After her reunion with Taman, Bryna’s life in Riyadh began a new phase. She became more confident, and her growing restlessness was stemmed as she and Taman went to the souk together frequently. No matter how trivial the reason for the shopping trip, they were accompanied by half a dozen of Sharif’s guards. But where Bryna had been pliable and docile before, she now chafed under the restriction of so many keepers.
“Do you not understand why the sheik keeps so close a watch on you, Farha?” Taman responded romantically to her friend’s complaints. “It is because he loves you.”
“How do you know that?” Bryna asked uncomfortably. No one knew of the passion she and Sharif had shared.
“A woman knows these things,” Taman replied complacently. “Though he tried not to, he has always loved you.”
“If he loves me, he must give me room to breathe,” Bryna muttered, never realizing what an un-Arab desire she expressed.
When she petitioned Sharif for greater freedom, he nearly dismissed her request out of hand. But Bryna exhibited a stubbornness that both exasperated and gladdened the man. Oddly, he had found he missed the spark of spirit she had shown so often when he had first known her. At last, to appease his young love, Sharif agreed to assign only the faithful Abu Ahmad to accompany her on her outings. She liked the ancient war-horse, and, accompanied by the grumbling old retainer, she and `Abla and Taman spent many happy hours combing the bazaar for bargains.
The happiness Bryna experienced during that time would always be associated in her later memories with those outings. Riyadh was a beautiful city, its towered walls springing up in fertile fields that extended far into the desert. Within the walls of the capital city, broad streets led to the mosque and el-Kasr, the palace of Arabia’s ruler. Against the northern walls was the souk, where all manner of merchandise was bought and sold and traded.
But Riyadh was a rigid, joyless place inhabited by zealots. Muttawwahs, a kind of religious policeman, roamed the street, bringing those they considered to be wrongdoers before the ulema. Crimes could include infractions such as laughing too loudly or singing. Bryna sometimes shivered when she saw them in the street. They stared at her blue eyes balefully, but none dared accost the woman of the powerful Sheik Al Selim.
Now fully recovered, she took on more and more of the household responsibilities. The burden of the huge home was too much for `Abla’s narrow shoulders. Though not officially the mistress of the house, Bryna was fair and efficient in her dealings, and the servants adored her, obeying without fail, calling her Al-Kibirah, “Great Lady of the House.”
When she did not understand how a thing should be done, the foreign woman was not too proud to ask the staff. It was through the cook that she learned how the kitchen had been run by Fatmah.
Fatmah. The name brought to mind an unpleasant old woman. She had been one of Sharif’s wives and Nassar’s mother, Bryna recalled unexpectedly. And there had been another wife, whose name was—she scoured her memory—Latifeh. Yes, the cook encouraged, glad Al-Kibirah was regaining her memory. Perhaps now she would not seem so sad.
What had happened to them? Bryna asked. They were killed by the raiders, was the answer.
Her experience in the Empty Quarter must have been horrible to be so completely blocked from her mind, Bryna brooded that night as she sat alone in the harem, awaiting Sharif. She did not remember the raid: she did not remember her abduction. But she was not sure she wanted to. The flashes of memory she found so disturbing, the wisps of dreams, came less and less since the night Sharif had spent with her.
She now concentrated on the present and on a future with a man who loved her. She only wished she loved him as much in return. Bryna longed to give herself to Sharif body and soul, but something held her back, something she did not understand.
From out in the courtyard, Bryna could hear the sound of the men departing. The sheik had spent the evening on the roof with them, drinking coffee, telling stories, as he was expected to do. But his heart was in the harem, where he would join her for a late supper.
He supposed the men of his tribe would hoot derisively if they knew their chief shed his headdress and sword each evening and went to eat his meal with the woman. Although the custom was for women to eat only when the men had finished, he enjoyed their quiet suppers together. And while `Abla was away, they had shared many private moments. Wardha retired early each night, leaving the harem to the couple in hopes the sheik would make Bryna his concubine.
Bryna rose when Sharif entered. In the dim light the silver strands that peppered his hair glinted, but his face looked youthful and relaxed. He smiled, the preoccupied expression in his gray eyes softening when he saw the girl waiting for him.
She was dressed in the Turkish style in a rich black brocade robe he had bought for her. A long row of tiny buttons ran from the plunging neckline to her feet. Her skin was burnished to a golden color in the lamplight, and her hair with its dancing auburn lights was unbound, as he liked it.
After dinner they lounged on pillows across from each other, talking softly and intimately. But suddenly the glow of love on Sharif’s lean face was replaced by a disbelieving look as a loud snore issued from Wardha’s room, then another. Struggling to contain his mirth, he jumped to his feet and held out his hand for Bryna’s. They fled into the garden just ahead of the gale of laughter that escaped them.
“Who would have thought such a snore could come from such a tiny woman?” Sharif said, chuckling. “Or from any woman, for that matter? Tell me, my love, do you snore?” he asked teasingly, drawing Bryna into the circle of his arms.
“I don’t know. I cannot remember ever having heard a complaint,” she returned his jest. Suddenly the laughter left her voice and she reached up to touch Sharif’s face, her fingers gently ruffling his carefully trimmed beard. “How handsome you are when you smile, Sharif,” she murmured thoughtfully.
“Then I must be the handsomest man in the world when you are near, Farha. When you are with me, the world dances as a bride dances for her groom and I cannot help but smile.” The man’s tone was light, but his arms tightened around her.
She gazed up at him with speculation in her eyes. “I think you have not always smiled at me. I see you sometimes, in my mind, scowling down at me as if you were furious.”
“Not at you, my own,” he whispered. “I was angry, yes, but at myself for loving you when I could not have you.”
Unable to meet his intense stare, she looked away. “And now that you have me...”
“Do I have you?” he asked soberly.
“I am here, my lord,” she answered, raising her face to his.
She met his kiss with passion to match his own, murmuring in protest when his lips left hers to blaze a fiery trail down her slender neck and nestle at the base of her throat. Deftly his fingers worked the buttons of her robe and he slid the rich fabric from her smooth white shoulders.
Dipping his head, he sought her breast, soft and warm and sweet. Bryna’s fingers laced through his long hair as she arched against him, gasping at the sensations his touch aroused in her.
With a sudden groan that seemed to come from his very soul, Sharif gripped her arms tightly and pushed her away.
“I vowed I would not take you again until you were my wife to love and honor,” he said. His eyes were tortured as he gazed down at her shocked face. “Farha, you must marry me. I cannot bear it if you will not.”
All at once, as Bryna stared up at him, Sharif’s gray eyes were overshadowed by a pair of hazel ones. In her faulty memory another voice said earnestly, “You must forgive me, you see. I cannot bear it if you will not.”
Bryna’s face blanched and she swayed in Sharif’s grip.
“Farha, what is wrong?” The sheik’s concerned voice reached her from far away.
“Nothing... nothing, my lord,” she answered, trying to remember what he had been saying before this distressing bit of memory.
The man swept her into his arms and carried her inside
. Tenderly he laid her on her bed. “Are you ill, beloved? Shall I send for Faisal?”
“No, Sharif, I would just like to rest,” she murmured. Turning on her side, she curled up like a frightened child.
He sat with her, holding her hand, stroking her hair until she fell asleep. Freeing his hand carefully so he would not wake her, Sharif kissed her on the forehead and left.
It was only after he had returned to his own room that he realized Bryna had not given him an answer to his urgent proposal.
CHAPTER 20
Bryna tasted blood as the Bedu clubbed her with his doubled fist. Dark, leering faces loomed above her in sharp contrast with the pale desert sky. Breaking away, she tried to run, but the sand was too deep. It sucked at her feet, pulling her down. She was weary, so weary. At last she stopped struggling and sank, the liquid sand lapping at her waist. Suddenly a man, dressed in black and veiled for battle, raced around the edge of the shott, plunging in after her to sink at once up to his neck. Only when he turned desperate gray eyes toward her did she realize who he was.
“Sharif!” Bryna’s cry of agonized discovery rent the night air as she fought to reach him in her dream. Her bedclothes knotted and twisted, her nightdress drenched with sweat, she sat bolt upright in bed and screamed, “Sharif, no!”
“My lady, are you all right?” Wardha hovered over her mistress in the predawn darkness. `Abla stood beside the tiny maid, her gray eyes wide with alarm.
“I am going to get my father,” the little girl announced firmly.
“No.” Bryna’s opposition was just as firm.
“But you called for him in your sleep. He would want to come.”
“Yes, the master would want to know,” Wardha seconded.
“How do you know what the sheik would want? I will not have you disturb him because of a silly dream.” Bryna managed a weak smile.
“It was the third nightmare this week,” `Abla said accusingly.
“Perhaps I should not eat dinner just before bed. Now, do not worry, and go back to bed, both of you.”
Having had this conversation twice before, neither Wardha nor `Abla attempted to argue. With unwilling glances over their shoulders, they did as Bryna asked.
She lay back on her bed, looking out her window at the lightening sky. Though drained and weary from her dream, she did not try to sleep. She rolled to her side and nearly hugged the bed to relieve the roiling and pitching in her stomach. She was pregnant, she knew, but she was waiting until she was certain to tell Sharif.
She knew her news would please him. After all, a man wanted a son above all things. Perhaps it would lessen the gap between them. She did not understand why, but the sheik had not returned to the harem since last week, when she had nearly fainted in his arms. Once she had waited for him, filled with pleasant anticipation; now she strolled alone each evening in the tiny walled garden, feeling as if she were an inmate in a lush, sweet-scented prison.
Giving up at last on rest, Bryna rose, brushed her hair, and donned a robe. With a sour glance at the light veil that lay on her dressing table, she stole to the kitchen in search of a piece of bread to calm her stomach. She was not likely to meet any servants at this hour, she thought, and she was tired of feeling like a prisoner.
In the kitchen she gathered a loaf of bread, a small crock of butter, and a pitcher of water. Taking them with her, she climbed the back stairs to the roof.
The night was cool and the clay of the rooftop felt cold under her bare feet. She wished she had worn a heavier robe, but she was not chilled enough to retreat into the house. She huddled on a cushion and settled to await the dawn. Soon a crimson ball would rise from the desert and paint the eastern sky with streaks of pink and lavender and gold.
Bryna nibbled a piece of bread. Now that her stomach was calmer, she was actually hungry. Smiling as she reached for another piece of bread, she thought she was soon going to be as bad as Pamela.
Pamela? The memory stopped her short. She saw a girl in her mind’s eye with blond hair and brown eyes. The girl from her dreams. She remembered now. Pamela had been pregnant, her bulky body swathed in a black burnoose.
I knew this foreign woman. Bryna thought certainly. But how? And where? And when? She tried in vain to remember until, finally, her head began to ache from the effort.
Faisal had said it would take time for her memory to return, Bryna reminded herself. Insh’allah. Do not worry about yesterday. Resolutely she turned her attention to the pastel-hued sky and the serenity of the morning. Hugging her body for warmth against the chill, she relished this moment of privacy.
Soon her nocturnal meals would be the rule rather than the exception, shared by every member of the household, for Ramadan was approaching, when all good Moslems fasted from sunup to sundown. For the wealthy in particular, the pattern of life reversed itself during that month. Their day would begin at sunset. Just after midnight sahúr, the early breakfast, would be served, followed by hours of visiting with family and telling stories on the rooftop. Each night’s festivities would end with dawn prayers, then those who could afford to rest from dawn until midday would sleep. In the afternoons much time would be given to worship.
“Farha!” Bryna started almost guiltily when Sharif’s concerned voice spoke from behind her. She had not heard his footsteps on the stairs. “What are you doing up here?”
“Just waiting for the dawn,” she replied without turning.
“You will catch a cold.” She heard a rustle as Sharif stepped toward her and removed his heavy woolen aba. Then she felt the weight of it on her shoulders.
“You could not sleep either?” he asked, sitting on a cushion behind her. “Was it another nightmare?”
“How do you know?” she asked over her shoulder.
“`Abla told me.”
“I asked her not to.” She wished he had positioned himself so she could see his face.
“You asked her not to wake me,” the man corrected, pulling her back gently so she rested, warm and comfortable, against his chest. His arm was crooked loosely around her neck. He nestled his face against her hair, breathing in her sweet scent. As always he felt a stir of desire, but he sat motionless and silent.
After a long moment she stirred in his embrace, and to his surprise she rubbed her cheek against his hand, which rested on her shoulder. “I have missed you, my lord.” Her voice was a sigh carried on the breeze.
“And I have missed you, Farha.”
‘‘Why have you not visited me in the harem?”
“I did not wish to force my company on you,” he answered stiffly. Even though he had not released her, he seemed distant and withdrawn as he remembered their differences.
Bryna twisted in his loose grasp to face him, her expression puzzled. “How can you say that?”
“Did you think I could ignore your reaction to my proposal? It is a powerful blow to a man’s pride when his beloved finds the idea of marriage to him so distasteful that she swoons at the thought.”
“So that is what has been wrong between us,” she murmured, her relief showing plainly in her blue eyes. “Please believe me, Sharif, it was not your proposal that made me faint. It was that I was remembering.”
His arm tightened convulsively, then relaxed as he forced himself to ask, “What is it you remembered, Farha?”
“Only a bit of a conversation. And I do not know who the speaker was. But the words you spoke that night—I think I had heard them before. I just can’t remember...” Her voice trailed off helplessly.
Sharif felt an irrational flash of jealousy. Though he hated to think of it, it was possible that someone had proposed to Bryna before, that he was not the first. But had she accepted this other suitor? Had she loved him?
“Please do not be angry, my sheik.” Bryna gazed up at his stony face pleadingly. “But you must understand that I cannot marry you now. These jolts of memory strike and they leave me disoriented and uncertain. If I am not sure of myself, how can you ever be sure of me?”
They sat together contentedly in the dawn until the muezzin summoned the faithful to mosque. As Sharif held her, Bryna considered revealing that she carried his child, but she waited. Another week should tell, and now that he seemed happy again, she could not bear to raise his hopes only to dash them.
In the days that followed, Sharif forgot his hurt and spent every possible moment with Bryna. After their week’s estrangement, she had a new appreciation for his tender thoughtfulness. He was as he had always been, she realized. She had changed. The spark of attraction she had felt since the moment she’d awakened from her delirium to find him sitting beside her bed had ignited. Now she felt more than desire. She loved Sharif Al Selim as she had never dreamed possible.
When the month of fasting started, Sharif watched Bryna carefully, concerned that she might not yet be strong enough for the ritual after her ordeal in the desert. But the sheik worried for more than her physical well-being. His gray eyes never seemed to leave her when a steady stream of guests began to appear at the Selim house each evening for the customary sunset breakfast parties and sahúrs.
“Every year may you be well,” Bryna greeted everyone with the proper salutation of Ramadan when she was reintroduced to Sharif’s family, gathered each night on the rooftop. He watched warily as she tried to recall each person’s name and relationship, but to his relief nothing seemed to jar her into remembering her past.
In the time of fasting and sexual abstinence, Bryna seemed to become more beautiful each day. Her pregnancy did not yet show, but she seemed to glow with an inner light, partly because of her pleasant secret and partly because of her newly discovered love for Sharif. She wanted to tell him, but they never seemed to have a moment to themselves. When they were not hosting a supper, they were guests in someone else’s home. Aching with longing for her, the man often remembered an irreverent story his grandfather, the sultan, had told him years before.
The Bride Price Page 29