Call of the Trumpet

by Helen A. Rosburg’s

  Cecile felt each strand as it fell, skin so alive it ached. Shuddering with the intensity of the sensation, she raised her hand to his head, bracelets clinking as they slipped down her arms, and entangled her fingers in his thick, black mane. The urge to pull him down to her was almost more than she could bear.

  For she was aware of all of him now, the entire length of his naked form pressed against her side. She felt the stiffly curling hair of his long, muscular legs against her calf and thigh, and felt a throbbing pulse from some where deep in his belly where it flattened against her hip. Supported on his elbow, the broad chest loomed above her tantalizingly. Yet she knew exactly how it would feel when she finally drew him to her breast. The soft, springy hairs would crush against her, and the smooth line of down reaching toward his navel would be like velvet caressing her flesh.

  Her flesh burned, alive with a fire that threatened to consume her. It had started in her breast, igniting on emotion too long pent, and traveled downward to her belly, where it raged and spread.

  There was only one thing she could feel now. Its urgency throbbed against the smooth curve of her flank, its heat the center of her body’s inferno. And she was lost, drowning in waves of sensation that tossed her dizzily from crest to crest. Her vision blurred as incomprehensible tears filled her eyes, and she clung desperately to arms that suddenly surrounded her.

  A strange exultation filled him. Lowering his head, Matthew kissed away her tears, tasting their saltiness. She closed her eyes, and he kissed the delicate flesh of her lids, the feather of her lashes, the tip of her nose, and the hollow of her throat. He moved a hand to the small of her back, supporting her, pressing her more firmly to him until their hip bones ground together painfully.

  Their lips did not meet gently this time, but with a passion so violent it rocked them. A muffled sob died in Cecile’s throat as the thrust of his tongue parted her lips and explored the damp warmth of her mouth. Her hands clutched at him hungrily, kneading the flesh of his back, feeling the muscles bunch convulsively as his encircling arm gripped her more tightly. Then she was lifted.

  It happened with dizzying swiftness. In one smooth motion, Matthew had drawn them both upright into a sitting position. Holding her against him, suspended just above his hips, he freed one arm to guide her legs about his waist. Then he gently lowered her.

  The first touch was tentative, but it sent a bolt of lightning through her. Eyes wide open, they gazed at one another. Their lips brushed, and she moved against him. They quivered there a moment, poised on the edge of a passion that would devour them. Cecile closed her eyes.

  An explosion of pleasure-pain seared through her body. A storm of emotion raged in her heart. Her spine arched, her head fell back, and a shuddering cry burst from her throat.

  He answered her, moving against her, feeling her strain to receive him, absorb him, to draw him so deeply into her body he might touch the wings of her soul. And they hovered there a moment, locked in the embrace of a desire so pure and powerful that it left them reeling. They were barely even aware of the motion of their bodies, grinding together in elemental rhythm, leading them to a culmination that was shattering in its intensity. They were lost in each other, engulfed at last in the sea of their longing.

  Nothing, no one had ever been like this. He had had many women and enjoyed their bodies, their lovemaking. But no one before had ever touched the core of his very being. Supported on one arm, Matthew rolled over to gaze at her.

  “Dhiba,” he whispered, but she did not stir. Her head was pillowed at the base of a dune, arms akimbo and hair in magnificent disarray. She wore only the copper jewelry.

  A feeling surged through him, akin to passion yet tempered with a tenderness he had never known before. It confused him. He did not know whether he wanted to take her in his arms again and devour her with his hungry mouth, or simply hold her and rock her, stroke her long hair and tell her she belonged to him forever.

  But did she?

  Matthew pulled at his chin, confusion turning to a now-familiar torment. Despite what had transpired between them, he was afraid he still did not know or understand her, at least not fully. Her moods baffled him. She had come to him, but did she wish to remain with him?

  Matthew shook his head. He didn’t know, didn’t even want to think about it. Not now. Not when they were together at last, the barrier between them at least temporarily lowered. He only wanted to revel in her, to pretend the rest of the world did not exist, to make believe they were alone in this sandy wilderness and would be together until the end of time. They had to be. In a lifetime, he knew, he would never have enough of that lithe, mysterious, sensual body.

  Unable to control himself any longer, Matthew leaned down and gently pressed his lips to the white-ridged scar upon her breast. “Dhiba,” he murmured, and felt her arms glide around his neck.

  This time they had both fallen asleep, sated, wound in each other’s arms. The heat was intense, and their bodies glistened with moisture, yet even in sleep their need to be close was so strong they did not separate. Cecile woke once, briefly, and wondered at the absence of the Shamal‘s hot breath, longed for the feel of it against her damp flesh. But with consciousness came reality, and she did not want to face it, not yet. She wanted merely to lie in his arms, pressed to his lean, strong, masculine frame, and pretend they would be together thus forever. She closed her eyes and knew no more.

  It was nearly dusk when they finally awakened. The light had dimmed considerably. Gently disentangling himself from Cecile’s arms, Matthew rose and stretched. It was then he noticed what he should have seen long before.

  His skin prickled with alarm. Twilight was the wrong color, and an eerie glow shone from the northwest. The Shamal still had not returned, but now he knew why. Lost in his concern, he did not remember his nakedness, which seemed so natural in this time and place, or notice the shining look directed at him from the woman at his feet.

  He is beautiful, Cecile thought, if such an adjective could be ascribed to a man. So tall and perfectly formed, narrow at the waist, broad at the shoulders. Even the way his long, straight hair fell against his neck was appealing. Her need to touch him was overpowering, and she rose gracefully to her feet.

  Her movement caught his eye, and for a moment Matthew forgot his worry. Never had Allah made a woman so splendid, he thought, and watched as she approached, clothed only in her jewelry. He shivered, in spite of the heat, when she raised a hand to his chest and stroked the thick, dark curls. The impulse to pull her to him almost overcame his judgment. But her safety was a more pressing concern. He grasped her wrist and put it away from him.

  Misunderstanding, Cecile’s eyes darkened. Matthew gripped her shoulders gently and nodded toward the northwest sky. “We must return to the camp,” he said, surprised at the sound of his voice. He realized his words were the first uttered, besides her name, since he had followed her into the dunes. He wished they could have been different ones, but it was too late now. “The Shamal builds; I’m afraid a sandstorm brews.”

  In response, Cecile clung to him, laying her check against his chest. “No,” she murmured. “Not yet.”

  Matthew closed his eyes and enfolded her, but only for an instant. With every ounce of will he possessed, he pushed her from him. “We may be in danger, Dhiba. And I … I cannot allow anything to happen to you.”

  Cecile’s bright gaze did not flicker. His words echoed in her heart, but she knew she must not dwell on them, not yet. At this moment it did not matter if he loved her, truly loved her … not Aza. All that mattered was that they were together. Tomorrow, later, someday, she would worry about it. Not now.

  Matthew broke her reverie. “I’ll be right back,” he said shortly, and turned away.

  Wondering, Cecile watched him climb to the top of the nearest dune. He remained on the ridge, gazing into the distance. In the next moment, reality rudely intruded, and she realized what he looked at.

  Matthew’s jaw tightened, and he cursed h
imself for becoming so distracted he had not heeded the signs in time. It would be a race now. They must leave at once. He spun, only to find her standing at his side.

  “We must go,” he said simply, an explanation no longer necessary. Even as he watched her, seeing the undisguised anguish fill her gaze, the Shamal sighed its first warning and lifted the hair from her shoulders.

  Cecile did not move. She blinked and turned her eyes to the dark and angry distance. Terror rose in her breast.

  The sky was red, crimson with the dust from the northwest plains. Just above the horizon, something grew, something black and horrible, and it moved toward them swiftly. Matthew did not have to tell her what it was.

  “We’re in danger, Dhiba. The entire camp is in danger.”

  Even as he spoke, her fear receded, replaced by a stronger emotion. The instinct for survival … but the survival of something far more important than mere life.

  She had to keep him with her, alone with her, just a little longer. She had to win him. She had to.

  “The camp has weathered these storms before,” Cecile found herself saying. Her eyes did not move from the black, rapidly advancing core. “They will lower their tents, crouch by their camels, and pray to Allah for deliverance. Just as we will do … right here.”

  Strangely, her words did not surprise him. What amazed him was his own inclination to stay, to let the storm rage around them and be damned. As long as they were together.

  But it was madness. Matthew gripped Cecile’s arms. “You don’t know what these storms are like. Sometimes they go on for days. We’ll need to be near water, and …”

  “There’s a water skin hanging from your camel’s pack,” Cecile replied calmly, ignoring her whipping hair and the sand that swirled at her feet. “Also blankets, a small tent, and food. I packed it for you. Remember?”

  He was able to hear the distant moan of the wind now, growing louder. He gave her a little shake, barely aware of his words, or why he spoke them, and said, “Fear the storm, Dhiba, not the future. Come back with me …”

  His words were blown away in a gust of wind. It staggered them, and he clutched her tightly to him. Now was the moment, he knew. Further delay and it would be too late. He could easily lift her into his arms, carry her to the kneeling camel, and force her to obey him. Their lives, perhaps, depended on it.

  His hand slid down her back, over the smooth, tight curve of her buttock. Fighting his rising desire, Matthew bent and scooped her into his arms.

  The wind abated in the lee of the sheltering dune. Though she had closed her eyes, Cecile felt its lessening almost at once.

  The camel had repositioned herself, turning at an angle to the wind. Her heavily lashed eyes were half-closed to the blowing dust.

  Matthew hesitated, reluctant to surrender his burden. A sudden gust lashed at his back, and to his left a spiral of sand rose high in the turbulent air. His heart swelled with emotion and a desire so basic, so primitive, it rocked him.

  Cecile opened her eyes as she felt herself lowered. She stood by the camel as Matthew retrieved their scattered clothing. Her makruna had long ago blown away, but she did not care. Nothing mattered any longer. She obediently took the bundle when he handed it to her.

  “Shove these things in a pack. There’s no time to dress.”

  Confused, Cecile did as she was bid. Would they ride back to camp naked?

  No. For they were not returning. She understood now.

  The wind rushed about them, and sand swirled nearly to their knees. Neither moved. They were naked and alone in the world. One man and one woman. Whom he would protect with his dying breath, if need be.

  There was very little time left. The black, menacing core of the storm had grown, nearly filling the sky. They saw it above the dune, only a few miles away. Even as they watched, a single, deafening boom of thunder rolled across the desert, and bright white sheets of lightning flickered against the blackness. The decision had been made, and there was no turning back.

  Cecile did not have to be told what to do. She watched as Matthew tucked the food containers snugly against the camel’s flank, then helped him with the flapping length of material.

  Matthew wrapped it around them, pulling Cecile close to him. He kissed her once, hard, then drew her to the camel.

  They lay down together, flat against the dahlul on the side away from the wind, and Matthew pulled the tent material over their heads. They were bound together, encased in a darkness redolent with the musky spice of their love-sated bodies. The wind whined and rushed and buffeted, in concert with the hiss of blowing sand, but they paid no heed. The world had ceased to exist. Locked in each other’s arms, legs entwined as their sweat-slippery bodies strained together, they closed their eyes and slept.

  Night fell unnoticed. In the heart of the storm, there was no differentiation in degrees of darkness. It simply went on and on. Sand rained on their makeshift shelter, and the wind tried to snatch it away, but they were secure.

  Several times they woke together, never quite sure what had roused them. Except, perhaps, the desire to revel in their closeness, or reassure themselves that they were not, indeed, in a dream. They would move against each other, then, simply to feel and know the other’s body, skin texture, warmth, and damp.

  At some point, neither knew exactly when, he had slipped inside her, as easily and naturally as her head cradled against his breast. There was no passion, just a need to be as one. And so they remained together as night, unnoticed, surrendered to a day they could not see, and the storm raged on around them.

  Chapter

  20

  THE WIND HAD FALLEN. THE FULL FORCE OF THE Shamal had passed, though it still blew strongly. Matthew heard the change in its whining tune. But he was no longer able to feel it pelting against him, for there was now a dune at his back.

  How he longed to move, to stretch! He had lost track of the hours spent in their muffled darkness, but it had to be nearly an entire day. His muscles ached, his throat was parched, and his belly groaned with hunger. But he dared not move, even to moisten his dry lips, for fear of waking Al Dhiba. Her misery would be at least as great as his own, and there was nothing he could do for her yet. Not until the air was breathable.

  Matthew closed his eyes again, though he knew he would not sleep. He was sated with sleep … and its accompanying dreams. Dreams of Al Dhiba leaving him. He was powerless to prevent her. When he tried to reach for her, his arms would not move. When he tried to call to her, no words came from his lips.

  As careful as he had tried to be, she seemed tuned to the slightest twitch of his body. He felt her eyelids flutter, long silky lashes tickling his throat. He held her tighter.

  The nightmare dissipated, drawn away by the strength of his powerful arms. He was there, Cecile told herself over and over. She had nothing to fear, not now. He was there, holding her. Their precious time together was not over. She might continue to pretend for awhile that she was his only wife, that he loved her and only her.

  “Dhiba?”

  Cecile nodded against him, lips pressed to his chest.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded again. The dryness of her throat, the ache in her body, was nothing, nothing as long as she did not have to move from his arms.

  “The wind falls. Soon we’ll be able to move.” Mistaking the reason for her body’s sudden tension, Matthew hastened to reassure her. “Don’t be afraid, Dhiba. The worst is over. When the sand settles, I’ll take you back.”

  Cecile squeezed her eyes shut so he would not feel her scalding tears against his breast. How she longed to tell him she never wished to return, never wished to be confronted again by the gentle Aza. A crushing wave of guilt rolled over her when she thought of the sweet, innocent girl-woman, whose husband she had deliberately set out to steal. For Cecile could no longer deny it.

  She wanted him, all of him, for all time. She wanted to be the only one, had to be. There was no room for sweet, gentle Aza. And it mad
e Cecile feel sick with guilt.

  But she would not think of it now, not yet. Instead, she silently prayed to Allah that the Shamal would never end.

  The wind, however, fell at last. Cecile felt Matthew stir and gripped him more tightly. “Is it … is it over?” she whispered.

  “Almost,” he replied, and wondered why he did not feel a greater sense of relief. “At least we can move a little.”

  Under Matthew’s direction, they sat upright side by side. Though the wind had died, he explained, the air would still be dangerously full of sand. But he could reach the water skin now, and food. Keeping the tent material over their head, he retrieved the skin and food pouches he had stashed beneath the camel’s flank.

  There was enough dim light to see by. Cecile munched a handful of hamida and glanced from time to time at the strong, handsome face beside her. Each time she looked at him, a faint shock trembled through her. Would it always be thus? she wondered. Would she yearn each time she looked at him?

  The light was fading. “It must be near dusk,” Matthew said reluctantly. “The air should be clearer now. I’d better see if we can … travel yet.”

  Cecile did not protest. She didn’t think she would be able to speak. All she could think of was Aza … the look in her eyes when she saw what was between them, when she saw she had lost her husband. For good.

  Or had she?

  Matthew had felt something for Aza, or he would not have wed her. Would he now put Aza aside, divorce her? Or was she, once again, indulging in foolish hopes?

  “Keep this over your head,” Matthew directed, rousing Cecile from her reverie. “Tightly.” He was gone before she could reach for him, slipping silently from their cozy darkness.