Call of the Trumpet

by Helen A. Rosburg’s

  The sand-laden air was as thick as pea soup. Squinting, Matthew threw an arm across his nose and mouth and took a tentative step forward. His foot encountered the dune that had built against them during the storm, but he could see almost nothing. Even the camel was an insubstantial shadow in the gloom. Travel was impossible. But they might at least make themselves more comfortable.

  Cecile could scarcely contain the joy that flooded her heart. They would not yet return! In the meantime, they would erect his small tent. If only for one more night, she would lie with him again and pretend she was the only one …

  “Dhiba? Are you listening to me?” When she nodded slowly, he handed her the khaffiya he had fished from the pack. “Put this on. Wrap it tight across your face.”

  Cecile did as she was told, then watched as he cut a length from the hem of her towb and likewise covered his face. It reminded her of their nakedness, which had seemed so natural she had all but forgotten about it. So had Matthew, apparently, for he put the dress aside. “We’ll have to work quickly,” he said, his voice muffled in the folds of the material. “Are you ready?”

  The Shamal had died completely, its fury temporarily spent, and the stillness was eerily thick. Combined with the almost total lack of visibility, Cecile had the sensation of moving through a dream world.

  Working together despite the impenetrable gloom, the tent was swiftly erected. No sooner had the last pole been set than Matthew gently pushed Cecile inside. But he did not follow, and for an instant she was alone, and frightened, in the darkness.

  He reappeared shortly. She could just see his outline as he crouched through the tent flap. When he straightened, his broad, dark shadow blotted out the remaining light. With a smile, Cecile unwound the khaffiya and reached for him.

  Their bodies met, tingling. Matthew felt her long, tangled hair brush the backs of his hands as she raised her face to his. But he did not bend to her mouth, not yet. Smiling into the anonymous darkness, he released her and stooped to retrieve the bundle he had brought in with him. “Here,” he said, thrusting it between them. “I’ll start a fire if you’ll unfold the sleeping quilt …”

  Cecile did not miss the teasing tone of his voice. “I hurry to obey … O lord of my tent.”

  Space was at a premium in the small, circular structure. There was barely enough room for the two of them, much less a fire pit, rug, and blanket. When Cecile had completed her task, she sat, hugging her knees and staring into the darkness, listening to the sounds Matthew made as he assembled his small store of fuel. At last a tiny flame flickered to life. The darkness wavered, receded, and a soft glow filled the tent. Matthew’s features and his lean, hunkering frame were illumined.

  It was as if she saw him for the very first time, and Cecile drank in the sight of him. The lambent light threw the smooth, hard planes of his face into sharp relief, accentuating the strong, well-chiseled lines. His blue eyes shone, and his black hair glistened in the dancing, shifting shadows. Never, she thought, had Allah created a man so perfect. She hardly dared to let her eyes caress the rest of him for fear of losing what little control remained in her.

  Matthew was not unaware of her regard. It pleased him, excited him as he felt her bold, bright stare lick his body. He couldn’t help thinking of Aza, or any of the other women he had known, whose eyes would be downcast, hiding the sensual secrets in their hearts with modest timidity.

  But not Al Dhiba. She barely seemed aware of her nakedness. She was innocently unashamed, proudly cloaked in her breathtaking beauty, defying him to respond to the undisguised desire in her eyes.

  Matthew hesitated, but only to prolong the knife-edged keenness of his anticipation. Never, he realized, never before had a woman made him feel so intensely male, so aware of his own power and strength. For hers was equally, if differently, as great. It drew him, an irresistible force toward which he must move and unite. Uncurling from his position by the fire, he reached to touch her at last.

  Cecile closed her eyes as Matthew’s palm pressed to her cheek. Her heart squeezed at the tenderness of the touch, and a bolt of passion seared downward through her belly. Placing her own small hand over his larger one, she held it there a moment, then guided him to her breast.

  He had meant to love her slowly, to savor every inch of her body, to explore and adventure and invent new ways to bring her pleasure. But she had enflamed him, and he could not control his body’s need for her. With a muffled groan, he gathered her into his embrace.

  Their need had been equal, their union all the more intense for its brevity. Bathed in sweat, panting for breath, they lay together and listened to the crackle and hiss of the flames.

  Soon they would have to eat, Cecile thought, though she never wanted to move from Matthew’s arms. Putting out her tongue, she tasted the salt in the hollow of his throat.

  “Is that an invitation?” Raising up on his elbows, Matthew grinned down at her. “So soon?”

  She smiled back. “If you mean an invitation to dinner … yes, I’m starving.” Laughing, Cecile pushed at his chest.

  “Or what?” he asked, solidly resisting her attempts to dislodge him from a most strategic position. “What will you do if I don’t go away?”

  “I’ll roast more than just wheat for dinner!”

  Matthew’s chuckle erupted into laughter. Cecile squirmed from beneath him and crawled to the other side of the fire before he could regain his composure.

  There was little to eat, and they were low on water, but Cecile took great pleasure in preparing the simple meal. Almost as much as Matthew derived from watching her. He wanted to fill himself with the sight of her, brand the vision of her upon his memory. For morning would come all too soon, and what would happen then, when they returned to camp? Would this strange, wonderful interlude be over? Or would it last? And why, if she desired him as much as her body proclaimed, had she so coldly rejected his proposal of marriage?

  Matthew shook his head. He might never know the answer to that. But one thing he did know.

  He loved her. He would do anything to keep her at his side, as his true wife, forever.

  Cecile had forgotten about the at-tita bulbs she had slipped into the pockets of her dress. Hunger now triggered the memory, and she added them to their meager fare. It wasn’t much of a meal, but the best she could do under the circumstances, and the result pleased her.

  Matthew barely noticed what passed his lips, caring only for the woman at his side. Hunger sated, he again devoted his full attention to watching her, her skin glowing golden in the firelight. He touched her and saw her breast heave, the great lush mass of her extraordinary hair tangled about her shoulders, looking for all the world like an Olympian goddess prepared to go to battle. She enflamed him.

  Cecile gasped as Matthew’s hand fastened on her wrist. He pulled her to him and roughly shoved her back upon the sleeping quilt. His naked desire left no doubt of his intention. Her hands, pinned in his vice-like grip, were forced to the ground above her head and her legs were parted forcefully as he insinuated himself between her thighs. Her body lay stretched and open like some sacrificial animal about to be put to the knife. Biting back a cry, she turned her head from his searching mouth and closed her eyes to the sight of him, prepared for the brutal thrust she knew was about to come.

  But it did not. She felt instead his lips upon her throat, then her breast, licking at the taste of her flesh as his tongue traveled downward. Wincing with too-keen pleasure, she felt it swirl in her navel … and continue.

  She wanted him. Oh, God, how she wanted him! Raising upward in more of a spasm than a consciously controlled movement, she reached for him and tried to pull him over her body. But he resisted her, sitting upright himself, pulling her hips into his lap.

  They came together then, his every nerve in tune with her writhing body. And together they rode the swelling, drowning sea of their desire.

  The morning dawned in eerie silence. They were awakened simultaneously, the bright, unfiltered light
of the sun stealing through the tent flap to pry their eyes from sleep.

  Matthew was the first to move. Gently removing his arm from beneath Cecile’s head, he rose and pulled the flap aside. Sunlight streamed on the clear, pure air.

  There was no need for words. He did not have to tell her it was time. Cecile rolled from the quilt and neatly folded it away. She dressed with her back to him, not with shyness, but in anguish. Their time together was done. Had she won him? Would he make her his only wife?

  When she turned, she found him cloaked once more in his flowing white robe, dagger at his waist. They breakfasted on the remains of their dinner, still no word spoken. The silence was crushing. It was almost a relief to pack away the rest of their goods and strike the small tent.

  The she-camel seemed no worse for her ordeal. During the night she must have wandered away to graze in the wind-lashed desert, and now she knelt complacently at her master’s command. It took only moments to repack the saddle.

  Matthew hesitated, his hands still gripping the cinch. It seemed there should be words to say, emotions to express. But what? What could he say that he had not already whispered with the caress of his lips against her flesh? He had done all he could to win her. When they returned to camp, she would remain at his side, or she would not. With a solemn gesture, he beckoned her forward and helped her into the saddle.

  The camel’s rolling motion was all too familiar. Matthew walked ahead, and she watched him as he plodded steadily onward, leading the camel through the newly sculpted dunes. The journey continued in silence, monotonously, and Cecile hardly noticed when Matthew halted and looked about as if lost, searching the sea of dunes for a landmark he might have missed. She was aware of nothing until the camel knelt, front legs first, and she was pitched sharply forward.

  Matthew composed himself before he turned to her. He did not want her to be afraid. She would need every ounce of courage she possessed to sustain her during the trek that now lay before them.

  For the wind and sand had done what he feared, and the well, the nomads’ tenuous, life-giving link to the underground sources of water, had been covered, rendered totally useless. Trying to hide his dismay, his fear for her life and safety, Matthew walked slowly back to her side.

  Cecile experienced an emotion deeper than fear as she gazed into the depths of Matthew’s clear, blue eyes. No words had been spoken all morning, and none were needed now. She knew. And turned to look at the once-recognizable landscape.

  The camp was gone.

  Chapter

  21

  THE SUN WAS LOW ON THE HORIZON. ANY MOMENT now there would be nothing left of it but a glow in the west, soon to be swallowed by the onrushing night. When darkness had fallen and the night wind blew, it would be time to travel again.

  Cecile crouched by the tent flap and resisted the temptation to lie back down at her lover’s side. If she did she might wake him, and waking, he would see the sun had set. Then they would strike the tent and pack the camel and set off in search of the camp. In a few days, if they had not found it, they would die.

  Death. Cecile shuddered and turned her thoughts from herself to the people of the camp … Jali, Hagar, Ahmed, Aza … What emotions tormented them? Did they think, perhaps, that El Faris and Al Dhiba were already dead, victims of the Shamal‘s fury? Or did they think the two had simply disappeared together, abandoning them altogether?

  No, that is not what they would think. Matthew would never abandon anyone. Nor would he succumb to the violent desert wind. Which was why someone, Ahmed probably, had left behind the water skin. Without the well to sustain them, the camp could not wait for its leader. But they knew he would have survived the storm, and that he would follow them.

  So they had left the skin. With what they had already, there was enough for three, perhaps four days. Surely that was time enough to catch up with the caravan.

  A faint stirring distracted Cecile’s attention, and she looked toward the she-camel. The animal was restless, no doubt sensing the time for their journey had arrived. The sun had disappeared, and twilight was fast fading. Reluctantly, Cecile reached to touch Matthew’s arm.

  He came awake instantly. His senses were alert, his eyes focused, but his mind remained fuzzy. He looked up at Cecile, her long braids just brushing his chest, and remembered only how she had felt in his arms a few short hours ago. Her fragrance lingered in his nostrils. She smiled at him.

  Memory returned in a rush, jarring him. The camp had been forced to move on in search of water. They were stranded in the heart of the mighty Sahara with only a skin of water and his knowledge of the desert to sustain them. Though his lore was considerable, so were the odds against them.

  Matthew straightened his robes, wondering what, and how much, he should tell Cecile. He didn’t want to frighten her, but … “Dhiba,” he began. Then he looked at her and found he could not continue.

  She was so beautiful. The gaze she turned on him was so serene, so full of trust. How could he tell her of the dangers they faced? What good would it do to mar what might be their last few days together?

  Decision made, Matthew crouched and returned Cecile’s gentle smile. “You’re right, it’s time.” He let his fingers brush her cheek. “We must move swiftly tonight.”

  His gaze lingered a moment, eyes filled with an expression Cecile did not recognize, though it filled her with warmth. She longed to kiss the fingertips that trailed along her jaw. Then, in one swift motion, the spell was broken, and he was gone, disappearing through the tent flap into the gathering dusk.

  It didn’t take long to repack their few belongings. In minutes the camel had been readied. Matthew motioned for Cecile to mount, and as she did so, he wondered briefly if he should spare the animal and walk. But the dahlul was fresh, and the sand, not to mention the temperature, was still hot. He decided to conserve his own strength. While he could.

  Cecile felt a melting thrill as Matthew mounted the saddle behind her. His chest pressed to her back, his legs nestled to hers. She closed her eyes and prayed for the uncomfortable pounding of her heart to cease.

  “Are you all right?” Matthew breathed in her ear. “I apologize for the crowded conditions.”

  “I’m fine.” Her eyes remained closed as the camel lurched forward and up, throwing Matthew even more tightly against her. Then they were on their way, moving at a rolling jog across the darkening sands.

  For the first time, Matthew found he was glad of his dahlul‘s jerking, rhythmic gait. It forced him to concentrate and helped to lessen the sensuous pleasure he felt at the nearness of Cecile’s body. Pleasure was the last thing that should presently occupy his mind.

  Out of habit, Matthew tuned his senses to the night wind. It blew softly, steadily, with no hint of storm behind it. Thank Allah. But things changed rapidly on the desert. What if the Shamal returned tomorrow, or the next day? What if the water holes on their route had been filled? Ahmed would leave signs of which direction the camp had gone in search of water, of that Matthew had no fear. His only fear was not catching up with them in time.

  Time. It was running out.

  But he would not think about it, not for awhile. For a time he would think of nothing but the trail he must carefully follow, and try to ignore the distracting, warm press of Cecile’s body against his.

  Daylight approached. The sands lightened, taking on color. Any moment now the sun would burst upon the horizon, and the crest of the distant dunes would shimmer beneath its heat. It was time to stop and take shelter. And pray that while they slept, the wind remained quiet. As gently as the night breeze had blown, it had still eroded the tracks he followed, and as yet he had not seen a sign that Ahmed might have left.

  Cecile did not realize she had been dozing until the camel lurched to its knees. When she saw the glow of the sun to the east, she was surprised morning had come so quickly. It seemed mere minutes ago she had allowed her tired eyes to close. When had Matthew slipped from the saddle? From the look of him, he had wal
ked many miles.

  “We must hurry to get in the shade of the tent,” he said. “The sun rises swiftly.”

  He did not have to add why. Cecile knew. Every drop of moisture in their bodies was so precious. They must avoid the sun’s rays.

  They worked silently and efficiently, and Cecile savored each moment. This was their time together. “There’s little food left,” she said when their tiny camp was complete. “But I could make a simple breakfast.”

  Matthew debated, wondering if the grain should be conserved. But thirst would claim them long before hunger. He nodded.

  Cecile used no fire and only a few drops of water to moisten the ground wheat, the last of the stores. They ate silently, and when they had finished, Matthew thanked her.

  “It was my pleasure,” she replied, and reached for his wooden bowl. But Matthew gestured her away.

  “There’s no need to clean these. We won’t be needing them anymore.”

  She watched as he lifted a corner of the blanket and buried the bowls in the sand. Then he uncorked the skin and handed it to her. “Go ahead. Drink deeply. You must replenish what you’ve lost.”

  “But …”

  He silenced her with a wave of his hand. “It’s all right. Trust me.” Matthew smiled. “The camp isn’t far ahead.”

  Cecile was not fooled. Nevertheless, she drank until her thirst was quenched. There was no sense in dying by degrees. They would find the camp in time, or they would not.

  In his turn, Matthew, too, drank deeply. When he had finished, he carefully recorked the skin and set it aside. “We must try to rest.”

  Cecile obediently lay down at Matthew’s side, but she was unable to sleep. She could not even close her eyes. Tomorrow or the next day they would find the camp. Or they would die. Either way, she might never know the delights of his body again, nor experience the violently exquisite storm he caused in her own.

  It happened before Cecile fully knew what she was doing. She stripped off her dusty towb. What harm was there in tempting him to her arms one last time? Holding her breath, Cecile gently touched his shoulder.