The Bride Price (A Historical Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  Setting down her own jug, Bryna looked at her friend closely. The English girl’s eyes were dull and darkly circled, and her blond hair was lank and drab. Bryna fetched her a drink of water and asked solicitously, “Are you ill, Pamela?”

  “Thank you.” The girl accepted the gourd and drank deeply. “No, it is just the heat, and I am so tired. ‘Pamela, do this. Pamela, do that,’“ she mimicked, “as if I were a servant. Well, I am not,” she said crossly, “and I am not accustomed to such work. I don’t know how you do it, Bryna.” She sighed. “You talk about your terrible temper, but I haven’t seen it once since we got here.”

  “I haven’t had time to lose it,” Bryna replied lightly. “My time has been taken up trying to adapt to this strange country.”

  “It is all rather confusing,” Pamela agreed. “Why, I—”

  “What do you think you are doing, daughters of Satan? Did I not tell you to fill the jars?” Fatmah’s strident ‘voice cut across the conversation, causing both women to start with surprise.

  “We were just resting for a moment,” Pamela said defensively.

  Fatmah’s hand shot out, her fingers lacing in the English girl’s blond hair. She yanked, nearly dragging her from the bench. “I will tell you when you may rest,” she shouted. “Now get up!”

  “Release her,” Bryna’s voice rang out strongly.

  Shocked and stunned that the American would speak to her in such a tone, Fatmah obeyed without thinking. Then she turned on Bryna with narrowed eyes and a raised fist.

  “Just because you give us our orders does not mean you may abuse us,” Bryna interjected hotly. She did not threaten Sharif’s elder wife, but placed herself between Fatmah and the weeping Pamela, glaring down at the squat Arab woman.

  “Slaves can be beaten,” Fatmah insisted.

  “Not by you,” Bryna countered evenly.

  “You think you can escape punishment because you are Nassar’s property?” Fatmah sneered. “Wallahi, I am his mother and I can beat you.”

  “Call for help, then, for you will not beat me without a fight.” Bryna held her ground. “And not without a hearing by Sheik Al Selim.”

  “Stop, Bryna.” Pamela choked on her tears. “Don’t you see you are putting yourself in danger for nothing?” Jumping to her feet, the English girl ran, sobbing, to her room.

  To Bryna’s amazement, Fatmah watched Pamela’s retreat disapprovingly, but she did not pursue her. Shaking her head, the woman stared contemptuously at Bryna and muttered, “You are mad, both of you. One day I will sell you to the yazidi, the devil worshipers.” Then she went into her own room and closed the door.

  Bryna went to Pamela’s door and tapped lightly, entering the room when there was no answer. Lying face down on her divan, the English girl did not look up.

  “Pamela, are you all right?” Bryna asked anxiously.

  “No, I am not all right.” The agitated girl rolled over and glared at her friend. “I hate it here, and I simply cannot bear the thought of spending the rest of my life in Nassar’s harem.”

  “I do not care for that idea, either. But we will find a way out, chère,” Bryna promised.

  “Stop saying that.” Pamela’s voice was harsh.

  Surprised by her friend’s intensity, Bryna sat down on the edge of the bed and laid a hand against her forehead.

  Pamela pulled away and rolled so she faced the wall. “Do not worry. I do not have a fever,” she said tonelessly now that her anger had passed.

  “What’s wrong, then?”

  “It’s the heat. I suffer terribly from it, you know. Just leave me. I’ll soon be better.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. I just need to rest,” Pamela said with a gallant and insincere smile.

  Acquiescing to her wishes, Bryna departed, feeling unsettled. She knew something was wrong, something more than heat. She didn’t know that Nassar went to Pamela’s room each night when the harem was asleep. At first he had wooed and coaxed the English girl, until at last he’d lost his temper and threatened to sell Bryna into a brothel if Pamela did not submit. Frightened by the possible loss of her friend, the girl had not realized Nassar had no intention of selling Bryna. He was attracted to the tall, dark girl and would one day go to her bed, but it was Pamela for whom he burned.

  When the blond girl wavered, the determined Arab had forced himself on her, smothering her cries in a pillow. Bryna had not heard her protests at the other end of the harem. `Abla and Latifeh had slept through them. Fatmah had turned a deaf ear.

  Nassar continued to visit Pamela’s room, repeating his threat, growing bolder each time. She would tell no one, he knew. His secret was safe.

  Safe, at least, until he was discovered. `Abla had risen early to look for truffles with her female cousins when Nassar emerged from Pamela’s room, adjusting his robes. His busy hands stilled when he saw the little girl, looking past him to where Pamela lay crumpled and weeping on the bed. `Abla glared at him, then wordlessly brushed past him to tend to the English girl.

  Nassar hastened from the women’s quarters. By the time he reached his apartment, he knew he could not marry his cousin. He had seen hatred in her eyes, and no wife could look at a husband so. Men were superior to women in all ways.

  There was a problem, however. As Sharif’s only child, `Abla would inherit his property. Unless she did not live, Nassar mused; then he would be sole heir. Another decision was rapidly reached. `Abla had to go.

  He did not put his plan into action until Sharif went to Mecca on business a few weeks later. Thinking `Abla was with the herds, Nassar visited his mother and aunt and explained that the family had a dire problem. A young boy from the village had seen `Abla in the souk and had been captivated by her beauty, he started calmly. He realized she was young, but she was old enough to know she should not entice a man. This temptation was an unpardonable sin on her part. If the young people ever found themselves alone together, they would not be able to control themselves and would dishonor the house of Selim, he ranted, working himself into a righteous frenzy. Steps must be taken immediately to keep the family name from being ruined, so he, Nassar, would act in Sharif’s absence, doing what must be done. He would kill `Abla as `urf, the law of custom, demanded to preserve what was left of family honor and avoid inevitable shame.

  From the garden, the little girl eavesdropped long enough to hear her aunts regretfully agree with Nassar. Her eyes wide with fear, she rushed to find the one person who would help her.

  Bryna was washing clothes in the fountain in the sunny courtyard, beating the wet linen against a smooth stone. When she heard `Abla’s frightened wail, she ran at once to find out what was wrong.

  `Abla threw herself into her friend’s arms and related in a jumble of French and Arabic what she had heard. Although she did not understand all of it, Bryna knew Nassar intended to harm the child.

  She must get `Abla away from Nassar until the sheik returned, Bryna decided. Surely he would not allow such a thing to happen to his daughter, even if he had ignored her for most of her young life.

  “If I have tempted a man, I deserve to die. But I know of no such person.” `Abla wept on her shoulder.

  “Do not even say such a thing,” Bryna interrupted kindly. “Listen to me. Do you remember the big boulder we found when we hiked in the mountains?”

  “The one shaped like a sleeping camel?”

  “Oui. Go there and stay. I will join you soon with food and water and blankets.”

  “What will we do then?”

  “We will find a cave and hide until your father comes home.”

  “Like the Prophet when he fasted and received his revelations?” Fear forgotten, `Abla’s gray eyes shone at the prospect of an adventure.

  “Yes, like the Prophet.” Bryna laughed in spite of the gravity of the situation. “But I would rather not fast, so I will get some food. Now go and don’t turn back for anything. I’ll bring everything we need.”

  After the girl had s
campered away, Bryna stole quietly to her quarters and packed clothing and blankets for each of them in woolen saddlebags. Then, careful not to alert the others, she crept to the kitchen during kef and gathered food and water for several days. Lugging the bags and water skins up the mountainside, she found `Abla, and together they searched for a hiding place.

  At last they found a small cave with a natural chimney where they could have a small fire at night. The entrance was obscured by a tree and invisible to the casual observer. There they set up a crude camp and waited. `Abla was still child enough to forget the reason they were there and exult in the adventure.

  The first evening the fugitives heard the servants calling them, but they stayed where they were. The next day more people, including townspeople, searched in hopes of the reward Nassar offered.

  Three cold nights passed before Bryna decided to risk returning to the house. Warning `Abla to stay hidden, she donned a black burnoose, drawing its hood over her head to hide her face. Then she crept to the villa in search of Sharif.

  As she approached the sleeping house, she was met by the sheik’s saluki. The dog whined and squirmed with joy when he recognized her. She scratched behind his ear affectionately, and he let her pass.

  Inside the back door of the villa, the girl hesitated, her heart pounding. It was forbidden for her to do what she was about to do, but she could not turn back. She still seethed with fury at Nassar, and she would not let `Abla down.

  Purposefully Bryna stole up the stairs to the men’s wing. She had never been inside before, but she had often seen Sharif on his balcony in the evenings. Surely she could find his apartment. Pausing in the long hallway upstairs, she deliberated an instant. Which door was his? To choose the wrong one could mean punishment, even death. Drawing a steadying breath, she rapped lightly on one, praying it was his.

  In his quarters, Sharif was about to retire. He had just returned from his journey, and no one but Abu Ahmad knew of his presence yet. Tomorrow would be soon enough to see his relatives and receive their welcomes.

  After a meal of cold meat, he had dismissed his servant and settled into a tub of steaming water, hoping to work the cramps out of his muscles. He was not as young as he once was, he thought regretfully as he stepped from the tub. Before he bent to dry, he flexed his weary shoulders in an effort to relieve the strain of hours of riding.

  Sharif paused in his stretch, listening, uncertain if he had heard a knock. But it came again, soft but insistent.

  “Min? Who is it?” Hurriedly drawing on a robe, he strode to the door and threw it open.

  By the flickering light of the oil lamp in the hall, Bryna saw Sharif in the doorway. His robe, loosely wrapped, exposed a smooth, hairless chest, its surface dissected by a ridged scar from a past battle. Lower, it clung to his damp body, revealing muscular legs. He was not wearing his kaffiyeh, and for the first time she saw his long, jet-black hair.

  For a moment the girl was silent, stunned by a sudden rush of feeling. Sharif was magnificent— virile and handsome. She was shocked to realize that the stirrings of desire she had felt for Derek paled in comparison with what she felt for this man she barely knew.

  Sharif’s handsome, angular face was disbelieving when he beheld the apparition at his door. “Noorah.” he breathed, and swept the black-cloaked wraith into his arms at once, holding her close.

  The specter was flesh and blood, warm and sweet. Perhaps it was his imagination, but for a moment her body, molded to the hard length of his, seemed yielding, even willing, for his caress.

  Then she drew a shuddering breath and gently loosened his hold on her. “No, my sheik, it is Bryna bint Blaine,” she said in a tremulous voice.

  He released the girl abruptly and shoved her from him. Pulling his robe tightly about him, he stepped back without a word and permitted her to enter the room. When he had closed the door, he crossed to a peg on the wall and wrapped a sash very deliberately around his waist. Then he put on his headdress, taking great pains to arrange the folds. When he had regained self-control, he set his aghal in place and turned to the woman. She was obviously shaken, but no more disturbed than he.

  “I told you Nassar could kill you for being alone with a man. Why have you come to the men’s quarters? Are you mad, woman?” he asked harshly.

  “It is `Abla,” was her simple reply.

  “`Abla?” His puzzlement brought another scowl to his face. “What about her?”

  “Please, follow me,” she murmured in her faltering Arabic.

  He caught her arm roughly as she turned to lead him from the room. “I will not follow until you explain.”

  This time the girl jerked away, rubbing her arm where his fingers had grasped it as if she were burned. Her hood fell back to reveal blue eyes that searched his fierce expression uncomprehendingly.

  Unveiled, Bryna’s face roused feelings in him nearly forgotten and almost too hard to resist. Against his will, he reached out to touch her cheek.

  “Please, sidi,” she implored raggedly, retreating a step, “you must follow me.”

  Sharif scowled darkly and dropped his hand at once. He opened the door and looked in both directions to be sure the hallway was clear. Then he gestured brusquely for her to lead.

  The only sound as Bryna led the man through the hall was the rustle of her voluminous clothing. Although nothing could be seen of her body through it, the sway of the fabric as she walked was faintly provocative, and Sharif felt an unwelcome swell of desire.

  Gliding through the moonlight in front of him, his silent guide led him into the mountains to a place where a tree grew against the stone face of the cliff. Turning, she pressed herself against the rock and sidled behind the tree to disappear into the small cave he had not seen before. He followed her lead and found himself standing in a small cavern.

  Before his eyes could accustom themselves to the darkness, a small form launched itself at him and wrapped spindly arms around his waist.

  “Abu,” `Abla greeted him tearfully.

  Sharif disengaged the arms and held his daughter away so he could look at her. “`Abla, what is the meaning of this?” he asked, his voice gruff with surprise.

  When the little girl explained what had occurred during his absence, a look of cold fury crossed Sharif’s face. Even if there was a young man—which he doubted—Nassar should have waited to give the order for `Abla’s execution. His nephew was her ibn ‘amm but a daughter was a father’s responsibility. The choice of her life or death was in his hands.

  With a quick glance at Bryna, Sharif gripped his daughter by the shoulders and delivered his decision. `Abla gazed up at him trustfully as he spoke, calmly, deliberately, and slowly enough that the foreign woman could understand.

  “It is not necessary that you die, `Abla. Nassar’s worries about your virtue are groundless at this time. You are still very young for such things”—he paused with a smile—”and before Bryna bint Blaine came, your face was too dirty to judge its beauty.

  “Soon you must veil yourself and behave as a lady, but for now I command you to cover yourself when you go to the souk. If you follow the example of the Prophet’s wives, it will please your cousin, will always preserve your honor, and you will be known as a devout young woman.”

  When Sharif finished speaking, he clasped `Abla’s small hand in his big one and turned to Bryna. “It seems you have performed another service for me and mine, Bryna bint Blaine,” he said softly. “Thanks between the Arabs is not customary, but I thank you tonight for my daughter’s life.”

  Bryna’s breath caught in her throat at the glow in Sharif’s gray eyes. “No thanks are necessary, my lord.” She hesitated, considering the wisdom of making a plea for freedom, but she did not want him to think she had done what she had for reward. For some reason his approval was suddenly important to her.

  “Come, then,” Sharif ordered kindly, “let us go home...together.”

  Outside, `Abla grasped Bryna’s hand with her free one. Together the three wa
lked back to the house, hand in hand, as the moon set behind the mountains on the other side of the valley.

  The next morning Nassar hurried to the harem to see if anyone had heard anything of Bryna and `Abla. Women knew things a man did not. The corpulent young man was drawn up short when he saw the faithful Abu Ahmad guarding the door to the women’s quarters.

  “Let me pass,” Nassar ordered importantly.

  “I am sorry, bin Hamza,” the old man replied politely, “but I cannot. My master wishes to see you first in his quarters.”

  “Sharif has returned?”

  “Last night.”

  Nassar could see no use in arguing, so he pivoted on his heel and marched directly to his uncle’s quarters.

  “There you are, Nassar.” Sharif was so angry that he wasted no time with pleasantries. “I wish to talk to you about `Abla.”

  The younger man’s face blanched, but he covered his nervousness by saying, “We have looked everywhere for her, ya amm, but she is nowhere to be found. I fear she may have been kidnapped by my wretched slave, Bryna bint Blaine, for she has run away.”

  “`Abla was not kidnapped by Bryna bint Blaine or anyone else!” Sharif roared. “Your cousin has been in hiding for fear of her life.”

  “What...what are you talking about?” Nassar stammered, stalling for time while his mind worked.

  “I am talking about your plan to kill her. If you wish to renounce your claim on `Abla, you may do so,” Sharif informed the young man coldly, “but you have no right to kill her. That is a father’s prerogative.”

  “But she would shame the family,” Nassar offered beseechingly. “When I tell you, you will understand why I decided to kill her.”

  The sheik cut him off with an impatient gesture. “Show me the young man. Bring him to the majlis and let the elders hear him.”

  Nassar stared into Sharif’s eyes, dark with fury and hardened to two points of steel, and knew he was defeated. “That is hardly necessary, Uncle, if you, as sheik, have decided your daughter is not to be punished.” The young Arab’s voice was insinuating. He would not surrender graciously.