“What are you called?” he asked gruffly, forcing his mind back to business.
“My name is Bryna O’Toole.” She was ready to present her case when the man spoke.
“Do you know how a woman is named in the Arab world?”
She shook her head.
“We call her by her given name, followed by the word bint, which means ‘daughter of’ followed by her father’s name. So your name is Bryna bint ...?” His eyebrows lifted questioningly so they nearly disappeared under his turban.
“Bryna bint Blaine.”
“Good, good.” Suleiman smiled benevolently. “Now Bryna bint Blaine, you are American?”
“Oui.”
“I know little of America.” the marriage broker mused, “except that your sultan, Andrew Al Jackson, sent your sailors to rid our seas of the Barbary pirates. How difficult it is now to find white women for purchase. That is why I have only the three, er, two of you.”
Suddenly he became very businesslike. “My hakim says that you are in excellent health. Alhamdillah! And that you are a virgin. May Allah be thanked a thousand times. I will find you a good husband.”
Bryna felt a hot wave of color rising in her face. “If you will only let me speak...please, sir,” she blurted.
“Sidi,” he corrected pleasantly.
“Sidi, a husband has already been selected for me.” She knew it was a lie, but she tried to speak in terms the Turk would understand.
“He is not a husband until you are married.”
“But you must permit me to go home. I am not a slave. My father is Blaine O’Toole—O’Toole Effendi.”
She paused, looking for a flicker of recognition in the fat man’s eyes, but there was none. “He...he is a merchant here in Tangier.”
“I do not know him. He trades in women?”
“No, in spices.”
“Ah, that is why. We are not in the same business.” He waved his pudgy hand as if the subject were closed.
“My father will pay a ransom for me,” the girl insisted.
“Even if he were a king among merchants, I do not think he could pay enough ransom, Bryna bint Blaine,” Suleiman disagreed. “You will fetch a great bride price.
“But there is no time for such negotiations. I have been away from Baghdad too long already. I consulted a seer and the signs are propitious. He agrees winter is the best time to depart, for in only a matter of months, the heat will be killing in the desert.”
“But—”
“Enough, young lady,” the broker interrupted, but his voice was not unkind. “We leave tomorrow to join a large merchant’s caravan in Fez. From there we journey to Arabia, where many wealthy men seek white-skinned houris for their harems. Understand, Bryna bint Blaine, Insh’allah. Whatever shall be, shall be as Allah wills it.”
She stared up at him dully, her face blanched of all color. Powerless, she was beyond even anger.
“It is your kismet,” Suleiman explained weakly. “It would be wrong to resist fate. You do see that, don’t you?”
Bryna could not answer. Her words caught on the lump in her throat as tears threatened to spill down her painted face.
“There is one other thing you must do before you return to your apartments.” The marriage broker spoke slowly as if to a child. “You must undress. I must see what I have purchased.”
Faced with the prospect of disrobing before the men in the room, Bryna could feel the composure she had managed to maintain slipping away. Her eyes widened and she shook her head in desperate refusal.
“Surely you knew what to expect.” Suleiman sighed, his patience beginning to wear thin. “Did not the golden-haired one tell you what happened here?”
“Oui,” she whispered hoarsely.
“Then she must have also told you that I did not harm her. Obey me now or Jamil will remove your clothing for you.”
Hearing the eunuch stir in the doorway behind her, Bryna obeyed reluctantly. She pulled the caftan over her head, shivering when the warm night air reached her body, and stood tense and poised as if she would run away. She could not bear to meet Suleiman’s eyes, but she could feel his gaze upon her and struggled with the urge to cover herself with the garment she still held crumpled in her hand.
The marriage broker drew a quick breath. "Mashallah, you are lovely."
The long dark braid intertwined with ribbon rested on one creamy shoulder. A thin golden chain encircled her slender neck, and from it dangled a small locket that nestled at the base of her throat, glittering in the lamplight with each throb of her pulse. The girl’s legs were long. Her breasts were not large,but they were well formed, jutting above her narrow waist, and the gentle flare of her hips was enticing.
“Turn around,” Suleiman requested calmly.
The mortified girl revolved slowly.
“Mashallah, indeed,” he murmured. “You may dress.”
Gratefully Bryna whipped the caftan over her head and tugged it rapidly over her body. When she was dressed Suleiman pronounced appraisingly, “Surely the jinn gave you blue eyes and a face that is fair. Just as surely they gave you a body to confound and delight men. Have no fear, Bryna bint Blaine, you will have a mighty sheik for your husband. One with wealth and power, I assure you. Your sons will be lions of the desert.
“Go now,” he said, abruptly concluding the interview. “Jamil will escort you to your room.”
Gratefully Bryna departed, unaware of the ache of longing she had created in Suleiman’s loins where the other two women had not. The girl was desirable, but he would never taste her pleasures, he told himself sensibly. Hajji Suleiman Ibn Hussein was the best seller of harem slaves in the Ottoman empire, and women—even this one—were merchandise and nothing more.
Pamela was waiting when Bryna returned to the harem.
“From now on, speak to me in English whenever possible,” Bryna instructed before the other girl could speak. “That way we may speak more freely, since the guards are not likely to understand it.”
“Yes, let us not make it any easier for them than we must.” Pamela nodded in approval, then asked anxiously, “Are you all right?”
“Insulted, but not injured,” Bryna replied, tensing all her muscles in order to control the shaking that had begun when she’d left Suleiman.
“I know, you poor dear,” the English girl murmured. “Why don’t you cry? It will make you feel ever so much better.”
“No.” Bryna shook her head stubbornly. “I will not waste the tears.”
“How can you be so brave?” Pamela asked, about to cry herself. “I’m so terribly frightened.”
“I am afraid, too,” Bryna admitted, “but we will find a way out of this. But sleep now. We leave for Arabia in the morning.”
“Oh, no,” the other girl wailed. Throwing herself face down on her couch, she cried herself to sleep.
On her divan, Bryna lay stiffly, thinking of her father and of Derek. Did either of them search for her? Could they hope to find a rare white woman in a Moslem country? She tried to hope, until at last she sank into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
* * *
The moon played hide-and-seek behind the clouds as Blaine O’Toole wearily urged his horse up the steep street toward his house. It had been a long day and he was eager for his bed.
Suddenly he reined his Arabian stallion to a halt. The back of his neck prickled with an unexpected sense of foreboding. Something was wrong. The lamps at either corner of the compound were always lit after sunset and left to burn through the night. Tonight they were dark.
His saddle creaked in the stillness as the big man shifted uneasily and scanned the front of the house through narrowed blue eyes. Was he seeing things, or was the gate standing open? Though there were no windows along the street, there was not even a glimmer of light from inside as the gate swung to and fro on the soft breeze. Then a metallic glint and a flutter in the moonlight caught his attention.
Dismounting, Blaine drew the small pistol he carried in
his pocket and went to investigate cautiously, ready for ambush the moment he approached. But no one leapt out from the courtyard. Absently he reached out and fingered the piece of pink fabric flapping on the gate. The material was soft cotton, and it looked as if it came from a woman’s dress—the dress Bryna had worn when she saw him off that morning, he realized suddenly.
Swearing under his breath, Blaine yanked on the knife that held it in place. The fabric drifted to the dust at his feet as he examined the dagger bleakly. It was native in design, with the fine Toledo blade so common along the coast of North Africa. The handle was wrapped in soft Fez leather. Turning the weapon over in his hand, he read the Arabic lettering tooled into the leather on the other side. It read “Al Auf”—”the Bad.”
Gasim Al Auf, that bloody pirate! Blaine thought he had destroyed him at their last meeting. Obviously Gasim lived, but he would not live long if he had harmed Bryna.
“Bryna!” her father bellowed in alarm. “Are you all right? Where are you?” There was no further need for stealth. Al Auf was not in the house if he had left this blatant sign of his visit. Blaine threw the gate open with a clatter and rushed into the courtyard. His gaze roved the light and shadow, but there was no one to be seen. At first the only sound was the play of water in the fountain; then a groan came to him from the kitchen on the other side of the courtyard, where Hannah sat on the brick floor, cursing in five dialects of Arabic and rubbing her head. But she had seen nothing, neither her assailant nor the mistress.
Racing into the dark house, Blaine checked the deserted rooms downstairs first. In the dining room he noticed the door to the terrace was open. There he nearly tripped over a figure, sprawled on the cold tiles. Yusef...still unconscious. Where was Bryna?
Blaine took the stairs three at a time, dreading what he would find. He heard a moan as he opened the door to Bryna’s bedchamber. Fatima stirred on the bed, where she had fallen when she was struck, but there was no sign of his daughter.
With grim efficiency he revived the servants and herded them into the library. Addled and nursing blinding headaches, they recounted the visit of the mistress’s Inglayzi friend during the afternoon, but after that none could recall anything out of the ordinary, not even a noise.
“I would have protected her with my life, effendi,” the old houseman maintained stoutly, “if I had but known she needed protection. Say the word and we will track the villain to the ends of the earth.”
“No, Yusef.” Blaine sighed. “First the police must be notified. But tomorrow...” He did not finish his sentence.
The servants were silent. They knew, as Blaine did, that the police could do little to find a kidnapped girl. The young mistress had probably already been spirited away to the Casbah, the Arab quarter, where it would be nearly impossible for anyone to find her.
But he had to try, her anguished father told himself. He had to find her. He could not let her down. Tomorrow he would haunt the souks, the center of all information in Tangier, searching for the clue that would lead him to Gasim Al Auf...and to Bryna.
* * *
“What is going on here?” Blaine strode into the midst of a dispute in his own courtyard. Tired and aggravated from a week of combing Tangier for clues of his daughter’s whereabouts, he did not think an hour’s rest was too much to ask. “What the hell is this bedlam?” he roared, his Irish brogue thickening in his irritation.
Both men ceased their shouting at once and turned to face the wrathful, red-faced man.
“O’Toole Effendi,” Yusef answered respectfully in French. “I tried to tell the Inglayzi that the mistress is not at home—”
“I demand to see Bryna,” Derek Ashburn interrupted hotly in English. He shouldered past the old servant to present himself to the master of the house.
“I do not know who you are to make demands,” Blaine replied with deceptive mildness, “but my daughter is not here, Mr....” He paused and regarded the elegant young man questioningly.
“Ashburn. Lieutenant Ashburn.” Derek snapped to attention. “I am pleased to meet you. Colonel O’Toole.”
“‘Tis Mr. O’Toole these days.”
“Bryna told me a great deal about you.”
“I doubt that,” the big Irishman disagreed, but he shook the proffered hand. “She did not even know me until two weeks ago.”
“Is she in, sir? I have tried every day for the past week to see her, and this old blackguard would not allow me in the front door. Acts as if he doesn’t understand a word of English.” Derek scowled at the old servant. “And I’ve forgotten all the French my tutor ever taught me.”
“Yusef speaks little English, but he follows orders well enough. I am sorry, young man. There is no time for niceties. Instead of entertaining visitors, we must prepare for an expedition. I fear you have come at a bad time.” Blaine gestured at the piles of provisions stacked around the courtyard. “I am going to search for my daughter.”
“To search...?” Derek seemed genuinely baffled before he glared at Blaine belligerently. “I say, what is going on? What has happened to Bryna?”
“She was kidnapped from this house last week,” the girl’s father replied simply, making no effort to soften the blow.
The color drained from Derek’s handsome face. “Last week? And you are just now going to look for her?”
“I have only just learned where she might be.” Blaine frowned, resentful of the younger man’s implication. “Finding a missing woman in Moslem North Africa is not a simple matter, Lieutenant Ashburn. But I assure you I will find her and I will bring her back. Good day.” He nodded toward the gate in dismissal and turned to walk back toward to the house.
The British soldier held his ground stubbornly. “I am going with you.”
“No, lad,” Blaine said over his shoulder. “This is family business.”
“I am going with you,” the young man repeated firmly. “I have every right...as Bryna’s fiancé.”
“Her what?” the Irishman thundered, whirling on him.
Poised for confrontation, Derek did not flinch. “Her fiancé. Didn’t she tell you we are to be married?”
“She did not,” Blaine bellowed, his face turning even redder with restrained wrath.
“She must not have had time. I only just proposed,” the Englishman explained confidently. “We...we love each other, you see, sir. And I will not rest until she is safe again.”
“Lieutenant Ashburn,” Blaine said, combing his fingers through his hair wearily. How could Bryna have hooked up with a soldier? That was the worst choice of a husband she could make.
“Derek, sir,” he prompted.
“Derek, you do not know what you are getting yourself into,” Blaine informed him with ill-concealed impatience.
“I don’t care. I will not rest until we have Bryna back.”
You may care when I tell you who her abductor is.”
“I do not think so. Who do these people think they are to kidnap the daughter of a British subject?” Derek countered arrogantly.
“Bryna was taken by Gasim Al Auf,” Blaine went on, ignoring the young soldier’s comment. “That’s Gasim the Bad, one of the vilest pirates ever to ply the Barbary Coast. He withstood even the efforts of the American navy to rout him.
“Now he’s come to Tangier to seek revenge on me. I killed his only son in battle when his cutthroats tried to take one of my ships, so he’s taken my only daughter. A tooth for a tooth, the Arabs believe, and an eye for an eye. I’m fortunate he did not kill Bryna outright.” He sighed. “I don’t know what Al Auf plans for her, but I know I must get her back quickly, before he harms her.”
“We will, sir, we will,” Derek pledged earnestly.
Blaine gauged the young Englishman with shrewd eyes. Something about Derek’s story did not ring true, but whatever his reasons, the lad obviously wanted to go along. There would be time to sort out the details later, and in the meantime he could use a good man in a fight where he was going.
“Ver
y well,” Bryna’s father conceded. “My informant tells me Gasim went to Tripoli three days ago. My arrangements are made. Make yours today and be ready to leave at dawn, if you’re going with me.”
CHAPTER 6
Bryna shifted, stiff from long hours in the cramped litter. Opening the curtains a crack, she surveyed the barren wasteland through which her camel plodded. This was the Fezzan, the heart of North Africa, where each day passed under blazing sun as the one before it.
Christmas and New Year’s had come and gone since she had been sold into slavery. Every day, every mile took her farther from the promise she’d had of love and a new life. How often in the past three months, she had listened for the sound of pursuing hoofbeats. By now her father and Derek must know she’d been kidnapped. Blaine had sent for her and said he loved her. Derek had proposed and said he wanted to spend his life with her. Surely one—or both—would come for her. That they might not be able to find her she refused to consider. She remained stubbornly optimistic, refusing to surrender to despair, encouraging Pamela who already looked to her for guidance.
“What shall we do, Bryna?” the English girl asked frequently.
“We’ll live one day at a time and look for a way to escape,” was Bryna’s practical answer. “Whatever comes, we will survive.”
She wished she felt as confident as she sounded. Their small caravan crossed hundreds of miles of desert, traveling from well to brackish well. From dawn and into the night, the camels were on the move, their soft feet slapping against the sand. The caravan rode toward the rising sun and its blinding rays shone on white sand, reflecting into the squinting eyes of the travelers. They had made good time, traveling by night a few times to escape detection by raiders, camping during the day, hidden by the dunes, setting a constant watch and sweltering in their tents.
Bryna soon discovered life in the desert was exacting for the hardiest of souls. The travelers endured intense heat and cold, hunger, searing winds that intensified thirst, and sandstorms that left them searching for lost tools and implements when it was over. For weeks on end each person was rationed to a pint of precious water a day, meted out at the end of each day’s travel. To extend their supply, sour camel’s milk was added to make a mixture called shanin. True to Suleiman’s prediction, Bryna soon learned to appreciate even that.
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