Against his will, Matthew recalled the look he had seen in her eyes that night. What had she been afraid of? He had not treated her harshly. For a time, in fact, she had enjoyed his kiss, the touch of his hands. He had felt her body respond as urgently as had his own. So why had she run from him? Had her experience with the slave dealer touched her so deeply, scarred her somehow? Or had something happened long before, when she was growing to womanhood?
Matthew shook his head, trying to drive the memories from his mind. It did no good to dwell on such things. If a mare was intractable, fearful of man, as sometimes happened, one did not waste time trying to break her. Cruelty and force never worked in the end; though it might be possible to ride her, she would not willingly come when called. It was better to set such a one free in the very beginning and forget about her.
Yet Matthew found he could not forget. The recollection of her body, so firm and slender, and her breath, warm and sweet against his lips, returned to plague him with growing intensity. Forgetting the coffee, he strode from the tent, longing to stretch his suddenly aching muscles.
Ahmed was right. The wind rose early. Too early. The long, white towb whipped against his Matthew’s legs as he climbed from the basin, and he was forced to wrap the end of his khaffiya across his mouth and around his neck. At the top of the rise he paused.
The women straggled back with their loads of wood. Small eddies of sand and dust whirled among them, skittering at their feet as they hurried back to their tents. It was good, he thought. He wanted no one lost in the dust storm that might all too swiftly arise and envelop them. He turned to the northwest, from which the wind blew down upon them.
A gray-brown haze ballooned above the horizon. Also good, he mused. At least, not as bad as it might be. It was when the sky grew crimson, with a great black core, that one lowered the tents, crawled beneath a camel, and began fervent prayers to Allah.
Sand blew in his eyes. Matthew turned back toward his tent. And saw her, struggling now against the wind and her billowing skirt, trying to keep the small bundle of sticks balanced atop her head as she rounded a distant outcropping of rock.
Damn, he swore under his breath. Which of the women had been foolish, or ignorant enough, to ignore the dangerously rising wind?
He knew, even as he started downward in her direction. A curious mixture of irritation and eagerness warred within his breast.
Cecile was not worried, not yet. To her the wind was no more than an annoyance, a minor hindrance. She was surprised, therefore, to look up and see someone hurrying in her direction. Someone who urgently beckoned and called to her. But she could not hear the words and so she ignored them, skirting the lone figure as she continued in what she thought was the way back to camp.
But soon a spark of fear finally fanned to life in Cecile’s breast. Where was the camp? Surely she should have reached it by now. She paused, confused and blinded by the whirling sand. She jumped like a startled dhabi, heart pounding painfully, when a hand roughly gripped her shoulder.
“Have you no more sense than a rabbit?” Matthew shot out. “What are you doing out here?”
Fear vanished in the rising flood of emotions, anger foremost. How dare he speak to her like that? “Gathering wood, of course!” Cecile snapped. “Isn’t that what a woman is supposed to do?”
“Not in a sandstorm!” Matthew bellowed back.
Cecile flinched. She was barely able to see his hard, dark scowl through the blowing sand and dust. And she was glad. She was no longer able to trust her treacherous body, which seemed to melt at the very sight of him. Turning sharply on her heel, she wrenched from Matthew’s restraining grip.
“You little fool!”
The hand returned to her shoulder, grasping her tightly this time as it spun her around. Her bundle of sticks tumbled to the ground.
“See what you’ve done now?” Cecile cried. “What are you … ?”
“Shut up! And forget the damn firewood. You’re coming with me!”
Real fear flooded her now, flowing hot and thick through her limbs. What was he doing? Where was he taking her? Panicked, Cecile tried to pull her hand free, but he clung remorselessly, and she had no choice other than to stumble along behind him.
Matthew threw his free arm over his forehead, trying to shield some of the sand from his eyes. There was no time left to try to make it back to the camp. Visibility was almost zero. He would have to try and make for the outcropping of rock.
Though her eyes burned and she choked on dust, Cecile did not cease her struggles. Her fear of the wind was not nearly as great as her terror of the man who pulled her along in his wake. Why was he doing this, and where was he taking her? Had he lost control of his lust?
There was no more time for speculation. They had apparently reached whatever destination he had intended. With a rough shove, Matthew forced Cecile to her knees.
“No … no!” Flailing her arms, Cecile tried to fend off the grasping hands, but she was no match for his strength. When he had pinned her wrists, he pushed her flat to the ground and rolled her to one side.
Cecile felt something hard at her back. The outcropping of rock … so that was where he planned to savage her. Well, she would not give in without a fight. Frantically, she scrambled to her knees and tried to crawl away.
She could see nothing, not even her attacker. Hands pressed to the rock, Cecile inched along until she felt a deep cutaway. Flattening once more to the ground, she rolled beneath it. If she could not see him, maybe he would not be able to find her, either.
The wind whipped viciously, rushing in Matthew’s ears, obliterating sight and sound. Where the devil had she disappeared to? Feeling the sharp edge of approaching panic, Matthew dropped to his knees and groped.
His hand encountered the cutaway almost at once. Had she, too, discovered it, and been smart enough to crawl inside? He found himself praying as he crouched, flattened, and edged inside.
Cecile closed her eyes as she felt the length of his body press against her own. She did not want to look at him. She wanted to die.
The sound of the wind was less harsh beneath the sheltering rock. Matthew was able to hear the sound of Cecile’s rapid, shallow breathing. Carefully, he wiped the sand from his eyes and opened them.
There was at least a foot of clearance above their heads, and enough dim light to see by. Matthew turned over, propped himself on one elbow, and looked down at the woman by his side.
Her eyes were tightly shut, her hands clasped so firmly the knuckles showed white. Her veil had been lost, blown away, and even her lips, he saw, were pale with fear. Why, she was terrified, he realized. Is that why she had fought him? Had she, in her fear of the storm, temporarily taken leave of her senses? His annoyance was suddenly overcome with an overwhelming desire to comfort as well as protect her.
“It’s all right, halaila,” Matthew whispered. “The storm cannot harm you, not here.” Tenderly, he straightened her long, wind-twisted braids and smoothed the ruffled bangs upon her forehead. At least she did not flinch from him. And her skin was soft, so soft. His fingers moved to her cheek and he caressed it gently.
Something huge rose in Matthew’s breast, blurring his vision and confusing his thoughts. He wanted to crush her to him, yet he was afraid to hurt what appeared to be so delicate, so fragile.
“Ba’ad galbi, galbi,” Matthew murmured, barely aware of the words falling from his lips. He touched her hand, squeezed it softly. “Do not fear; I am with you. I will let nothing harm you … ba’ad galbi. Dhiba bint Sada.”
The words quivered in Cecile’s breast. Now she was afraid to open her eyes lest she find it was all only a dream. “Ba’ad galbi, galbi,” he had whispered … “my heart.” Is that why he had brought her here? Cecile opened her eyes at last.
His face was very close, mere inches away, his blue eyes so large and clear that she seemed to swim in them. His breath was warm against her cheek, and she could see the faint dark stubble shadowing his jaw.
&n
bsp; Her pulse still raced, though no longer with fright. As if of their own will, without thought or direction, her fingers reached to touch Matthew’s hard, handsome features. Wonderingly, she traced the square, firm line of his jaw, the high, sharp cheekbones and the straight, smooth ridge of his nose, coming to rest at last on the soft curve of his mouth.
His hand, in return, reached to cup her chin, then slid down the elegant slope of her neck. Palm nestled against the soft hollow of her throat, Matthew felt her thudding pulse. Her life, the quickening of her heart, there beneath his hand. He let the rhythm flow through him, until the pounding of his life’s blood matched her own.
Neither of them moved, each caught in the wonder of the other, frozen in a moment of time. The howl and rush of the wind fell, but they did not hear it. They heard only the beating of each other’s heart.
Some time later, neither knew how long, they moved together. It was a natural transition, made by wordless agreement, transcending passion. Matthew eased the weight from his elbow and relaxed on his back, as she fitted their bodies together and pillowed her head on his shoulder. Then they clasped hands, and as the air cleared and stars faintly winked in the twilight sky … they slept.
Chapter
12
THERE WERE OVER A HUNDRED TENTS IN THE camp of Shaikh Haddal. They surrounded the large oasis and spread out into the desert. On the camp’s fringes were the smaller communities of lesser tribes, gatherings of blacksmiths and merchants who followed the powerful Rwalan clan on its easterly trek. The shaikh and his people provided not only their livelihood, but afforded them protection and leadership. It was a good relationship.
Most especially, Haddal thought, since the peoples who flocked to him were his eyes and ears on the desert. There was nothing he did not know, or could not find out, if he wished. He was the most powerful shaikh of all the tribes. As such, he did not fear this Haled eben Rashid, leader of the Shammar. He did not heed the man’s thinly veiled threats. And he did not offer him coffee.
Haddal shifted against his saddle and stroked his full salt-and-pepper beard, eyeing the swarthy man who sat opposite him. “Once again, Rashid,” he said calmly,” I express my sympathy for your losses. But I cannot accept responsibility.”
“Four sheep, two goats, and a camel is no small loss,” Rashid bristled. “And I beg to differ about the responsibility. Are we not under your protections from raiders, here at the oasis?”
“I lend what aid I can,” Haddal responded evenly. While he was not about to give in to Rashid, neither did he wish to unduly anger the man. Haled was a powerful shaikh in his own right. “Many people follow me, as you are able to see. I cannot guarantee protection for each individual. I most certainly cannot make restoration to everyone who loses an animal.”
Rashid’s thin mouth tightened grimly. “Are you saying you will do nothing to help me?”
“Not at all,” Haddal replied smoothly. “I will post more guards, which will certainly discourage any further raiding. But more than this …” The older shaikh shrugged. He saw Rashid was prepared to prolong the argument, but the timely arrival of a messenger interrupted him. Haddal smiled at his servant. “What is it, Ali?”
The man bowed, his eyes lowered. “They come, ya ammi. They will arrive before midday.”
“Very well. You may go.” Haddal turned his smile on Rashid. “As you see, I will shortly have visitors. And such an important man as yourself must also have many things to do.”
Rashid did not take his dismissal well. Fuming, he pushed to his feet and deliberately glared down at his host before storming from the tent.
Haddal shook his grizzled head. He would have to be careful with that one, some small gift perhaps, or a favor. The shaikh nodded to himself and promptly forgot about the annoying Rashid. He had better things to think about.
It had been a long time since he had seen his old friend Blackmoore, and he looked forward to the meeting. Also to seeing this … Al Dhiba. Haddal ran his fingers through his beard. He had heard many things about the woman, not the least of all the story of her courage in facing the she-wolf. He only hoped she would prove to be as beautiful as she was brave. For he had many children, particularly unmarried daughters who still looked to him for support. He did not need another.
No, she would have to be married as soon as possible, preferably to someone at another camp. It would not be difficult to arrange, he mused, not when she had such a large dowry.
Haddal sighed. He would be sorry to have to relinquish all the many fine animals he had bred for her over the years, but what could he do? His mother, he thought, had named him well. Raga … “the granting of favor.”
Yes, it was good. The thought of his generosity pleased him. Haddal liked to think of himself as both a wise and benevolent leader. He would prove it yet again and find a worthy husband for his foster child—perhaps a chieftain or a shaikh, why not? It never hurt to have powerful sons-in-law.
Haddal popped a date into his mouth. Midday, Ali had said. Soon life would be very interesting, indeed.
The news spread swiftly. Many had seen Ali ride to the shaikh’s tent, and all knew for whom he had been scouting. Aza carefully adjusted her veil and picked up the water skins before she left her father’s tent. Her eyes sparkled, and her step was light and quick, in rhythm to the dancing of her heart.
She hurried, weaving through the maze of tents, nodding respectfully to the women who greeted her. Dogs barked, and children tugged at her skirts. She laughed at them but did not pause as she usually did.
The other girls had already arrived at the water’s edge. Aza knelt among them and filled her skins.
“Look at Aza!” Takla, the oldest girl, sat back on her heels. “Look how her eyes shine! I wonder why?”
There was a chorus of giggles. Aza smiled behind her veil.
“They will be here by midday, I hear,” Takla continued. “Is that why you hurry so, Aza? Do you plan to run and greet them?”
Aza ignored the good-natured teasing and pulled her skins from the water. She did not mind their laughter, for she knew how foolish she was. But she couldn’t help it. Nor did she care that he did not return her love. It was enough simply to see him from time to time, when he rode into camp to visit their shaikh, or bring them his horses. Yes, just to see him was enough … and to dream.
“Oh, Hagar …” Cecile leaned over the old woman’s shoulder, wondering at the sight that greeted her eyes. “It’s almost like a city!”
Hagar nodded, her expression grim. “Many people follow the shaikh. It is too crowded, I think.”
Cecile barely heard. She stared at the tents ringing the oasis, a hundred at least. Hordes of children scampered to and fro, dogs barked, and somewhere in the confusion she heard what sounded like the clanging of steel. A blacksmith? It really was like a city. And the oasis …
It was bigger than the last one they had visited, far more splendid. The palms towered, their shade cool and inviting. How good it would be to bathe again!
The camel knelt, bringing Cecile back to the reality of the moment. She scrambled to the ground, helped Hagar down, and immediately unpacked the tent. Later there would be time to think, to sort the welter of emotions raging within her.
The work went quickly. All too soon the tent was up, their goods stowed inside, and the cook fire burning. Still Cecile did not stop. She arranged the sleeping quilts, rearranged the sacks of stores against the back wall, and set up her loom.
Hagar watched from her position by the fire, chewing at the inside of her lip. The girl had reached her journey’s end, yet she did not seem to want to stop. And she knew why, but did Al Dhiba? Hagar remembered her conversation with Jali, in the hour of dawn before they had set out on their final march to the well.
“It is a difficult problem,” he had said, twitching his narrow shoulders. “I do not think I know what to tell you.”
“But why has she hardened her heart?” Hagar had asked. “Why does she not see what is so obvious
to us all?”
Jali pursed his lips. “This has happened over the years, I think, while she lived in Europe. They are not the same there, you know, as we are here. They would not accept her foreign blood. Al Dhiba suffered many cruelties and now fears and mistrusts others.”
Hagar had thought on that. It made sense … in a way. Yet Al Dhiba had been accepted by the desert peoples and seemed to accept them in return. The girl had learned their customs, abided by them, and apparently saw their worth. Why could she not also see that El Faris desired her?
Turning her gaze to the flames, Hagar sighed. There was very little time left. Furthermore, whatever had happened last night, when Al Dhiba had gone to El Faris’s tent, had not seemed to help matters. What was wrong with the two of them? she wondered. How, by Allah, was she going to get them together before it was too late?
Hagar looked up as Cecile crossed to the tent flap. “Where are you going?” she inquired sharply.
Cecile shook her head, uncertain. She only knew she could no longer remain within the tent. “I … I just want to look around. I’ll be back soon.” She left before Hagar could question her further.
The veil and dusty towb made Cecile feel anonymous. Unnoticed, she wandered among the tents, headed toward Haddal’s immense camp. Her heart fluttered painfully, and there was an uncomfortable knot in her stomach.
But why? She inwardly groaned, wrapping her arms across her breast. This was what she had always wanted, to come to Haddal, to receive what was hers and live independently for the rest of her days. Why was she now so confused? And why hadn’t she answered more firmly when El Faris had questioned her?
The memory of that meeting brought a spark of anger to life in Cecile’s heart. Why had he been so harsh with her? Why had he questioned her so relentlessly? It was none of his business what she chose to do with her life.
As she had done so often in the past, Cecile fanned the spark to a flame. Tucked beneath her arms, her hands clenched into fists, and she strode more firmly in the direction of the shaikh’s camp. Yes, she thought. She was a free woman now. Or would be shortly. Soon she would come into her own, and Matthew would no longer have any hold over her. Whatever strange thing had come between them, whatever weakness within her had allowed the bud of a relationship to bloom, was over and done with now. The bud had died before it might blossom. She would go her way, and he his. Just as it should be.
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