The Bride Price (A Historical Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  Karen Jones Delk

  To Gail Malone who sparked the interest in Arabia that led me to write this book.

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  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

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  Alhamdillahl Praise Allah, for he is good! Silhouetted against the pale Arabian sky, Sheik Sharif Al Selim reined his graceful white mare to a halt on the crest of the mountain. Lifting his face skyward, he closed his eyes against the hazy sunlight filtering through the tree branches overhead and savored the moment, breathing deeply of the clean, juniper-scented air.

  He grinned as the breeze caught at his flowing aba and headdress and caused them to billow out behind him, exciting the playful young saluki at his side. It was enough on this beautiful day in early spring to set the high-spirited dog racing in circles, yipping joyously.

  The morning was filled with birdsong, and around him bushes rustled in the breeze. It was not like the empty places of the desert, where the only sounds were the harsh rush of the wind and the clamor of nomads who passed through the silent sands. Though he was most at home in the desert, Sharif loved the mountains. He preferred Taif, the hideaway of wealthy Arabs, even to his home in Riyadh.

  “Come, Târiq.” Sharif gently urged his horse forward. He guided her down the steep, narrow trail, his mind on his problems.

  A man should not be so troubled that his concerns stayed with him even in pleasant moments. Still, the sheik was grateful for the moment of solitude as he tried to collect his disturbing thoughts. His burden was his alone, but on a day like today the yoke of leadership seemed especially heavy.

  Tribal sheiks were selected, not born. “An equal among equals,” they ruled judiciously with their majlis, or council of lesser sheiks. Sharif had been young when he became the leader of his people, chosen not only because his father had been sheik before him, but because leadership came naturally to him. He was a sayyid, a descendant of the Prophet, and equipped with the qualities necessary to govern one of the most powerful tribes in Arabia: courage, honor, wisdom, and hadhdh—luck.

  However, his luck could be questioned over the past few years. His misfortunes had begun seven years ago with the death of his wife in childbirth. Noorah. Lovely, gentle Noorah. What loneliness her name still brought him.

  There had followed seasons of too little rain and senseless rivalries among the desert tribes when they should have been ousting their enemies from their country.

  If the tribes could think of themselves as one people, if they could unite as a nation, if they could overcome the treachery of the Ottoman empire, if... A grimace of impatience flitted across Sharif’s rugged face before he heaved a sigh of resignation. Never mind. Insh’allah. It was as Allah willed it.

  Life was difficult for the Bedu, the children of the tents, but at least, in the desert, a man knew who his enemies were—the sun and the wind, the scorpion and the snake.

  The preoccupied rider scarcely noticed as the mare picked her way daintily down the gentle slope, requiring no guidance along the familiar path. The sheik’s mind was on his nephew Zayid, the young man he had chosen as his successor. Having received no news of him for some months, Sharif feared for his safety.

  Just last year Sharif’s elder brothers, Hamza and Talel, had been murdered by raiders, and he himself had been wounded. When the sheik recovered from his injuries, the intelligence he received regarding the marauders was disheartening. The attackers were from a tribe of low standing. It was not fitting that the powerful Selim tribe should seek retribution upon them.

  But he could not forbid the hotheaded Zayid, eldest son of Sharif’s elder brother, from setting out alone to avenge the deaths. The young man had vowed to find the raiders, or even two members of their tribe, and kill them. No blood price would be accepted. He would shoot one as his father had been shot and stab the other with a sword as Talel was slain. A tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye, blood for blood, as it should be. Vengeance would be complete.

  Insh’allah, the sheik reminded himself again. He flexed his broad shoulders as if to shed his worries and realized with a start that he was already at the bottom of the trail. Just below him, through the trees, he could see the home of his beloved aunt, Alima. Though he was eager to see the old woman, he dreaded to emerge from the cool shadows of the forest into the heat that would engulf him. The hour was early, but already heat shimmered on the flat rooftop of the house.

  Alima was always pleased with her nephew’s company, but she rarely sent for him. Curious as to what prompted her request this morning, he rode slowly down to the dusty road in front of the house.

  His aunt, still lovely despite the ravages of age, was too outspoken, some said, for a proper Moslem wife. She had been his ally for many years, befriending the boy Sharif when he entered the household of Malek, his uncle. Today, from the harem, she offered staunch support for Sharif the sheik. He knew her well—her likes, her dislikes, her daily routine. He even knew where to find her in this sprawling villa she had purchased for herself when his uncle had died.

  Admitted to the women’s quarters by the aged eunuch “guard,” Sharif paused beside the door to watch his aunt. The elderly woman, her braided hair streaked with gray, her slight frame showing the effects of a lifetime of idleness, lounged on rich satin cushions, sipping a cool drink. Behind her, a small black slave lethargicalIy wielded a fan. Across from her, Hirfa, a decrepit Bedu serving woman, hunched over a tray of sand, reading Alima’s fortune.

  Glancing up, the old servant spied Sharif. Immediately she rose and made a respectful obeisance.

  “As salaam ’alaykum, peace be unto you, revered Aunt,” Sharif greeted Alima, his usually stern face lit with a smile. “No, no, do not get up,” he added quickly when she prepared to rise.

  “Wa ’alaykum as salaam, and unto you be peace,” she welcomed him, and settled back on her pillows. “You are kind not to require formality from an old woman, my lord, for my bones ache and I am nearly prostrate with heat.”

  She was about as feeble as his favorite riding camel, the sheik thought to himself, but to his aunt he said, “May there be upon you nothing but health, if God wills, Alima. You look well.”

  When she beamed with delight, her nephew was glad it was not necessary for women to wear veils before family members. How often he had been warmed by her smile.

  He accepted readily the invitation when she patted a pillow beside her, saying, “Come thou hither, Sharif.” Rings twinkled on her slender fingers, and her bracelets bumped together with a soft golden clatter as she clapped her hands, summoning the eunuch. “Bring rubb Rumman for my nephew.”

  Instantly the slave bowed and disappeared to fetch some of the pomegranate syrup for which Taif was known.

  When Sharif was situated beside her, Alima nodded toward the old crone who stood still before them. “I hope you do not mind, Sharif, if Hirfa finishes reading my future in the sands.”

  The sheik glanced at her indifferently. Hirfa’s dark eyes, crafty and sly, met his, then s
lid away. He had never liked the woman, but some believed she was gifted with the “sight.”

  Nodding grudgingly, he gave his permission, but he chided his aunt, “Can your future be different today from what it was yesterday or the day before?”

  “Fortunes change.” She shrugged carelessly.

  “All things are as Allah wills them,” Sharif retorted. “What is written cannot be changed.”

  “Say not that I wish to change my fate, nephew, but that I dislike surprises.” When the eunuch reappeared, bearing a tray with a cup of syrup and silver pitcher of water, Alima mixed the two to make a cooling drink. Passing the cup to Sharif, she met his gaze directly. Bismallah, she thought as she always did, he is as handsome as Satan himself, and his gray eyes, shockingly light in his sun-bronzed face, seemed to see into a person’s very soul.

  Thrusting away those vexing thoughts, she teased, “Admit it, nephew, wouldn’t you like to know what is willed before it happens? Perhaps we should have Hirfa foretell your future.”

  “Yes, sidi,” the servant agreed eagerly, “it would be a great honor to read the fortune of a leader of men.”

  Before he could respond, she gathered a handful of sand and allowed it to trickle through her claw-like fingers onto the tray. Then she leaned over it, examining the peaks and valleys of sand.

  Closing her eyes, Hirfa began in a singsong voice. “Oh, my sheik, ruler of the tribes of Al Selim, I see long life for you and respect for your wondrous wisdom in the majlis. I see ghazzi, many raids in the wilderness. You will be triumphant, mighty in battle, and you will take many spoils. Your herds will fill the empty places of the desert.”

  She opened her eyes and peeped at the man. One black eyebrow was raised skeptically, but he said nothing. Mumbling to herself, Hirfa returned to her inspection of the sands. Her eyes narrowed and the numerous furrows in her forehead deepened. “Joyous news, O Beloved of God,” she crooned. “I see a son, strong and manly, who will rule your people after you.”

  Sharif set his cup on the table with a solid thud and frowned at her ominously. “Zayid rules after me. Know you not I am the father of a daughter?” he asked scornfully. “And my wives are too old to bear children.”

  “I cannot say how Allah writes your destiny, O master, only that it is written,” she replied blandly. “I am but the bearer of news. What I read in the sands is as Allah wills, good ... or ill.”

  “What else do you read? Who will bear this son?” Alima asked.

  “Enough of this,” Sharif protested. “Did you not bid me here because you wished to talk to me?”

  Before the woman could answer, Hirfa hastily smoothed the surface of the sand. “If the master wishes to hear no more, I beg to be pardoned, my lady.” She moved as if to depart.

  “Wait!” Alima’s command caused the old slave to stay her quick exit. “Have you told us all, Hirfa?”

  “There is nothing else of import, my lady,” she mumbled uneasily, refusing to meet Alima’s questioning gaze.

  “There is more?” Sharif’s aunt demanded.

  Hirfa hung her head and did not answer.

  “Tell us what the sands say, woman,” Sharif commanded impatiently. “Then be gone.”

  “They say that you will value love above honor,” the fortune-teller whispered reluctantly. “You will find what your heart wills, my lord, but her bride price will be your honor.”

  “What? Never!” The man’s temper strained to breaking, he jumped to his feet and swept the tray from the table, knocking over his cup and dashing its sticky contents to the floor. “Away with your false words!” he roared. “There is nothing to be valued more than honor. It is better to die with honor than to live in humiliation. And, please Allah, I do only his will, not my heart’s. Now leave us!”

  Turning his back to collect himself, he did not see the cringing Hirfa scuttle away. Behind him, Alima gestured for the eunuch, who rapidly cleaned the worst of the mess, then dodged from harm’s way as Sharif wheeled on his aunt.

  “Sometimes you try my patience, Alima,” the sheik muttered.

  The old woman regarded him imperturbably from her cushion. “As I tried Malek’s patience before you. Do not take Hirfa’s readings so seriously, nephew,” she advised serenely. “I do not.”

  “Then why do you have her tell your fortune at all?” he grumbled, pacing irritably. His robe swirled behind him, and bits of sand, strewn on the smooth tile floor, grated under his boots, loud in the tense silence.

  “To amuse myself. Time passes slowly for a woman alone. But you are not here to talk about my amusements.”

  “Why did you send for me?”

  “To speak of other things,” his aunt answered vaguely, her full attention seemingly required to refill Sharif’s cup. Setting it on the table in front of the seat Hirfa had so recently vacated, she peered at him shrewdly. “It is not like you to lose your temper, Sharif. What troubles you? Is there news of Zayid?”

  He shook his head in mute response.

  “No word of Zayid, but always plenty of news about Nassar.” Alima sighed.

  The man’s jaw worked at the thought of his flabby, useless nephew, but he bit back his reply. After a moment he said evenly. “It is my hope Nassar will settle down when he is married next year. In a few months, I plan to send him on hajj, pilgrimage to the Holy City of Mecca. Perhaps when he has earned the title of Hajji, he will wear it with dignity.”

  “Perhaps,” she agreed dubiously. Then, gazing up at the sheik earnestly, Alima said. “I wish to discuss a matter of some importance, my lord.”

  Sharif nodded attentively and sat down across from her. At last they had reached the reason for her summons. “What is it, Aunt?”

  “I wish to speak of marriage...for you.”

  Sharif stiffened and leaned back slowly, increasing the distance between them. “I already have two wives, and I do my duty by them,” he stated flatly.

  “Indeed, my sheik, no one could doubt it.” Her agreement was quick. “When your brothers were killed—may Allah keep such and all hateful things from you—you arranged marriages for their widows among your relations. That was as it should be. And you married Fatmah and Latifeh, the oldest wives, yourself. I am not sure that is as it should be.”

  “I did what was right,” he began reasonably. “They are old—”

  “Exactly!”

  “And past the age of childbearing,” he went on, his voice rising slightly to override his aunt’s. “How could I ask anyone else to marry them?”

  “So you took the shrews to your own harem.” Her voice held more exasperation than sympathy.

  Before he glanced away, Alima saw a spasm of pain cross his face. When the man turned to her again, his craggy features looked as if they were carved from stone. “It makes no difference,” he said coldly. “I do not seek love from them nor companionship,”

  “Nor even sons,” she interjected emphatically.

  “Nor even sons.” The soft gray of Sharif’s eyes darkened to the steel of restrained anger, but his aunt was not chastened.

  “I know you think me a meddling old woman, my lord,” she continued doggedly, “and perhaps I am. But, as always, I look to the good of the tribe.”

  Silently the sheik rose and walked to the doors that opened onto the walled harem garden. Without seeing them, he stared out at the fountain and blooming roses while he weighed her words. Facing her, he said grudgingly, “Very well, say what you will, Alima. You know I trust your opinion as much as I trust some in my majlis.”

  “I am grateful, Sharif. You have been like a son to me, and I hope you will heed what I say now. You must find another wife, one who pleases you. Perhaps what Hirfa says is true. Perhaps you will have a son who will become a lion of the desert, the leader of the Selims.”

  “Allah preserve me from another wife!” Restlessly he resumed his pacing. “I treat Fatmah and Latifeh equally, but it is all I can do to keep the peace between them.” Suddenly he stopped in front of his aunt to say quietl
y, “Let me fulfill my obligations to the wives I have. I do not want another.”

  “You think you will never care again, Sharif”—the old woman smiled up at him tenderly— “but one day you will love again. It will be Allah’s great gift to you.”

  “Allah blesses me in other ways,” he countered firmly, “I will never love again.”

  “We shall see what your future holds, my lord,” she concluded their interview just as firmly, “But for now, consider what I have said.”

  With a black scowl, Sharif whirled and strode from the harem without another word. Women were sheytàn, life’s torment, he fumed, even Alima...especially Alima, with her knowing smile. Eventually she would learn she was wrong. He would not love again. It hurt too much.

  CHAPTER 1

  Perched on a bale of hay, Bryna sat in a pool of warm July sunlight that poured through the open door of the stable. In her lap she held a whining puppy as she tended a cut in his forepaw. “Stay still, mon petit, just one moment more,” she whispered in soft Creole. She wrapped a length of white fabric around his wound.

  “Et voilà.” Skillfully tying the dressing in place, the girl released the squirming ball of fur and watched with amused satisfaction as the pup balanced on three legs and gnawed irritably at the bandage. She glanced up at the Negro groom who leaned on a broom nearby. “Now, Benoit, you can tell ‘Tite-Charles that his puppy will be good as new.”

  “Don’t know what is wrong with that boy, always bringing home strays.” The wiry old man sniffed.

  “Your grandson suffers from nothing worse than a good heart,” the girl scolded, but her blue eyes were merry.

  “You have a good heart too, mam’selle, and a way with animals,” he grunted approvingly, returning to his sweeping. “But I think you’d better not let Sister Françoise find you in the stable again.”

  “You are right,” she agreed. “Besides, I should go so you can do your work.” As Benoit plied his broom, the girl lifted her feet in absentminded cooperation while continuing to gather her bottles and bandages, stuffing them into a dilapidated hatbox.