“Then I may have them? All of them?” Nassar asked eagerly, disregarding the caution in his uncle’s voice.
“Do not rush me,” Sharif exhorted, pacing the length of the room. “This decision requires thought.”
It was time his nephew settled down, Sharif reasoned as he walked. Nassar was a born troublemaker. Perhaps four wives would keep him busy. Still, these two were infidels...
Reaching the end of the room, he pivoted and his gaze fell distractedly upon Bryna. Annoyed by his own inattention, the man riveted his eyes to the tiled floor and continued to pace, trying to sort his thoughts. But with every step he was aware of her quiet presence. He passed her twice more, and Sharif’s mind was made up, whether he liked it or not.
“Let us speak first of your bint ‘amm and your intended,” he commanded suddenly. “Because `Abla is still young, we need not concern ourselves with that marriage at present, but you must marry Farida as soon as we return to Riyadh. When the foreign women submit to Islam, you may marry them, but in meantime they must remain untouched.”
“But, Uncle, I want the fair one now,” Nassar whined. “She is mine, and I want her as my concubine.”
“No.”
“It is not forbidden.”
“No, but we are descendants of the Prophet, and it is not meet. All four women will be wives, according to the Koran, and all must be treated equally. Do you pledge this?”
“Yes,” Nassar said with a pout.
“Then hear me, my ladies,” Sharif instructed Fatmah and Latifeh as he strode toward the door. “Teach them what they must know to be wives of a Selim and good daughters of Allah, and find something decent for them to wear.” He paused at the threshold. “Come, Nassar, leave the harem to the women,” he ordered.
Sullenly the young man followed, throwing resentful looks at his uncle’s back. Sharif could order him to leave them alone, Nassar thought wrathfully, but they were his slaves and he would do what he wanted with them. The sheik would not always be around to make sure his command was carried out.
* * *
The sun set early in the mountains. Soon after his evening meal, Sharif stepped out on his balcony to watch the moon rise over the eastern slopes. Later he would join his kinsmen on the roof before it grew too cool, and there they would say their evening prayers and pass a few hours in talk. But now he needed to be alone with his thoughts. Baffled by his response to the girl Nassar had brought into their home, the sheik sought refuge in solitude for the second time that day.
A movement in the harem garden below caught his eye, and as if summoned, she stepped into view, dressed in a pale blue thobe, the loose dress of the Arabs, with a snowy ghata covering her dark hair. The paths between the flower beds were dimly lit by lamplight from the house that seeped into the darkness through the open doors. Unaware of his observation, she strolled, stopping to pluck a scarlet rose. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the rose’s fragrance, and although he had glimpsed her face only once, Sharif could almost see the sooty fringe of lashes against her ivory skin.
Entranced, he watched as she walked to the tinkling fountain in the far corner of the courtyard. Sitting down, she released the flower to float in the water. In the faint light, it was a spot of bright color.
Bryna watched pensively as it drifted. Suddenly she lifted her face and looked to where Sharif stood on the shadowed balcony. He did not move, certain she could not see him in the darkness, but all at once the moon burst into full light over the mountain and her eyes found his across the courtyard. Unaccountably the man’s heart raced, and he felt a stir best forgotten.
He fought to control his long dormant emotions, and before clouds enshrouded the moon again, his handsome face rearranged itself into a fierce scowl. He glowered at the girl, then, arrogantly, he settled his sword at his hip and stalked back into his room.
Bryna sighed when he whirled and disappeared from view. She needed a friend, and she had seen an odd glint of recognition in his gray eyes that afternoon in the harem. But now he seemed hostile, as if he disliked her very presence in the garden. She fought back ire, forcing herself to realize it was directed not at the man, but at the situation over which she had no control.
One thing was certain, she thought, turning her mind to the problems at hand, the women in the harem had no intention of showing any warmth or kindness toward their unwelcome charges. Fatmah, the elder wife, had assigned each of the newcomers a bedroom at opposite ends of the harem, as if she feared what would happen if the foreigners were allowed to stay together. Bryna and Pamela were given food by curious servant girls and shown to the bath, then allowed to nap during the afternoon.
They had been awakened for the evening meal and instructed to join Fatmah and Latifeh as they sat in the common room, chattering away in Arabic. Bryna had squirmed on her pillow in the stuffy harem while Pamela sat beside her dully, not caring that she was obviously the subject of the conversation. At last Bryna could stand it no longer. She rose, nodding amiably toward the older women, and motioned toward the garden, her request to go outside clear. Fatmah glared at her, but Latifeh, the younger woman, gestured in dismissal. Bryna did not wait to find out if Fatmah agreed but departed swiftly.
Outside, Bryna walked dispiritedly, trying to formulate a plan. When she had a better mastery of Arabic, she would explain to the sheik that she was a free woman, that she wished to go home. She hoped he would consider the wrong that had been done when she was sold into slavery. She prayed her hope was not misplaced, for Sharif Al Selim seemed different from any man she had met in the Arab world. She had understood enough of what had been said that afternoon to know that when he had rendered his decision, he had spoken wisely and justly.
Then she had discovered him watching her from his jasmine-covered balcony, his expression unreadable. When he frowned as if she had offended him and went into the house, she felt as if she might never have the chance to appeal to him for her release.
Bryna’s contemplation was interrupted when a small projectile plopped into the fountain and splashed water on her. A muffled giggle came from the branches of the fig tree overhead. Looking up, she spotted a pair of pale dancing eyes peering at her through the thick foliage.
“Bon soir,” Bryna called. “What are you doing up there?”
As a reply, she received a fig in her lap and more giggles. The branches swayed as the child attempted to conceal herself more completely.
“Won’t you come down?” Bryna coaxed softly. After a moment an impish face revealed itself and studied the girl on the ground speculatively.
There was more rustling of leaves as the urchin eased herself off the limb and hung by her hands for a few seconds before making the short drop to the ground. The little girl adjusted her rumpled clothes and shyly presented herself to Bryna.
She was an exquisite child about six or seven years old. Curious and solemn, she approached warily. Her gray eyes, set in a delicate face smudged with dirt and tree sap, seemed too old for the rest of her. But that impression fled when she smiled, revealing the gap left by the recent loss of baby teeth.
The little girl was barefoot. Her clothes, in poor repair, hung on her thin body. Her thick black hair, a riotous mass of ringlets, was matted and tangled around gold hoops that hung from her ears.
“Do you speak French?” Bryna asked, smiling down at her.
“Not very well,” the child responded haltingly.
“What is your name?”
“`Abla bint Sharif Al Selim.”
So she was not the child of a slave, but the daughter of the house, Bryna realized with a start. She should have recognized those amazing gray eyes. But why was the child so ragged and unkempt? Bryna did not question her but introduced herself instead. “I am Bryna...Bryna bint Blaine.”
“I know, Fatmah told me when I returned with the herds. You were in the bath. Are you really an infidel?” she asked excitedly. “I have never seen one before.”
“I am”— Bryna searched for the word — �
��Nasrani, from America.”
“Oh.” `Abla was unimpressed. Suddenly her lips curved in a conspiratorial smile. “Did you like the way I hid in the tree?”
“You hid very well.” Bryna laughed. “I didn’t see you until you dropped the fig into the fountain.”
“I know. My father did not see me at all. He never does.”
The way the child spoke made Bryna want to put her arms around her, but she refrained. If she had learned one thing during her months in Islamic North Africa, it was the Moslem’s aversion to contact with infidels.
“How is it you speak French, `Abla? I may call you `Abla, may I not?”
“Oui.” The girl edged closer. “My grandpère spoke the Frankish language to me. He was my mother’s father, and he said she would have liked for me to learn it.”
“Your mother?”
“Noorah. She died when I was born,” the child explained seriously. “It must be confusing for a foreigner, but I do not have a mother. Fatmah and Latifeh are my father’s wives. He married them last year when my uncles were killed. He had to take the widows of his brothers, you know. It is our custom.”
`Abla fidgeted, bored with adult conversation. “Can we go in and see the other infidel? I heard the servants whispering in the kitchen, and they say she has hair the color of the white sands and almost as glistening.”
“All right.” Bryna smiled. Brushing the bruised fig from her lap, she rose. “I will introduce you to Pamela.”
“Pamela? What a funny name.”
“Pamela bint Harold,” Bryna amended.
“It is still a funny name.” `Abla giggled. “Yours is too, but I think you are very nice for a kaffir.”
Slipping her hand unexpectedly into Bryna’s, the little girl skipped as they returned to the harem.
* * *
“About time he showed up,” Blaine muttered, peering out of the window of the rented room he had shared with Derek on the outskirts of Tripoli for the past week. “I was beginning to think our information, as expensive as it was, might be wrong.”
Derek joined the big man at the window and looked out at the dusty street. Trailed by a glum servant riding a donkey, Gasim Al Auf rode along on an unkempt horse, on his way to visit his latest paramour, a dancing girl from a waterfront cafe.
“I still do not see why we couldn’t have just gone to the village when we first got here, instead of waiting for him to come into town,” Derek complained.
Blaine looked at the young man with ill-concealed annoyance, doubting again whether he had ever seen any action beyond the parade ground. “‘Tis hard to see how you got to be a lieutenant, lad, if you spent your time storming the castle. First, all of Al Auf’s family and most of his men live in that village. We would not have had a chance. Second, we didn’t know at first whether he might be keeping Bryna there. I will not have her harmed.”
“Nor will I,” Derek snapped, before adding stiffly, “You are right, of course, Colonel, as always. I bow to your superior experience in battle.”
Blaine considered reminding the young upstart that he was no longer a colonel, but since it had done no good so far, he simply suggested, “Why don’t we save the hostility, Ashburn? We’re going to need it for the fight that is sure to come.”
They returned their attention to the scene across the street. Gasim dismounted and went inside. The servant led both mounts around the corner to a stable yard behind the house.
Blaine and Derek left their house by the back way and looped around. They found the servant drowsing in the shade of a skimpy acacia tree. He did not even look up when the horse, tied to the drinking trough, nickered softly at the sight of the two strangers. Silently they stole into the stable and watched the house.
They did not have long to wait. Gasim soon emerged from the back door, straightening his clothes. Calling harshly to the servant, he walked toward his horse.
If Gasim Al Auf was surprised when the two men materialized from the shadowy stable, swords drawn, he did not show it.
“Ah, O’Toole Effendi,” he greeted his enemy in Arabic. “I knew we would meet again someday.” He unsheathed his own sword. Seemingly reluctant, the servant did the same.
Without warning, Gasim gave a bloodcurdling yell and charged at Blaine. But the big man was ready, and steel rang against steel.
Brandishing his sword lazily, Derek advanced on the servant at once, drawling, “It’s rather a poor idea, y’know, to interfere in a private quarrel.”
To his surprise, the little man answered in heavily accented English, “I agree it is unwise, but what can I do? Even slaves have honor.” With a look of resignation, he faced Derek.
“I’ve come for my daughter, Al Auf,” Blaine stated evenly, meeting every slash of Gasim’s blade.
“You have come all this way for an unworthy woman?”
“You knew I would.”
“I thought better of you, especially since you must know I have sold her by now.”
Blaine stepped up his attack in response, causing Gasim to fall back against the rump of his horse, which shied uneasily behind him. The Irishman was not even breathing hard when he resumed the conversation, “I imagined you would sell her, but I’ll have the name of the buyer from you before you die.”
“I will never tell you,” Gasim snarled.
The two old enemies fought savagely, unaware that the other battle being waged in the stable yard was over. Derek had disarmed the servant, though not as easily as he had expected, and now he stood with his blade against the little man’s throat. Neither moved as they watched Blaine press the pirate against the tree and disarm him.
With an enraged roar, Gasim drew his dagger, a match to the one he had left in the gate in Tangier. Using the tree behind him to launch himself, he lunged wildly at Blaine. But his foot caught in a root and he lost his footing, falling heavily at his opponent’s feet.
In fairness, Blaine waited for the pirate to rise, but he did not stir. Warily the Irishmen knelt beside him and rolled his limp form onto its back. Blood stained the sand beneath Gasim, and the ornate hilt of the dagger protruded from his chest.
The Arab’s eyes opened heavily. “You will never know, O’Toole.” His laughter ended with a last rattling breath.
Blaine’s face was bleak when he looked up at Derek. “Dead,” he muttered.
From the house, the death wail rose and the woman ran to throw herself across Gasim’s body.
“Perhaps this one can tell us what we wish to know before we kill him,” Derek suggested, shoving the skinny servant toward Blaine.
The Arab’s gaze slid around to the young man’s angry face. He did not believe they intended to kill him. They behaved in the strangest ways, these Inglayzis.
“Please, sidi, for you are my master...” He approached the big man beseechingly. “My name is Mustafa bin Abdul. Taken from an Egyptian ship, I became the slave of Al Auf, God blacken his face. Now I am yours, O victorious one.”
“All I want is some information, Mustafa,” Blaine answered.
“I live to serve.” He scowled down at the weeping woman and shouted, “Silence, worthless one! My sidi wishes to speak with me.”
“What did Al Auf do with my daughter?”
“That wicked one sold her to the slave trader, Nejm Al Anwar.”
“I suspected as much,” Blaine muttered, “but I could get no answers in the souks.”
Suddenly Mustafa saw a chance to ingratiate himself to his new master and perhaps to make a profit.
“In your wisdom, you know the reason, O’Toole Effendi,” the slave volunteered quickly. “The shopkeepers would tell you nothing because you are an infidel. Had your humble servant been with you, you would have learned that she is at Nejm’s no longer.”
‘‘Where is she?”
“I heard before we left Tangier that she had been sold again.”
“To whom?”
“I cannot recall. Alas, the gates of memory are locked to your poor servant.”
&
nbsp; “Would a key of silver unlock them?” Blaine asked knowingly.
“Much better would be a key of gold, master.”
“I thought as much.” He tossed a gold coin into the dust at the man’s feet.
“This is highway robbery,” Derek objected when Mustafa picked up the coin and bit it. “I could have killed him. He’s lucky to get away with his life.”
“Let him speak.” Blaine held up a silencing hand.
Mustafa pocketed his money with a smug expression and said, “Now I remember, sidi. I heard she had been sold to Hajji Suleiman Ibn Hussein, a marriage broker of great repute.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
With a defiant glance at Derek, the servant wordlessly extended a grimy hand. When another coin joined the first, he said helpfully, “No doubt the hajji joined a caravan to the east. But to pursue him across the desert would be foolhardy, sidi. Would it not be better to send a message to his home in Baghdad? There is a man here who sends messages by pigeon...for a price, of course.”
“Of course,” Blaine agreed gravely. “And you could introduce me to him...for a price.” He was silent for a moment as he sorted through the options. “If you take me to this man, Mustafa, you may have your freedom.”
“I say...” Derek sputtered.
“May Allah bless you a thousand times!” the surprised Mustafa cried. In giving him his freedom, Blaine had gained a slave for life. “May your herds increase, my master. May you—”
“Enough, Mustafa. Take us to this man you know.”
CHAPTER 9
“It is true, Bryna bint Blaine, you had no mother either?” `Abla’s gray eyes widened at the discovery, “Just like me?”
“My mother did not die when I was born,” Bryna replied, laying her needlework in her lap in favor of talking to the child. “But she died when I was very young. I barely remember her.”
“I do not remember mine at all,” `Abla said sorrowfully. “Sometimes I wonder about her. My aunts say she was beautiful and kind...like you.”
The Bride Price (A Historical Romance) Page 12