TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
DEDICATION
I must confess I wrote this book for myself. It was the most fun I’ve had in ages.
Published 2009 by Medallion Press, Inc.
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is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2009 by Helen A Rosburg
Cover design by Adam Mock
Cover models: Ali DeGray
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset in Adobe Jenson Pro
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-60-542063-9
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First Edition
Previous accolades for Call of the Trumpet
“Meticulously researched. A fascinating historical.”
—Heather Graham
“Ms. Rosburg has done an incredible job of expanding this amazing plot into a riveting book which you will be thrilled to read. The characters literally jump from the page and pull you (bring a Kleenex) into this astonishing story!”
—Brenda Talley, The Romance Studio
“Call Of The Trumpet will sweep you away to a world of camels, beautiful horses, desert dunes, and of course, love.”
—Cat Cody, Romance Junkies
“Desert legends, slave auctions and life in the desert are only part of Rosburg’s latest historical. Death, love and politics also play a part in the lives of the hero and heroine in this compelling tale of trust and romance. Throw in a wolf attack and marriage as a second wife and you’ll be rapidly flipping pages.”
—Faith V. Smith, RT Book Reviews
“Call Of The Trumpet is a sweeping historical romance researched with great attention to detail. Helen Rosburg brings the world of 1839 Bedouin life alive in her novel Call Of The Trumpet. It is a sweeping historical romance filled with many realistic tidbits and interesting relationships that may, at first, seem foreign to the reader. Rosburg should be applauded for her ability to bring the reality of life for Islamic families to life in her novel by showing the real world and culture create an intense dilemma in the books. As Cecile is pulled between the culture she has adopted and her western ideas of love and marriage. Most heart wrenching is the decisions that Cecile faces and the bitter agony in her journey to find love. Call Of The Trumpet is not your conventional historical romance, but Helen Rosburg goes to great length to pull the reader into the world and culture of this strange society.”
—Tracy, Historical Romance Writers
Previous accolades for Blaze of Lightning, Roar of Thunder
“Helen A Rosburg delves deeply into the subtleties of the mountains and desert and into the deepest recesses of the human heart. Blaze Of Lightning, Roar Of Thunder is a compelling novel of loss and renewal, of revenge and redemption; a credible, inspiring tale of lasting love and its power to endure, to flourish, to heal wounds deemed not healable. A one-sit read.”
—Vicki Hinze, www.vickihinze.com
“… Blaze is full of strength and beauty, and her ability to grow after such horrific trauma is captivating.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Ms. Rosburg is a gifted storyteller, creating a compelling tale, sucking the reader into the pages to become part of the story. As each page turns, the reader experiences the West as it was in the days of hostile banditos and bounty hunters.”
—Lauren Calder, Affaire de Coeur
“Rosburg captures your attention with a riveting prologue and doesn’t let go until the gut-wrenching climax. She delivers strong, motivated characters, attention to detail, a well-drawn backdrop, and a story as old as the West. This is truly a memorable read.”
—Kathe Robin, Romantic Times BOOKreviews
Chapter One
Life, as Harmony had known it, was over.
With a heavy sigh, she stared into the small square of mirror hung over the scarred dresser top. Had she really become so pale in so short a time? The ocean voyage had lasted scarcely a week.
Before that, however, there had been the weeks spent at her mother’s bedside, and the sleepless nights, grieving in advance of the inevitable. Then the funeral, and the long, dark days of mourning. No, it had not been a short time at all. It was simply far longer than she remembered. So long, in fact, she could not recall the last time she had sat astride her favorite mount and loped across the meadow grass in the shadow of the majestic mountains. It was no wonder the honey tone had vanished from her skin. Even her flame-colored tresses seemed to have dimmed. She had not seen the sun in a long, long time. Harmony wondered if she would see it ever again.
A painful ball of grief replaced the area her heart and lungs had once occupied and then burst, sending shards of agony throughout her entire body. Perhaps the pain she felt was so much greater because she mourned more than the loss of her beloved parents. Gone, too, were sunlit days under impossibly blue skies, the wind in her face, the smell of horse and fertile earth in her nostrils, the feeling of freedom as she galloped across the plains of tall, dry grass.
A single tear slipped down Harmony’s cheek, and she quickly swiped it away, afraid that if the dam broke she would never be able to stop crying. The life she had left behind was gone, perhaps forever. She must learn to live with the knowledge, no matter how painful. Her life was in England now.
“Miss, are you in there? Hello?”
Startled, Harmony whirled toward the door. The cloudy dream of her former life evaporated as if it had never been.
“Yes? What is it?”
The maid offered a brief curtsy. “Your sister, miss. She asked me to fetch your bag and tell you the coach is waiting.”
“Thank you. I’ll be along in a moment.” Harmony watched the girl leave with the single bag she had taken up with her for the night then glanced around to make sure she had left nothing behind. It was easy to see, in the sparsely furnished room, nothing personal remained. All that was left was her lingering disappointment in Agatha’s welcome.
Harmony had enjoyed her building excitement as the ship on which she had voyaged made its slow, stately way up the Thames to the London docksides. For a time the sun had come out from behind the cloud cover of homesickness. The bustling river traffic had distracted her and the scenes along the riverbanks quickly piqued her interest. Like it or not, this was her new home. She sh
ould get to know it. When the teeming streets of the fabled city came into view, Harmony found her fingers curled tightly around the deck railing. Her heart pounded and she began searching the crowded wharves for a glimpse of her sister.
Never in her life had she seen so many people. She studied their apparel curiously then glanced at the skirt of her sapphire blue suit and exhaled a quiet sigh of relief. She was appropriately, even smartly clad, based on her measure of the most well-dressed ladies and gentlemen in the throng.
Harmony briefly pressed her knuckles to her eyes to suppress the sudden hot sting of tears. The suit, along with several other lovely gowns and accessories, had been purchased on one of her infrequent trips to New York with her mother and father before her father, a successful and wealthy cattle rancher, had passed away.
The memories were precious and bittersweet.
And they were a part of her past. Her future was in England, with her sister, Agatha. Harmony forced her hands away from her face back to the rail and let her gaze once again scan the crowd. Her heart seemed to skip a beat and she drew in a sharp breath. Was that Agatha?
The years had not been kind. The woman in the black dress and hat looked old beyond what Harmony knew her age to be. And then there was no more time for thought as Harmony was bustled aside to make room for the crew laying the gangway. Upon learning all passengers’ luggage would be assembled on the dock, she gathered her skirts and stepped carefully onto the shore planking.
On the docks, excited passengers reuniting with loved ones swarmed past her and Harmony was carried along in the stream of humanity. Inevitably, she drew close enough to Agatha to open her arms to her sister for a welcoming embrace. In the fleeting instant before her sister’s response, Harmony felt a rush of warmth. Perhaps everything was going to be all right after all. Maybe the long years of separation and infrequent communication were not, in the end, going to matter. Despite her fears and homesickness, maybe Agatha and England were, indeed, going to be “home.”
Heart brimming, Harmony stepped forward and enclosed her sister’s thin frame in the gentle circle of her arms. And felt Agatha stiffen.
“Agatha,” Harmony whispered near her sister’s pearl-bedecked ear. “Agatha …”
The older woman’s only response was to back away, stiffly, from Harmony’s embrace.
“Harmony,” Agatha said sharply. “Decorum, please. We are in public.”
The first barb had been delivered; Harmony felt it keenly. It remained as it had been when they were children, before Agatha turned nineteen and received a substantial inheritance from a recently deceased great-aunt living in London. Though the two had never met they had corresponded over the years. Their communication, and the inheritance, apparently persuaded Agatha to forsake her home and her family and move to Britain.
On the long voyage across the Atlantic, Harmony had had ample time to ponder the changes time must have wrought upon her sister. She had hoped the years might have softened her. She had hoped in vain.
“I apologize, Agatha,” Harmony offered, hoping to pacify her sister before the situation was blown out of proportion as had happened so often in the past.
In response, Agatha gestured to a nearby liveried footman and said, “Indicate your bags, please, Harmony, so Charles may stow them in the carriage.”
Harmony gratefully moved away to study the neat rows of baggage unloaded from the ship’s hold. A moment later she obediently pointed out her brass-banded trunk and single carpetbag.
“Well,” Agatha sniffed. “I can only hope you packed appropriately. You certainly packed enough. We will be leading a quiet life in the country, Harmony. I hope you don’t expect to put on airs with a fancy and expensive wardrobe.”
Though she had to bite her lip, Harmony wisely refrained from comment. Thanks to their mother’s fine taste, her wardrobe was smart and contemporary, hardly “fancy.” Agatha, however, would undoubtedly find the lovely clothes worthy of the harshest criticism.
“Put the trunk on top, Charles,” Agatha ordered, “and the smaller bag inside.” To Harmony, she said, “Due to your ship’s arrival so late in the day, we will spend the night in a hotel and proceed to the countryside in the morning. I assume you packed efficiently enough that your carpet-sided bag will suffice for the night.”
It would have to, Harmony mused, a bit of the sting of her sister’s greeting mitigated by the thought of dinner and an evening in what would surely be a posh London hotel.
The carriage ride through the busy city streets was a silent one, a blessing for which Harmony was profoundly grateful. The long trip had exhausted her,
Agatha’s greeting had saddened her, and homesickness seemed to have a grip around her throat, making it difficult to swallow, much less speak. Though the edifice was less than imposing, Harmony was glad when the coachman drew his team to a halt in front of the hotel.
“I will meet you in the dining room in one hour sharp,” Agatha commanded regally and sailed up the narrow staircase to the left of the entryway, a hotel maid scurrying in her wake with her bag. Harmony followed a second maid to another room at back of the hotel’s first floor.
The paucity of furnishings and lack of ambience hardly mattered to Harmony. At least she was alone. For a time. Dinner hour arrived all too soon.
The fare served in the dining room was as plain and unimaginative as the hotel itself. The only spice was Agatha’s conversation.
“I trust your journey was pleasant,” Agatha commented while slicing into a thin, gray slab of meat slathered in an unappetizing, brown, gravylike substance. “I’m certain our late mother’s solicitor provided adequately for your journey out of the trust I maintain on your behalf until your majority.”
“The voyage was very nice, thank you, Agatha.” Harmony speared a small potato after ascertaining the pale tuber had not touched anything else on her plate. It appeared pristine and she popped it in her mouth.
“Do not think,” Agatha snapped, “that you will be seeing any more monies out of your trust until you have come of suitable age. I am not of a mind to spoil you as our parents have done.”
The potato turned to dust in Harmony’s mouth. Shortly thereafter, braving her sister’s displeasure and disapproval, she excused herself and fled to her room. Sleep was long in coming and a blessing when it finally arrived.
And now it was time to get back into a closed coach with Agatha, drive to her home in the country, and spend the next three years, until she attained majority, wondering why her sister resented her so deeply. She could hardly wait. With another long sigh, Harmony pulled on her gloves and left the room. She willed the painful memories of her former life to stay behind along with the ghost of her brief presence in the unwelcoming space. If they accompanied her, she feared she would not be able to bear her prison sentence at all.
Chapter Two
It’s about time,” Agatha snapped when Harmony appeared in the hotel’s small foyer. She took in her sister’s appearance in a single, brief glance, turned on her heel, and marched out the front door.
Agatha noted, with approval, the alacrity with which her coachman moved to open the carriage door. She did not, however, deign to give him the slightest notice as she climbed inside. Familiarity of any kind with the lower classes was anathema. He did his job and he got paid for it. There the relationship began and ended. Agatha sat back in her seat and smoothed the black folds of her skirt. She stared straight ahead as Harmony ducked through the doorway, averting her eyes when her sister sat down opposite her.
Agatha clasped her hands in her lap and tried to hold back the wave of resentment that threatened to wash over her. She had no desire to live in a constant state of annoyance for the next few years.
It seemed, however, that was exactly what was going to happen. Their mother’s will stated explicitly that Harmony was to live with her until she turned twenty-one, and Agatha was to exercise discretion over Harmony’s inheritance as well. At least their mother had made one sensible decision.
Agatha sniffed audibly.
As for her sister’s appearance and manners, well, what could she expect? The girl was scarcely civilized. She had lived in the West, for heaven’s sake, with cowboys and Indians. She had been allowed to ride a horse wherever she pleased like an uneducated heathen.
But she could be trained, Agatha consoled herself as the coachman cracked his whip and the carriage rolled forward. It might well be a long, difficult task, but it was possible. And there was no time like the present to begin.
“I find that color entirely unsuitable,” she said primly. “You should be in black, Harmony. Black is the color for mourning.”
“It’s dark blue,” Harmony responded. “It’s close enough.”
“As I said, black is the appropriate color for mourning.”
Agatha’s tone was obdurate. There was not a trace of sympathy or emotion in the angular lines of her thin, pinched features. Harmony did not expect there ever would be. If, after a six-year separation, she had not had a single kind word to say in greeting, she doubted the future held much better. She had not yet even expressed any sympathy for their mother’s passing. Mother. The dearest, sweetest human being Harmony had ever known. It was suddenly more than she could bear, and her simmering anger boiled over at last.
“What would you know about mourning?” she said bitterly. “I can understand why you didn’t come all the way to America when Daddy died. It was so sudden and unexpected. But Mother was sick for a long time, Agatha. You could have come to see her before the end. And if you didn’t want to see her, you might at least have come to the funeral. You would have had such fun gloating over her grave.”
“Harmony!”
The way Agatha had spit her name at her was like a slap and Harmony recoiled. She could not imagine what had possessed her to say such an ugly thing, until she saw Agatha’s lip curl, actually curl like a snarling dog, and the caustic acid of resentment burned her once again.
“It’s true and you know it,” Harmony spat back. “All you ever cared about was money. The only times you wrote were to ask for more.”
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