Wade

by Jennifer Blake

  Ahmad’s mouth curved like a scimitar within the cover of his beard. “When you are wed.”

  It was what she feared, the thing she most dreaded. “Who…” she began.

  “That is my choice, but I promise you won’t be pleased.”

  She faced him squarely with her fists held at her sides. “I won’t accept him.”

  “You will, and soon.”

  “Why are you doing this? Why now?”

  “You have gone astray like the stupid ewe that wanders too near the wolf’s den. Your independent ways can only bring you grief. I am saving you from that.”

  He believed that, she thought. He really did, which meant he was light-years away from understanding how she or the other women around him viewed the actions of him and his kind. “How noble,” she said in choked irony. “And the money has nothing to do with it?”

  His head came up like a bull scenting danger at her oblique reference to his honor, but he zeroed in on the more concrete insult. “Money?”

  “The bride-price you will get for selling me.” She wasn’t supposed to know of her inheritance, something she’d almost forgotten.

  “You will not speak of things that do not concern you!”

  “I have no concern in where I am to live or with whom? You’re insane if you think…”

  He lunged forward and slapped her, an openhanded blow with the full force of his temper behind it. As she stumbled back, tasting blood, he caught her arm and gave her the return swing. She spun with the blow’s force, half-blinded by pain. As he let her go, she struck the wall then slid down to a sitting position, holding a hand to her face. Willa had been right, she saw in dazed recognition. She had never really learned proper subservience, had reverted to independent thought all too readily under the influence of Wade Benedict. This was the result.

  “You will do exactly as I say, stepsister,” he said, looming over her. “You will do it now and for the rest of your life. You will obey my every command, answer my slightest wish. You will serve me. You will be mine to use and to chastise as I please, for I am the man chosen to be your bridegroom, my dear stepsister. I am the man you will marry.”

  “No!” The single word was so sharp with horror that it hurt her throat.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, his voice rich with anticipation.

  A movement came at the open doorway and Ismael stepped into view. Concern was plain in his face as he spoke. “Ahmad? What passes here?”

  “Traitor,” he said in rough accusation as he turned to face this new target. “I trusted you to guard this woman, to see that she did nothing to shame my house and my name, and how do you repay me?”

  “Your way is not my way,” Ismael said simply, the words firm though his face had no more color than his white turban.

  “Your way allowed this she-devil here to corrupt my sister with her foreign ways, foreign ideas. It permitted the women under your protection to spit on the laws of Islam and bring dishonor to this house.”

  “I see no dishonor.”

  “You are a fool,” Ahmad shouted. “Next you will say you see no corruption.”

  “Treena makes her own decision, follows her own heart.”

  Chloe’s ears still rang from the impact of Ahmad’s hand, and her heart beat so heavily that she could barely make out what the two men were saying. Still, Ismael’s valor in daring to stand up for her and Treena warmed her heart.

  Ahmad snorted in disgust. “I should kill you, and would if you were not the father of my future nephew. You will redeem yourself by chastising my sister as she deserves.”

  “She is my wife. I will decide when she requires punishment.” Ismael moved forward a halting step. “She is my wife and I love her.”

  “You will do it or I will do it for you.”

  “She carries my son as you just said. She shall not be touched.”

  “I demand…”

  “You demand?” Ismael interrupted. “You demand while speaking of honor, yet you intend to marry this woman in defiance of the laws as set down by Mohammed.”

  Ahmad glared at him. “There is no law to prevent this marriage. I spoke to the mullahs only this morning, and they explained the wisdom of the Qur’an in this matter. It is forbidden for two people to wed when they share a parent, but nothing prohibits a marriage of those joined by law alone with no blood tie between them.”

  “This may be law, but what of decency?” Ismael’s gaze was troubled as he glanced from Ahmad to where Chloe sat, then back again.

  “What of it?”

  “Have you none? You have lived with Chloe as a sister, thought of her as a sister.”

  “Never!”

  “I say you have, for otherwise you’d never have sought out the mullahs for an excuse to take her.”

  “Silence!”

  “It’s wrong,” Ismael insisted, his gaze flicking again toward Chloe’s bruised face. “It’s a crime you will live to regret.”

  “What do you know of it?” Ahmad demanded. “You with your puny silver craft and crippled foot? You have never dared risk anything, never fought in battle, never given yourself and everything you are to a glorious cause. You are only half-alive and will never be more.”

  “I love and I make beautiful things with my hands,” Ismael said in quiet assurance. “You hate and destroy. Which is living?”

  Doubt cast a shadow across Ahmad’s face for a single instant. Then he made a rude, dismissive gesture. “Words, nothing but words. What power have they compared to deeds that lead to paradise?”

  Striding toward Ismael, he caught his arm, dragging him from the room. He slammed the door shut behind them. The rasp of metal against metal sounded as the key was turned in the lock.

  Chloe let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. With trembling hands, she pushed back the thick mane of her hair. She had survived. It was more than she’d expected. The reason was most likely the money to come from her father’s estate, but that didn’t matter compared to the result.

  She had stood up to Ahmad and lived to tell the tale. It felt good, more like her old self. She would probably pay for it eventually, but at least she’d had this moment.

  Ismael had defied Ahmad as well. She hoped that he did not also have reason to regret it.

  For long moments, Chloe sat staring at the wall, thinking of the two men. Ismael had appeared the stronger of the two in their exchange just now. Funny that she had never noticed. That strength came from inside, she thought, from knowledge of himself and the peace in his soul. Ahmad had neither of these things so was at the mercy of his impulses. Such a revelation didn’t help, of course, when his impulse of the moment was to tie her to him with marriage.

  What was she going to do? That frantic question beat into her brain. There was no answer that she could see. No possibility of escape existed. The one person who might be able to stop Ahmad was her stepfather, but any chance of contacting Imam in time was remote. He had not been home since her mother’s death. His occasional messages were often weeks old by the time they arrived and getting word to him was almost impossible. Communication with northern border forces was never easy because of erratic troop movements and the general breakdown in government-sponsored services. Still it sometimes seemed to Chloe that he’d deserted them.

  Regret for the lost opportunity offered by Wade Benedict touched her, but she refused to think of it. She wouldn’t imagine what might have been or picture Wade Benedict waiting at the bazaar even now.

  Or perhaps he wasn’t there. Could be he had already given up, was walking back to his hotel, or packing his bag, arranging to be driven to the airport. Soon he would be gone and would never return.

  She glanced around the small room, but there was no way out. The door was solid, the walls thick, the window made of small jalousie panes that opened only a few inches even when not stuck together by black paint. This wasn’t the first time she’d been locked in, so all avenues had been explored and abandoned long ago. Even if she could leave the
house, where could she go? There were safe houses operated by the RAWA, yes, but to be caught in the streets without a male guardian was as dangerous as what she faced from Ahmad. No, there was no way out.

  Pushing to her feet, she moved to the water jug on the table beside her bed. She rinsed her mouth, feeling a cut on the inside of her cheek with her tongue. Wetting a cloth, she pressed its cool wetness to her face in hope of minimizing the swelling. Curling up on the bed then, she lay still and tried not to think at all as she waited for whatever was to come.

  A soft call roused her. It was night, for she had been staring into the darkness like a zombie for some time.

  “Chloe? Are you all right?”

  She sat up and swung her legs off the cot, moving toward the sliver of light that marked the locked door. “Treena? You should not be here. Ahmad is angry enough with you already.”

  “He has gone out. He has the key or I would have brought you food and water.”

  Chloe smiled with a shake of her head though she knew Treena couldn’t see it. “You are so brave.”

  “I fear for you, sister of my heart. I am ordered to prepare a wedding feast.”

  “Then you must do it.”

  “How can you say that so calmly? I can’t believe Ahmad is doing this thing! I could have sworn he would never…”

  “What?” Chloe waited, a frown between her brows at the odd note in her stepsister’s voice.

  “Never marry.”

  “Because of his dedication to his cause?”

  “Not really.” Treena sighed, a worried sound in the darkness. “I love my brother. He was a sweet child, so sweet. I remember him dearly from when we were young together, the two of us left alone with our grandparents.” A brushing noise came, as if her stepsister had leaned against the door. “I thought never to speak of what came after, of the thing that brought this hate and paranoia to him. Now I must, for I fear that he will kill you when the marriage contract is signed and he is your master. There will be nothing to stop him, Chloe, nothing.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re trying to say.” Chloe pressed her forehead to the door, listening intently.

  “It was the mullahs,” Treena answered. “He was such a handsome little boy when our grandfather sent him away to school, such big bright eyes, sturdy body and gentle smile. Some of these religious teachers are holy men, but some…oh, some are not. Those who are most corrupt delight in making boys such as my brother fear and despise the love of women and the power it may have over a man. They enjoy training them to serve their needs in ways that…that make women unnecessary.”

  “You are saying he has become a lover of men?”

  “Not really, not in the way you mean. But he has no tenderness in him, not anymore. He cannot permit himself the love of a women from terror that she will drain his power, just as he was taught by those who see desire for a woman as competition for the adoration of their jealous God. He is consumed with rage as well, rage that he must feel desire at all, rage against those who hurt him, rage against his grandfather for allowing it to be done. Above all, he carries rage against his father who should have protected him but was away in the States getting married to one he could only hate.”

  It was not a pretty description though it made sense in a dreadful kind of way. “So that’s why your father gave in to him so easily, why he allowed him to take over.”

  “From guilt and sorrow, yes.”

  “But why hate my mother?”

  “She was an enemy twice over in his eyes, both female and American, so a perfect target for his anger. To hate the mullahs would be a sacrilege. To despise his father and grandfather to whom he was so similar in nature was too much like hating himself. He had to have someone as a focus for all that rage.”

  Chloe shook her head as compassion stirred inside her. For the first time, she has some small understanding of the pain she had glimpsed once or twice in Ahmad’s face. “People can’t help the things that are done to them as children,” she said slowly. “But they can help what they choose to do later because of it.”

  “Ahmad might have chosen differently, I think, if that had been all. There is also the matter of our father’s second betrayal.”

  “What do your mean?” Her stepfather, Imam, was an honorable man. Chloe would have sworn it.

  “He is not with the Taliban militia. He has no love of their policies or their methods, no heart for fighting their battles. After your mother was killed, he deserted. He has been seen with the opposition forces in the mountains.”

  “He’s fighting against the Taliban?”

  “And against his son.”

  What a terrible blow for Ahmad, Chloe thought, or at least to his pride. “Why haven’t I been told this before?”

  “My brother would as soon no one knew. But what about this marriage? You must not go through with it.”

  Could she? If she could somehow manage to continue her teaching, could she force herself to take Ahmad as her husband with all the intimacy that implied? She didn’t know, she really didn’t.

  “I seem to have no choice,” she answered, staring into the dark.

  “Even if he intends to kill you?”

  “Surely he doesn’t hate me that much? I’ve done nothing to him.”

  “You are your mother’s daughter. But it may be his notion of honor more than hatred. When the vows are spoken and your inheritance under his control, there will be nothing to prevent him from avenging what he considers to be yet another treachery.”

  “You mean he…he will not want me? Even at first?” It seemed vaguely possible, given what she’d heard.

  “I fear he will not spare you this physical domination. Though whether from twisted desire or pure revenge is something only he can know. Still you have shamed him by your teaching. He cannot allow it to be seen that he has no control over the women in his house. Death is the ultimate control.”

  “Dear God,” Chloe whispered.

  Treena was silent for long seconds. When she spoke again, her voice held determination. “The American must be told.”

  “What can he do?” Chloe laughed without humor. “This is a family matter.”

  “I’m not sure. Still, he was sent by your father so stands as proxy for him. His presence added to this crisis, I think, since it forced Ahmad to take notice of your coming and going. The foreigner has a responsibility toward you.”

  “Ahmad won’t see it that way,” Chloe warned. “And he may consider any message to Wade Benedict as a greater betrayal than all the rest.”

  “He may, if he finds out.”

  “He will certainly guess if Benedict interferes.” Privately she was sure that contact was useless. Regardless of what he’d said, it was doubtful he would risk a serious confrontation with Ahmad for the sake of a woman he barely knew.

  “What Ahmad thinks of me matters little,” Treena answered.

  The apprehension that crept through Chloe’s veins suggested otherwise. “But if he is so dangerous to me, will he spare you?”

  “I am his sister.”

  “You are a woman.”

  “So I am, and a mother of daughters,” Treena answered with resolution in her voice. “Some things must be done because they are right, not because they are safe.”

  5

  The crash against the bedroom door brought Chloe around in a single wrench of tense muscles. She stood still where she had been pacing in the darkness. She’d heard no footsteps, no warning, yet it sounded as if someone was trying to break down the door. Before she could gather her thoughts for her next move, another blow struck the heavy panel. It swung inward, propelling a man into the room. He plunged to a halt then straightened, a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette against the light coming from the small anteroom beyond him.

  Wade Benedict.

  He’d actually come for her.

  “Get your things and let’s go,” he said. “We don’t have time to waste.”

  At that moment, Treena appeared behind him, co
ming from where she must have been standing back out of the way. “Hurry,” she urged. “Ismael watches in case Ahmad returns or his guards discover that the American has eluded them. But he won’t be able to stop them.”

  The noise had awakened the children in the next bedroom where Treena and her husband slept, for they were crying. Their frightened screams, and the nursemaid’s futile attempts to quiet them, made it hard to concentrate. They were also a reminder that she might never see them again if she went away now. These little girls, along with Treena and Ismael, were the only things she valued in the house. Everything else, the photo of her parents, the last of her mother’s trinkets and jewelry, had been sold or destroyed. Regardless, she hesitated. She had been so doubtful that this man would come that she had made no final decision. Yet here it was upon her.

  Hope was life and life was hope in her lexicon. If she could not expect to live long enough to fight for what she believed, then it was better to leave the battleground. In that case, there was no real choice.

  “There’s nothing I want to take,” she said as she stepped toward Wade Benedict. “I’m ready.”

  “You will need this,” Treena said, handing over the burqa that was draped across her arm.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Shaking out the heavy folds, she lofted them above her head and let them settle around her while trying to position the mesh screen so she could see. She was still struggling with it when the commotion began at the front of the house. She went as motionless as a cloth-covered statue as she heard Ismael’s voice, followed by that of Ahmad’s in rasping command.

  Her elbow was caught in a firm grasp and she was pulled in the general direction of the kitchen with its rear exit. She took a few blind steps, then bumped into Wade as he stopped abruptly. As she finally centered the small viewing window, she saw that they were in the center of the anteroom from which many of the rooms opened, and that the American was staring at the doorway that led into the hajra.

  Chloe swung around in time to see Ahmad drag his brother-in-law into the room by the collar of his shirt, then give him a hard kick that landed on his maimed foot. Ismael groaned and would have fallen if Treena hadn’t rushed forward to clutch his arm. As he regained his balance, she slid her hand down to hold his, keeping him close beside her.