The Bride Price

by Karen Jones Delk

  “In trying to teach his apprentice how to make gold, the sorcerer warned him not to think of pink elephants during the complex process. Though he tried, the apprentice could not keep the forbidden subject from his thoughts. At last he gave up his attempts at alchemy, saying sadly to his master, ‘Why did you tell me not to think of pink elephants? If you had not told me, I would have never thought of them.”

  “And so it is with women during Ramadan,” the old man had cackled wickedly. “If they were not forbidden, I would not even think of them at my age.”

  Even without Ramadan, he thought of Bryna constantly, Sharif reflected wryly. During those long evenings, his eyes often found her sitting among the women. Above the half veil she wore among family, he could easily see the smile in her eyes when she looked at him. He wished that they could be alone, never knowing how fervently she wished the same thing. She wanted to tell him that she would marry him. She wanted to tell him everything, now that she was sure.

  But when the opportunity presented itself, Bryna was as unprepared for Sharif’s reaction as he was for her news.

  For the first time in nearly a month, the couple was alone in the garden. Sharif sat, his back against a tree trunk, with Bryna cradled in front of him. As they watched the stars, she told him that she was going to have a child. To her amazement, he released her abruptly and jumped to his feet, pacing and far from delighted. His mind seemed to be working rapidly, calculatingly.

  “We must marry as soon as possible,” he muttered more to himself than to her.

  “What do you mean we must?” She had risen to her feet as well and was watching him with a dangerous glint in her blue eyes.

  He stopped pacing and looked at her. “We must, because it is the only honorable thing to do,” he explained as if he were talking to a half-wit.

  Bryna stared at him disbelievingly. He was not excited in the least that she might bear him a son.

  “I refuse to marry to appease your sense of duty,” she declared, struggling to keep her voice steady.

  “But you are with child,” he argued reasonably.

  Her chin rising, she snapped, “Just because I am with child doesn’t mean I must marry, Sharif.”

  Sheer astonishment revealed itself in the sheik’s gray eyes. Never had a woman spoken to him in such a way. The astonishment turned to anger and his eyes to bits of flint as she glared up at him defiantly. Muttering dire curses under his breath, he whirled and stormed from the house without a backward look, leaving Bryna weeping behind him.

  At dawn Sharif roused a few disgruntled retainers, who would have preferred to sleep the hot morning away, and rode into the desert with his falcon. The clean air of the desert would clear his mind, the sheik thought. There he could sort through his problem and arrive at a decision.

  While he flew his mighty little hurr falcon, Sharif’s thoughts returned to Riyadh. Bryna was pregnant through no fault of her own. It was his fault, he reproached himself. He had known what could happen between a man and a woman when he wandered through the harem each night and looked in at her sleeping figure. But still, in the back of his mind, lurked the thought that the unborn baby might not be his at all. A man did not speak to a woman of her flux. How was he to know who the father was?

  If the child was Nassar’s, it was his duty as head of his family to bring it up, Sharif brooded. But what if it belonged to one of the marauders? He did not know what had happened in the desert, but the fact remained that Bryna had not been a virgin when he had gone to her bed, he reminded himself, feeling disloyal even for thinking it.

  Returning the bird to its handler, the sheik wheeled his mare and galloped back toward the city. Why was he thinking again of honor when love was at stake? he asked himself savagely. To whom the child belonged did not change Bryna or his feelings for her. He would always love her.

  But could he rear the son of a Bedu raider or his worthless nephew and accept it as his own? The proud man forced himself to deal with the painful question on the long ride back to Riyadh. But by the time he reached home, his mind was made up. He had told Faisal he would marry the girl even if she could have no children. Now it was proven she was not barren. This child would be the first of many. He would marry Bryna and damn the consequences. She thought the child was his. Let the world think it as well. He found the unhappy woman in the harem garden. He watched her, undetected, for a moment from the door. She sat listlessly under the peach tree with her head against the trunk and her eyes closed. Unnoticed, her embroidery slid from her loose grip.

  “Beloved,” he murmured repentantly, making his presence known.

  Skeins of thread left a bright trail on the ground as Bryna fled to his arms. “Do not say anything, Sharif.” She silenced him with a gentle kiss. “I am sorry for my harsh words. You are right. We should not have done what we did, but Insh’allah, as you tell me yourself. We do have a responsibility for the child. If you still want me, I will marry you.”

  “Of course I want you,” he assured her, but his heart ached. Now it was Bryna who spoke of duty and not of love. “There is nothing to prevent our marriage. You have made your shahada. We will marry during Eed al Fitr, the end of Ramadan.”

  When he had gone, Bryna realized the sheik had rendered his decision regarding their marriage as emotionlessly as he delivered a judgment in majlis. She was not able to gauge his mood in the days that followed. A whirl of activity kept the engaged couple apart most of the time.

  When they were together, Sharif was kind and solicitous, but Bryna sensed his aloofness as he struggled with his conflicting feelings. With all the conviction of a pregnant woman, she was certain she had lost his love. Amid the joyful preparations for her wedding, she became downcast.

  She approached the day of her marriage with growing resentment. He had wanted to marry her and now that she had agreed, Sharif seemed to consider her nothing more than an obligation. She knew that part of the reason she loved him was that he was an honorable man, but she could not bear the thought of being just another duty. She longed to talk with him, but he avoided her company.

  On the morning of her wedding, Bryna miserably allowed herself to be bathed and prepared for the ceremony by Sharif’s female relatives, balking only when they wanted to paint her arms and legs with henna. She was dressed in a magnificent wedding gown of dark blue velvet, lavishly embroidered with gold thread, with pearl buttons from neck to hem. On her ears she wore earrings of huge al Hasa pearls Sharif had bought for her. Her ghata was of rich striped silk, and on her forehead was placed another gift from Sharif, a heavy chain of riyals, the golden coins overlapping in their abundance.

  While her soon-to-be relatives, all dressed in new holiday clothes, chattered behind her, Bryna stood alone beside the window looking out into the garden. She presented the picture of a docile bride. No one could know her misgivings as she waited to be taken to her husband.

  If Bryna was a reticent bride, certainly Sharif seemed the reluctant groom. He scarcely looked at her when she was led to him in the tent pavilion pitched behind the house. He stared straight ahead, his handsome face serious as he grappled with his private thoughts. She still did not really wish to marry him, he thought bitterly, when he had tried so hard to win her. How could he do more for her than he was doing at this very moment? Would it always be that his love counted for nothing with her?

  Bryna was relieved the ceremony was brief. The wedding feast followed, then the men of the tribe danced the ardha as the women clapped their hennaed palms. The celebration was especially festive, occurring on the great festival, but the nuptial couple seemed subdued. Little was said between them beyond what was required. At the end of the evening, the sura to end Ramadan was recited and the last line seemed to linger in the air: “Peace until the rising of the dawn.”

  Then, in strained silence, the couple was taken to the women’s quarters. The door was scarcely shut behind them when Bryna turned to Sharif entreatingly. “Please, my lord, I think we have made a great mistake.
”

  “Hold your tongue,” he ordered quietly, scowling down at her. “The women listen just outside.”

  She nodded, knowing it was true, and stepped away from the door to the middle of the lamplit room. Having been instructed on the proper behavior of a bride on her wedding night, Bryna knew she was expected to protect her ird, or feminine honor. The longer the struggle against her groom, the greater the honor. The women waited to bear the report to the men. But first she must speak to the man she had just married.

  Coming to stand beside her, Sharif asked curtly, “What is it you wish to say, Farha?”

  “Couldn’t you put me away for some reason?” she whispered urgently. “I know it can be done.”

  “Not usually so soon after the wedding,” he retorted, “even if I wanted to.”

  “Couldn’t you tell them you are not pleased with me or that I...I am not a virgin.”

  “Wallahi, are you mad? Why would I do that?”

  “It may be honorable that we married, Sharif, but it was wrong.”

  “What is wrong with giving the child a home?”

  “But what kind of home will it be without love?” Bryna’s voice began to rise as she blurted, “Don’t you understand? I want to love you and to be loved in return.”

  The words seemed familiar somehow, but she did not examine them. She was more concerned that she was about to cry in front of her new husband. Turning a rigid back to him, she blinked back angry tears.

  She kept her face stubbornly averted when the man gently turned her to face him. With one crooked finger he lifted her chin, and she saw for the first time the light of hope her words had kindled in his eyes. “Do you love me, Farha?” he asked warily.

  “Yes,” she moaned, suddenly bursting into tears. Chagrined, she buried her face against his shoulder and wept, her shoulders heaving with sobs.

  “And I love you, maddamti, my lady wife.” Sharif embraced her blissfully, planting quick glad kisses on her lustrous hair, on her tear-wet face, and, lingeringly, on her willing lips.

  “We love each other.” He laughed aloud, thrilled by the discovery. “We love each other, and that is all that matters.”

  Suddenly he released her and led her over to sit on the bed. “The women still wait,” he reminded her quietly, sitting beside her. “You must scream now so they know you fight for your honor.”

  She felt foolish, but she obeyed. She could not allow her husband to lose face. Tentatively she cried out, the volume rising until it was a resistant wail. At last unearthly shrieks of protest rose to a shattering crescendo. As it ebbed finally to terrified whimpers, the couple in the bedchamber heard the women run downstairs, almost tripping over each other in their haste to inform the others of the great battle.

  Dissolving into gales of laughter, the sheik and his new wife fell into each other’s arms, the strain between them past.

  When their eyes met, their faces sobered. Deliberately Sharif blew out the lamp. Then he eased Bryna back so she lay across the bed. Leaning over her, he murmured, “Now that the business of honor is done, let us get to the important task of making you my own.”

  “I am yours,” she whispered, her arms sliding around his neck.

  “Just as I am yours,” he answered, his voice thick with passion. He kissed her tenderly at first, but then with more urgency as his desire grew.

  Gently he stroked the slender column of her neck, feeling the flutter of her heart under the ivory skin. She moaned softly against his mouth and laced her fingers through his long thick hair, seeking to draw him closer still.

  Sharif ran a hand over Bryna’s shoulder and cupped one of her breasts, savoring for a moment the prickly feel of the velvet against his palm. But, determined to feel the satiny softness of her body, he quickly began to unbutton her dress. In her pregnancy her breasts were fuller than he had remembered, and he delighted in their instant response to his caresses.

  It seemed Bryna also longed for the feel of warm, bare skin. Sharif’s breath caught as her fingers slid into the deep neckline of his thobe and traced the scar on his chest. Nearly trembling with desire, he stood and rapidly removed his thobe. Then, bending over her, he finished unbuttoning her dress, and arranged it so the length of her body was bared. She lay in a pool of moonlight, her skin very white against the blue velvet.

  “Thou art beautiful, my beloved,” he whispered, coming to lie beside her again.

  “And thou, my husband.” Bryna’s voice was husky with desire as she reached out to him. Eagerly, she molded her body to his hard length and her fingernails etched delicate patterns on his back. His hands stroked and caressed her slim hips and thighs before finding what he sought. She gasped but soon relaxed under his skillful hand. She exulted in the feel of skin against skin and wished to feel every part of his firm body. When her fingers, cool and gentle, curled around his heated shaft, the man murmured with delight, entranced with both giving and receiving pleasure.

  When they could no longer stem the tide of desire, they united, reveling in sensation and the release their joining gave them. Finally Bryna slept, her head on her husband’s shoulder. Sharif pulled her close against his body and, before he slept, thanked Allah for his fortune.

  When Bryna rose to bathe the next morning, her husband lingered in bed. Cutting his arm with his dagger where the wound would not be seen, he allowed the blood to drip onto the sheets. Only Faisal knew Bryna was not a virgin, and the secret was safe with him. What he did was shameful, Sharif thought soberly, but no one else must know the sheik’s wife was not chaste when she came to him.

  The bride was radiant and the groom a contented man when Bryna and Sharif rejoined the Selims for the week-long wedding celebration. When the household settled back into the everyday routines, `Abla was delighted to have a new umm, and Bryna relished family life, savoring every mood of pregnancy.

  Still, sometimes she sensed a brooding uneasiness in her new husband. She knew that Sharif loved her, but at times he seemed distant and reserved. During those times Bryna realized how little she knew him. Perhaps the child growing inside her would bring him closer to her. She wanted so much to give him a son.

  But Bryna’s ardent desire to please her husband was not to be realized. Three months into her term, she was taken suddenly with a severe case of cramps. Retching and doubled over with pain, she was carried to her bedchamber and the hakim was summoned. Before Faisal could arrive, her body ejected the child she carried.

  After the doctor had seen her and given her a sleeping draft, Sharif went to Bryna. His rugged face, made young by love, looked lined and haggard from worry. He feared his wife would die.

  Bryna’s face was pale and lifeless against the cushion. Her dark hair streamed out onto the pillow in the dying sunlight. A muezzin shouted from a nearby mosque as Sharif entered her room, but he ignored the call to prayers and went to kneel at her bedside.

  She opened her eyes drowsily and seemed surprised to see him. One hand lifted weakly to smooth his hair. “Did you not hear the call to prayer, my husband?”

  “I would rather be with you.” He took the hand in his.

  “I lost the baby, Sharif,” she whispered painfully.

  “I know, my joy.”

  “I am so sorry,” she choked through unshed tears.

  “Oh, Farha, there will be other children—boys, girls, it makes no difference. Do you not know that I love you?”

  “Do not stop loving me, Sharif.” She wept against his shoulder. “I do not think I could endure it. I have lost the baby. I have lost my past. I have lost everything but you.”

  “I will never stop loving you, my own. You are a part of me now.”

  He stayed with her as she slept through the evening prayers. It was only a matter of time before her memory returned, he thought bleakly. What would happen then? Would she be content to be his wife, or would she want to return to her old life? Would she hate him for doing what he had done to keep her beside him? The sheik brooded beside her bed until the nig
ht sky was touched with the dawn of a new day.

  When Bryna awoke, her manner reminded her husband of the way he had found her in the desert, numbed and docile. She quickly regained her strength, but she was not the same. Not Sharif, not Taman, not even `Abla could chase away the sadness. She no longer slept at night, hoping to elude the nightmares that returned with frightening regularity. She fretted, trying to recall names, faces, places. But she could not make the puzzle fit together.

  Sharif could not bear to watch her pain. Feeling twinges of guilt, he considered telling her of her past, but he hesitated. What did he know? Her name, her age, that she had a father who might one day appear to claim her.

  At last, when he felt his wife had recovered enough, Sharif desperately suggested a change of scenery—Mecca, where they could seek the blessings of Allah and his wife could drink the magical, curing waters of Zem-Zem.

  He was surprised when she balked at the idea until he understood she was fearful to return to the desert. He explained that after their successful raid on their enemies, the Selims had nothing to fear in the desert. They would take no more than half a dozen retainers and ride for the holy city.

  Reassured, Bryna was cheered. The shadows left her eyes for a time and the entire household gladly set about making the necessary arrangements for the journey.

  Giving her something to keep her mind busy might not benefit him forever, the sheik realized bleakly, but perhaps it would postpone what he feared most—the return of Bryna’s memory.

  CHAPTER 21

  Three men in Algerian dress stood across from Sharif Al Selim’s home, watching the bustling servants in the courtyard.