightened suddenly.
“Yes?”
“Since Bryna thinks her name is Farha, can we keep calling her that? It is such a lovely name.”
“Joy is a good name for her, indeed, daughter. We will call her that. Now run along to bed.”
He watched as the child raced out exuberantly, a troubled frown on his face. It was written, “Confound not truth with falsehood, nor knowingly conceal the truth.” But Sharif realized he was prepared to do both to keep Bryna by his side.
* * *
“Good morning, Farha, peace be unto you,” `Abla exclaimed when Bryna awoke. The little girl stood next to the bed, grinning. Her delighted smile was snaggletoothed as new teeth grew to replace the ones she had lost.
“And unto you be peace,” Bryna greeted the gray-eyed urchin uncertainly.
“Look, I have brought breakfast for you,” the child said, gesturing to a tray on the nearby table. “You do not remember me, do you? Abu said you might not. It is all right. I am your friend, `Abla bint Sharif. Can you remember nothing?”
“Nothing. What happened to me?”
“You were injured when raiders attacked our camp in the desert.”
“How did I get here?” Bryna asked, sitting up weakly.
“My father brought you. He saved your life.” `Abla plumped the pillow efficiently and arranged the rumpled bedclothes.
“Your father? Sharif?” The injured girl groped for the name.
“That’s right.”
“The sheik,” Bryna continued tentatively. An image of Sharif astride a rearing white horse flickered across her mind. “The Sheik Al Selim...”
“Yes, yes!” `Abla cried happily. “You remember my father! Do you remember coming home?”
“No...Is this my home?” Bryna frowned distractedly, looking around the unfamiliar room. It was pleasant and spacious, but she did not recall it.
“Of course. Never mind, Farha,” `Abla comforted her. “You will be better soon. Do you want me to feed you? Your hands are shaking.”
“No, thank you. I can feed myself.” Bryna stumbled over the words. She did not know which took more effort, spooning the warm liquid to her mouth or concentrating on understanding what the talkative little girl said as she sat beside the bed. At times Bryna’s mind wandered, mulling over what she already knew.
Her name was Farha. She had been the intended of Sheik Sharif Al Selim’s nephew. But Nassar had been killed and she had been brought here. The little girl—`Abla—said this was her home. But where was her family? Did she have none? Was that why she had been brought to live in Sharif’s house? Why was speech so difficult for her? Had she forgotten part of her vocabulary when she lost her memory, or was the language she spoke not her own? Why couldn’t she remember?
She pushed the bowl of broth away wearily. Immediately `Abla summoned a serving girl and Bryna’s body was sponged with scented water. Then her hair was brushed and braided and she was dressed in a new gown. She tolerated the coddling, knowing there was little she could do about it until she recovered her strength.
“You look better. Do you feel better?” `Abla said enthusiastically.
“Yes,” Bryna admitted. “If I trusted my legs to carry me, I would go outside.” She gazed toward the window. “It would be good to be outside on a day like today.”
“You have only to ask,” Sharif informed her indulgently. The sheik stood easily in the doorway, his shoulder against the sill. Below the turban he wore this morning, his bronzed face looked younger than his years and carefree. He laughed lightheartedly from pure happiness when he saw Bryna looking so improved.
“On this first day of your recovery, Farha, your wish is my command.” he teased, striding into the room.
“I think I can walk,” Bryna protested when he scooped her up from the bed.
“And I think perhaps you are not as strong yet as you think you are,” he retorted good-naturedly. With `Abla dancing behind them, he carried Bryna into the warm, sun-dappled harem garden, where he deposited her on a bench in the shade. “How is this?”
“Wonderful.” Bryna said delightedly. “Merci.”
A shadow crossed the sheik’s face, but the girl did not even seem to notice the French word that had crept into her conversation. After a breathless instant, he answered courteously in Arabic, “It is my pleasure, Farha. How do you feel this morning?”
He relaxed when she replied shyly in Arabic, “I am much better. I...I understand owe you my life, my sheik. I—”
“Do not speak of your ordeal,” he interrupted her. Sitting down beside her, he took her hand in his. “Let us talk of how lovely you are now that you are feeling better and how quickly you will heal under the care of Faisal, my hakim.”
“And me,” `Abla chimed in. “I am your nurse.”
“And you.” Sharif chuckled, ruffling the little girl’s black hair. “You’ve been a good nurse, `Abla.”
The child said nothing but reddened at her father’s unexpected praise.
“Sit here for a while and rest, Farha,” Sharif commanded tenderly, preparing to leave. “When you are ready to go inside, `Abla will summon a eunuch. I must go now. Allah grant you a speedy recovery.”
Bryna sat with the little girl in the pleasant walled garden throughout the morning. After lunch an elegant-looking man appeared in the doorway to the house.
“Greetings, `Abla,” he called to the girl, who ran gladly to meet him. “Good afternoon. May there be upon you nothing but health, if Allah wills, my lady Farha.” Faisal frowned worriedly toward the woman on the bench. He had received his instructions from Sharif, but he did not like this, keeping the foreign woman in isolation, giving her a new name to go with a new life.
“Perhaps you do not recognize me,” the doctor said smoothly when Bryna stared at him blankly. “Although I was here on the day of your arrival in Riyadh, we have never really met. I am Faisal bin Seif, personal hakim to Sayyid...”
Bryna watched the man intently, but in her mind his face was replaced by another, more grizzled visage, and another voice in her head overrode his, saying, “I am Halef, personal hakim to Hajji Suleiman Ibn Hussein.”
`Abla cried out
in alarm as the girl paled and swayed on her seat, crumbling suddenly in a faint.
Faisal leapt forward immediately to prevent a fall. With `Abla on his heels, he carried the girl inside and laid her on her bed.
Bryna’s eyes fluttered open. “Halef?” she whispered.
“No, Faisal, my lady,” the doctor assured her softly, careful because he felt she must be experiencing an unexpected jolt of memory.
She looked up at him sharply. “Who is Hajji Suleiman Ibn Hussein?”
“I do not know, my lady. I have never heard of such a man,” the hakim assured her truthfully. “Perhaps he is someone you knew before your, er, accident. Do not strain yourself overmuch. Perhaps it will come back to you someday.”
“You can tell me nothing?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head sadly.
“Did you know me before yesterday, Hakim?”
“No.”
“Is this really my home?” she asked challengingly.
Behind him he heard `Abla’s faint gasp of alarm, and he answered carefully, “Sheik Al Selim says that it is, my lady.”
“I cannot remember. I know only what others tell me,” Bryna said sadly.
“Do not dwell too much upon it, Farha. You are still too ill to think clearly. Now look what I have brought you—al-Birni dates!” Jovially the doctor changed the subject. “Eat them and grow stronger by the day. It is written, ‘They causeth sickness to depart and there is no sickness in them.’“
“Mashallah.” The invalid smiled, taking the bag from him and tasting one politely. “`Abla, would you take these to the kitchen?” she requested. “And keep one for yourself.”
When the little girl skipped off happily toward the kitchen, Bryna turned to the doctor, her blue eyes clouded with worry. “Will I ever remember, hakim?”
“I do not know,” he answered honestly. “But, please, just try to enjoy today. Insh’allah. Do not worry about yesterday.”
But try as she would, Bryna could not follow Faisal’s advice. By day she was plagued with doubts, wisps of vague memory that came at odd moments. At night she was troubled by disturbing dreams, not all of them nightmares.
One dream recurred again and again. In it, a slender, handsome young man, dressed in foreign clothing, held her in his arms. His desire showed in his hazel eyes, and as he bent to kiss her he murmured words she could not hear. She knew he was about to say her name, and she strained to listen, but before he could speak it, she always awoke.
Night after night she lay on her narrow divan and fruitlessly dredged her faulty memory. Who was he, this man who caressed her in her dreams? Had she loved him? When she awoke from the dream, she always felt a devastating sense of loss. But she could not cry.
Others peopled her dreams as well. A big man with dark hair and eyes that were blue like her own. An old woman in a black cloak and a strange black ghata, but she wore no burqu, no veil, and her skin was so white. Leering Bedu faces sometimes loomed over her, causing her to awaken in a cold sweat. And she saw a girl who was as fair as a houri with golden hair. They were familiar, yet unfamiliar, all of them. Who could they be?
The question would drive her mad if she was not already insane, she thought gloomily. At last, casting about for an answer, Bryna asked the unwilling `Abla about Nassar.
“It is not kind to speak ill of the dead,” `Abla said darkly, “but I thank Allah that neither of us has to marry him.”
Bryna understood that `Abla had been Nassar’s bint ‘amm. The little girl had known him well. But it was not Nassar’s character that concerned Bryna. It was his physical appearance.
‘‘Well, he did not look like our side of the family.”
Bryna felt a moment of dread. The man in her dream looked nothing like the Selims.
“Nassar had dark hair and dark eyes, not gray like ours. Actually, to be fair, he was rather handsome, though he was soft and womanish.”
Bryna felt a rush of relief. Nassar was not the man in her dream. She knew instinctively that she had never loved him. Had she loved the man in her dreams?
“If you do not mind, I would rather not talk about him anymore, Farha,” `Abla was saying politely. “It is not good to think of the dead too much.”
“As you wish,” Bryna agreed at once, but she was disappointed that she could not question the child more.
The convalescing woman’s waking hours were filled with activities with `Abla and Sharif. Other than Faisal, they were her only visitors, but Bryna was content. Only at night did she feel lonely, lost, and confused. She always managed to forget the unsettling dreams for a time when the sheik appeared in the harem. He was a charming companion, solicitous and kind. He told stories, brought from the Ottoman court, of Scheherazade and always managed to win a smile from Bryna. The time they spent together was pleasant, but she sensed the man was constantly on guard, constantly watching her.
She tried in vain to ignore the attraction between them. He seemed to feel something for her as well. It was all so confusing. Had she not been betrothed to his nephew? Why did her heart seem to beat faster when he appeared?
Because, the girl realized with astonishment one day, somehow she knew how it felt to be held against his rugged, muscular body. And sometimes when Sharif bent over her, the corner of his kaffiyeh dipping between them, she had sudden flashes of vision of him without his headdress. His dark hair reached his shoulders, and he was clad only in a robe. She thought she remembered a scar that marked his naked chest. Had she seen him thus? Or was it another half-remembered dream?
Surely she had not dreamed the warm, tender pressure of his mouth against hers. Sometimes, drawn as if she had no will of her own, Bryna would find herself watching him, her gaze coming to rest on his smiling lips. Then intense, unbidden desire would leave her pale and disturbed, fighting to capture an elusive memory.
When this happened, the man had no idea what caused Bryna’s turmoil. He knew only that at times his beloved seemed to shrink into herself before his very eyes, leaving him desolate and alone.
After a time she began to show marked improvement, and Sharif was delighted. Color returned to her cheeks, and she protested the pampering she was receiving with a spirit the man remembered and loved. Her eyes did not seem so haunted, and she smiled more easily. How his heart soared when that smile was directed at him.
Sharif was a man in love, but he wrestled daily with his conscience. His feelings for Bryna and his behavior toward her were apart from everything he had ever been taught. Born into royalty and privilege, a leader among his people, he had a strong sense of right and wrong. Since manhood Sharif had always had what he wanted. Now he wanted Bryna, right or wrong. And he was willing to wait until she wanted him in return.
In the meantime he did what he could to make sure she was prepared for marriage. After her recovery, her lessons in Islam resumed. Bryna assumed she had forgotten what she knew and had to relearn it. Sharif hated deception but allowed her to think that was the case. He spent a great deal of time with her, discussing the Koran, delighted to find she was as willing to debate the law as a man.
Still, Bryna felt something was missing. There was more to the blank that was her previous life than Sharif told her. He answered every question carefully. Perhaps he could not tell her more. He maintained that his acquaintance with her had begun less than a year ago. He could not tell her what she wished to know about her past. How would she ever rid herself of the questions and continue with her life? Bryna tried not to surrender to despondency, but over time her confusion changed to depression.
One night while she slept, her dreams took her to a lush green oasis. The wind, cool and laden with the promise of rain, whipped at her clothes and lifted her unbound hair. But she did not feel the chill. She felt only the rising heat of desire as Sharif stood before her.
His gray eyes were intense, mesmerizing, as he leaned toward her, his lips descending slowly to claim hers. His hand caressed her cheek. It was too beautiful to be real, she thought. The t
hrill of longing as she swayed against his hard, muscular body was enough to wake her from her sound sleep.
Bryna lay on her divan, disoriented and drowsy, listening for the wail of the rising wind. In a half-waking state, she lifted her face for Sharif’s kiss. But he was gone.
Her blue eyes opened abruptly. She was alone in her room, and her heart was pounding. Sharif, his kiss, the intense longing she had felt—it had all been a dream. Or had it? Why did she feel so drained, so empty? Why could she not remember?
The distraught girl buried her face in a pillow. Unable to cope with the emptiness she felt, she wept at last.
She did not hear when Sharif entered her room. He looked in on her every night, content to watch her as she slept. But tonight he was dismayed to hear her sobs. He perched on the edge of the divan and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Farha, why do you weep?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was muffled. “Perhaps because I am so confused. I don’t know who I am or where I came from or where I belong.”
“You belong here,” he answered softly.
“Do I?” She rolled so he could see her tearstained face clearly. Her gaze was defiant.
“Of course you do.” He pulled her into a seated position, then placed his hands on her shoulders. “Listen to me. Although you do not remember, I told you once before, you must not worry about your old life. It will only make you sad. What will be, will be.”
“I do remember, Sharif. Insh’allah.” Bryna’s eyes widened with recognition at the snippet of familiar conversation, the tender weight of his hands upon her shoulders. She could almost feel the rush of the wind as it had swept them that day at the oasis and again in her dream. “It was real! I remember!”
“You...you remember all?” Sharif’s voice was fearful.
“Not all. But I remember the oasis. Can it be Allah’s will that you love me as you do?” she whispered wonderingly.
“Above all things,” he replied, his voice thick with passion and relief. His gray eyes blazed with desire, and with a groan he pulled her to him and sought her lips. Bryna returned his kiss eagerly, thinking of nothing more than the hunger that only Sharif could satisfy.
The Bride Price (A Historical Romance) Page 27
