“Mashallah,” the sheik breathed involuntarily, his steely gaze locking with Bryna’s blue one. “Thou art beautiful.”
“And thou,” Bryna answered instinctively, without thought. Although she was unaware she had done so, she rose and held out a hand as if reaching for him. She was conscious only of her heart pounding as Sharif stepped nearer.
His sword held at his side, the man crushed her to him in a powerful one-armed embrace, murmuring, his voice thick with relief, against her hair, “Praise be to Allah, that I have found you unharmed. A party of raiders has been using this ruin. I was mad with worry when I realized you were here.”
Bryna stood very still, trying to sort through the sensations she was feeling. She felt secure and protected in Sharif’s embrace, but there was more to it—it was as if her entire being reacted to his nearness. Her knees felt weak. Her breasts pressed against him seemed to swell with longing, and the lower part of her body was swept with a delightful warmth. She did not understand the feelings, did not care to understand them. She only hoped Sharif was feeling the same emotions.
Wanting nothing more than to be even closer to him, to breathe his scent, to feel the warmth of his lean, hard body, Bryna pressed nearer and wrapped her arms around his waist.
Sharif’s arm tightened on her shoulders spasmodically, then, drawing a ragged breath, he said in a choked voice, “No, no, this is wrong.” Reluctantly he released the girl and stepped back from her embrace, his heart breaking when she would not meet his eyes.
Bryna stood with her head bowed, unwilling to look at him for fear she would cry. Not for shame or fear, she realized, but for frustration and longing.
“Come,” Sharif ordered gruffly, guiding Bryna out into the blinding sunlight, “we must leave here. The raiders’ party is too small to attack our smala, but they would delight to prey on three people alone.”
“Three people?” Her voice was taut with unshed tears.
Sharif looked at the girl beside him. She seemed as shaken as he felt himself. Desire coursed through him with each pounding beat of his heart, but he forced himself to speak calmly, “Sa’id and I rode out to investigate the ruins. When we had finished, I saw the footprints of a woman and a dog in the sand, so we decided to search. Who else could it have been but you?
“Veil yourself now,” he ordered, then shouted, “Sa’id! I found her.”
A muffled shout answered them, and soon they were joined by the sheik’s second in command. While Bryna retrieved her basket, Sharif looked closely at Sa’id, relieved to see he did not seem suspicious to find the girl alone with him.
“We will walk back to camp,” Sharif announced, relieved to realize it would be impossible to balance both Bryna and her basket on his mare. He did not think he could be near her again without making her his own.
“It is not meet that the men should walk with a slave,” Sa’id protested.
“I am sheik and I desire to walk. But you should ride, my old friend. I will see you back at camp.”
“If you walk, I walk. Where you go, I go, my lord.” Sa’id snorted, letting his chief know his opinion of walking and of playing chaperon to a slave.
Sharif and Bryna started across the sands toward the camp visible in the distance. Behind them. Sa’id led the horses and muttered ominously each time Smemi approached, his tail wagging.
For a time, they walked in silence. At last Bryna worked up her courage to glance at Sharif. To her chagrin, she found he was watching her.
“Your Arabic is improving,” he said casually, trying to regain his composure.
“`Abla has been helping me.” Her response was a whisper on the wind.
The silence stretched out between them until they had neared the camp.
“My lord Al Selim...” Bryna began urgently. Then, hearing Sa’id curse as he stumbled in the sand, she fell silent. She could not ask for her freedom. She could not even speak openly to Sharif in front of the other man. “I...I am sorry I caused you such trouble this morning.”
“It was no trouble,” the sheik assured her politely. “But please do not wander so far away again. The big dog is no protection against evil men.” Nor against foolish ones, he thought to himself bitterly.
They stopped suddenly at the fringes of the camp, and Sharif asked, “My nephew...is he good to you?”
Bryna’s blue eyes met his for an instant. But before he could read what they held, she lowered them and replied, “He has not harmed me.”
“That is not what I asked you, Bryna bint Blaine,” Sharif said sharply, “but I suppose I must take it as an answer. I have no claim upon you.”
With that he turned and strode away, leaving Sa’id to follow.
* * *
The next morning the smala resumed its slow progression toward Riyadh. Once again every day passed for the travelers as the day before. At last the red sands gave way to white, grazing became harder to find, and the distance between wells became greater. After a while both water and food were rationed.
What was wrong with her? Bryna wondered, shifting uncomfortably on her fidgeting camel while the men inspected some tracks, their voices loud in the desert stillness. They examined each set of tracks they came across and knew at once how many men had passed, what kinds of camels they rode, and, in some cases, who the other travelers had been.
While she waited, heat shimmered up from the sand, causing Bryna’s skin to feel as if it were stretched as tight as a tent wire across her cheekbones. Her eyes burned and watered from the glare of the sun. And she felt she would scream when Sharif’s men galloped across the sand to milk any roaming naga they saw.
When would they rest? she wondered irritably. She was tired and it was becoming more and more difficult to curb her temper. It was good Fatmah was no longer so antagonistic toward her. Since she had used Bryna’s poultice, the old woman was almost civil.
Then there was Pamela. The English girl hardly seemed interested in food now, a great change for her. Deprivation meant little to the Bedouins. For weeks at a time they might live on a handful of dates and some camel’s milk, but it was no diet for a pregnant woman.
“Bryna, look over there—wild thyme.” Taman’s voice interrupted her brooding. The Arab girl pointed to a scrawny plant that grew nearby in the shade of a palmetto. “I think there might be more. Shall we pick some?”
Bryna sprang from the back of her camel and landed on her feet in the sand beside the other girl before the question was finished. Laughingly Taman steadied her eager friend and they set off to harvest the herb. Delighted to find even more than they had expected, they worked their way along the camel train, stopping near the herds at the rear.
When the caravan lurched to a start, Bryna and Taman hurried toward the head of the procession. There was little danger they would be left behind, but they hoped to escape the dust stirred up by the herds.
A terrified bellow stopped them. Whirling, the girls watched as a camel sank in the sand not more than fifty yards from them.
“A shott—sinking sand!” Taman’s voice was filled with dread as she backed up a step, mistrusting the ground beneath her feet. “And it’s one of Daoud’s nagas.”
The camel flailed and roared in vain as she sank up to her belly in the sand. Her calf, only two or three months old, poised at the far edge of the shott, bawling piteously, then it followed its mother, sinking at once up to the knees.
“No,” Bryna cried, sprinting around the shott to where the calf now struggled. She could do nothing for the mother. The naga’s roars were weakening as she sank rapidly, with only her hump and her head visible above the shifting sand. But there was still time to save the calf, the girl thought stubbornly.
As she approached the far side of the shott, she slowed her step. Along the edge the ground gave way in inches, crumbling into the quicksand. It seemed for an instant as if she were standing on a shore and the camels were swimming in a pool of loose sand.
“Do not get too close,” Taman shouted across t
he shott. “The sand will give way under you.” She waved her arms to attract the other girl’s attention, but she came no closer.
Bryna retreated for a moment and called across to her friend. “If I can reach it, I can hold its head up.”
Before Taman could argue, she went as close to the edge as she dared and lay down on her stomach. Stretching her arm as far as she could, she reached for the baby camel. But the distance between the animal and her grasping fingers seemed to increase with every panic-stricken move it made.
With a mighty lurch and one last agonized bellow, the naga disappeared completely under the sand, leaving no sign of her fierce fight for life. Now the only sound was the pitiful cry of the struggling calf.
“Go for help,” Bryna shouted to Taman. She strained, her breath rasping from exertion, stretching until every muscle burned and ached, but she could not reach the calf. It continued to sink, its eyes rolling toward the girl in horror.
If she could just reach it... Gingerly she eased forward.
Suddenly a pair of strong hands encircled Bryna’s ankles and she was jerked backward. Her head slammed against the ground and her upper body made a long, deep furrow in the sand as she was dragged from the edge of the shott. Spitting sand and kicking blindly, she fought, arching her body to strain toward the camel calf, now sunk in the sand up to its head.
“By the beard of the Prophet! Are you mad, woman?” a voice snarled above her. “It is no use. The calf is gone.”
Pushing herself up on her elbows, Bryna stared bleakly at the smooth surface of the shott.
Standing astraddle her, Sharif bent and gripped one of her arms painfully, turning her to look at him. His fear had turned to wrath, and the face she saw looming above her was furious.
“Answer me, Bryna,” he ordered, dragging her roughly to her feet. “Have you gone mad? If I had not come, you would have joined the camels in the sinking sands.”
“I...I just wanted to save the calf.” Swaying on her feet, she stared up at the man dazedly.
Despite his wrath, Sharif longed to cradle Bryna in his arms and comfort her. But he did not allow his desire to show in his eyes this time. He had known since that morning at the ruins that Alima had been right. Having this girl at hand, yet unattainable, was not a good thing. It would drive him mad.
Disturbed by the very feel of her and anxious to be away, he released her arm and snapped, “Death comes quickly in the desert, Bryna bint Blaine. This day it nearly found you...again.” Then he pushed her toward Taman who stood weeping nearby.
“Nassar, Sa’id,” Sharif shouted when his men approached, drawn by the excitement. “Send your women back to their camels and see they stay there.”
Before the men could rebuke them, Bryna dusted the sand from her clothing and led Taman toward the riding camels. The numbness she felt was wearing off, and in its place was impotent rage. Irrationally she wanted to wail and shriek at the brutality of the desert and the Bedouin life until her anger was spent. She wanted to fling herself at Sharif, screaming her sorrow, sorrow for tenderness turned to harshness. Instead she walked away with as much dignity as she could muster. She would not cry in front of him.
“I was afraid you would be sucked into the sands.” Taman was sobbing. “Why did you do such a foolish thing?”
“I thought I could pull the calf out of the shott. I could not let it die without trying to save it.” Bryna’s voice shook with emotion.
“Lo! we are Allah’s and lo! unto him we are returning,” the Arab girl quoted with a whimper. “Do you think camels are worth dying for? Not even Daoud’s are worth it, not even if he could never meet my bride price.”
For the next few days, the very air around the Selim camp seemed to crackle with tension. Lightning was frequently spotted in the distance, but no sign of rain appeared on the horizon. Sharif’s face was severe as he pressed his smala toward their next destination, the family well, Bir al Selim.
Although she took great care to avoid him, Bryna too felt the strain. She was absent from the communal campfire until she learned of Nassar’s boast that he had banned her from attending as a punishment for her foolishness at the shott.
Obstinately she returned the next evening. When her gaze met the sheik’s across the fire, she knew she should have stayed away. How could she have ever thought she saw a flicker of desire in those hostile gray eyes?
Noticing how Sharif’s moody eyes rested on her friend, Taman mused, “I have never seen our sheik so angry for so long.”
“Things have not been the same since the shott,” Bryna said despairingly after a moment. She had never discussed Sharif with anyone, not even Taman.
“It is true he was furious when you put yourself into such danger. But, no, something more disturbs him,” the Arab girl insisted.
Bryna did not answer, but she asked herself again: Had she ruined everything by responding to her body’s urging? She had done nothing more than embrace him. Had Sharif found her caress so distasteful? She was miserable at the thought, but she said nothing more to her friend.
“Do not worry. Perhaps in time he will forget his wrath,” Taman counseled wisely, “and all will be well, unless he is displeased that you do the Inglayzi’s work.” Then, veering easily from her favorite complaint before Bryna could protest, she teased, “Or perhaps he hasn’t forgiven you for curing Fatmah’s sore throat.”
Bryna smiled in spite of herself, for even at this distance they could hear the incessant drone of the old woman’s voice.
The Selims crested the hill above their well just before sunset. Even through the dusk, Sharif could tell something was wrong. He urged his camel to a gallop, and his men followed him down to the deserted clearing. It was evident at once from the stench that their well had been fouled. The water, polluted and undrinkable, might not be fit for use for years to come.
Intruders had camped there for several days, and now Sharif’s best trackers knelt where the camels had hobbled. By examining the tracks, they quickly ascertained who had dared despoil their well and how long ago they had left.
The women set up camp in dismal silence while the men discussed ghazzi. In Sharif’s majlis the elders resolved to raid the intruders’ camp in retribution for this crime against their tribe.
“Let us ride now while they are not expecting us,” Nassar urged heatedly. “We can burn the dogs’ camp to the ground.”
“We must abide by the rules of ghazzi,” Sharif enjoined.
“We must avenge our honor,” Nassar argued, becoming bold when he saw nods of agreement from several hot-blooded young men.
“There would be no honor if we attacked after midnight or burned the cooking tent of our enemy,” his uncle said firmly.
“That is true,” Sa’id seconded. “Their women and children must eat. We have no quarrel with them. We fight men.”
“Blood for blood,” Nassar insisted.
“No blood has been shed here,” Sharif answered with weary patience. “We will take their camels as the price for their insult.”
“Many camels,” Abu Hatim interjected unexpectedly. “The signs are propitious.”
“We go tomorrow,” Sharif spoke decisively, “not tonight. But before another day has passed, we will have our revenge. Let the warriors be ready to leave at dawn.”
“Allahu akbar,” Daoud cried fervently as the men rose. “It is as it should be. I against my brother, I and my brothers against my cousin, but tomorrow it will be I and my cousins against the world.”
“Allahu akbar,” Nassar echoed with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Tomorrow we will have revenge.”
The entire tribe worked well into the night. There was no coffee or qasidah, only ominous quiet, broken occasionally by industrious sounds coming from the Salubas’ encampment nearby. The craftsmen sharpened swords and knives and spears, while the Selim men checked and tended their harnesses and cleaned their guns for the impending battle. At each tent subdued women and children prepared provisions for their warriors�
� rapid desert crossing.
The men slept and Bryna was preparing to retire when Latifeh approached Nassar’s tent. “Have you seen `Abla, Bryna bint Blaine?” the older woman asked. Her muted voice was heavy with weariness and exasperation.
“No, my lady.”
“No one has seen her. I called her three times and she did not answer. I cannot awaken the entire camp,” Latifeh muttered with a frown that did not bode well for the little girl.
“Shall I go and look for her?” Bryna asked worriedly.
“Yes, find her and bring her back,” the Arab woman answered, her sigh revealing concern for her stepdaughter. “But do take care. There are sometimes jackals waiting in the darkness.”
Bryna was relieved to find that the desert, lit by the moon, was nearly as light as day. Still, she remembered Latifeh’s warning and hastened her step, calling `Abla’s name in a low, urgent voice.
“Bryna?” `Abla’s tousled head appeared over the top of a large dune. In an instant she had scaled it and slid down the other side to stand beside her friend. “What are you doing here?”
“A better question might be what are you doing here?” Bryna tilted the child’s chin and looked down kindly at her tearstained face. “What’s wrong, `Abla? Why did you run away from camp?”
“I didn’t run away,” she said sniffling. “I just didn’t want Abu to see me cry.”
“Why are you crying, little one?”
Sympathy was more than the little girl could bear. Suddenly she clasped her arms around Bryna’s waist and began to cry. The American girl sat down in the sand, drawing `Abla beside her. The child buried her face in Bryna’s lap, her narrow shoulders heaving with sobs. Gently Bryna stroked her head and let her cry.
When `Abla’s weeping had subsided, she suggested gently, “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
The Bride Price Page 20