Matthew pulled at his chin, alarmed by the protracted silence. What was she thinking? Why didn’t she speak? His fingers drummed on the tabletop.
The sound went through her like fire, searing her nerves. Was he so anxious, so impatient for her to be gone? Well, if that was his wish, she would not disappoint him.
Matthew gaped as Cecile rose, a swirling cloud of silver and blue. She did not even pause to speak, but fled the room as if pursued.
“Dhiba!” he called, to no avail. She was gone.
Cecile did not stop at her room. She never wanted to see it again. Clutching the hem of her gown so she would not trip, she raced down the corridor, through an arched doorway, and into the maze of gardens.
The night was sultry and still, the air heavy with perfume. Starlight glittered on the surface of a pool, and the lush, green foliage surrounding it was bathed in intermittent silvery moon glow. The beauty and peace of the place soon drained away Cecile’s rash anger, and more rational thought took its place.
Had she, she wondered, once more jumped … erroneously … to a conclusion? She had done so before, to her sorrow. Had she done so again?
Matthew had not even mentioned Aza. And he was an honorable man. He would have told her had that been the case.
Just as he had told her a ship had come to Muscat. He had been honor bound to do so, for she had once told him it was her greatest wish to return to France.
And he had warned her about horse thieves because …
Cecile froze. Her flight from Matthew had carried her through the garden and on to the stable. Now she stood in front of the wide, double doors. The left one was ajar.
She heard nothing and saw no one. She had no time to cry out as a hand snaked from the darkness, clamped over her mouth, and dragged her backward into the shadows.
Chapter
27
REACTION WAS INSTINCTIVE; CECILE’S FINGERS tore at the large, callused hand that covered her mouth. Her body twisted. When she felt herself being lifted from the ground, she kicked and heard a gratifying “Oomph!” from her captor. But his grip did not loosen.
“Hold her, Zaal!” a voice growled. “Cut her throat … don’t let her give a warning!”
Panic lent her strength. Redoubling her efforts, Cecile flailed her arms and kicked with all her might.
“Bitch!” Zaal snarled, and with his free arm tried to restrain her. Cecile struggled harder.
Horse thieves … Matthew had been telling the truth. As fresh waves of terror coursed through her body, Cecile tried one last, desperate maneuver.
“Aiyee!”
Cecile bit harder into the fleshy base of Zaal’s thumb until she tasted his coppery blood. The hand that had pinned her arms now pushed her away as Zaal endeavored to extract his thumb from her teeth. It was her chance. Her only chance. Zaal’s accomplice, realizing what had happened, came at her. His khusa glinted in the fragmented moonlight.
He caught only the trailing hem of her gown. Cecile heard it rip away, and then she was running for her life into the night. “Matthew!” she screamed. “Matthew!”
The sound of her cry tore through him, a searing bolt of lightning that hurled him from his bed and to his feet. Naked, he stopped only to pull on trousers and an instant later bolted out the door, dagger in one hand, sword in the other. He did not stop to think. He knew. The ruthless men who stalked his horses had come upon her. She wouldn’t have a chance.
Cecile saw them from the corner of her eye. There were six of them, in addition to the two who had grabbed her in the stable, and they were in hard pursuit. In moments they would have her. She swerved to the left.
“Cut her off! Get her … quickly!”
Cecile ran swiftly, but the clinging gown tangled her legs, and the men who pursued were tough and desert-hardened. She felt fingers plucking at her trailing skirt. She lunged forward with a desperate burst of speed and felt another piece of material tear away. Then her foot connected with something hard and unyielding, and she sprawled. The breath was knocked from her lungs, but she managed to roll. The upraised dagger came down where her neck had been a fraction of a second before. She fought to regain her feet.
But there were too many of them, and they were upon her. Someone grabbed her feet. Another arm was lifted. It never came down.
The man cried out only an instant before his head was severed from his body. Matthew took another great swing, and a second body slammed into the ground. Then the other six were almost on top of him.
“Run, Dhiba … run!”
Cecile did not move. There was time for only one brief, knowing look between them. Then he tossed her his dagger and whirled.
The six surrounded him, blocking him from Cecile’s sight. She heard the clash of steel and something within her swelled and burst. With a cry she sprang forward.
Afterward she would never remember exactly what had happened. The memory would forever remain a blur, a collage of images … her knife slicing downward, a scream of pain. Someone wheeled away from her. Another body in motion, coming at her. And Matthew, his naked chest glistening with sweat as he raised his right arm again and again, slashing and carving with his bloodied sword, spinning and dodging, dealing death to one, then another.
Of the two who had approached Cecile, only one remained alive. Three men in all were left. But all three were intent upon Matthew now. And he was tiring rapidly.
Cecile threw herself forward, clinging to the back of the man who had turned away from her. He was unable to raise his blade arm. She plunged her dagger into his neck, and he fell.
Only two now faced Matthew, but it was enough. Horrified, she watched as the one called Zaal charged in … “Matthew!”
Cecile leapt forward, heedless of all save the bleeding, inert form before her. She did not hear the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, did not see the two remaining men turn and attempt, unsuccessfully, to flee. She was aware of just Matthew, and dropped to her knees at his side.
“Matthew … Dear God … Matthew!”
He lay sprawled on his side. He did not stir. Without hesitation Cecile tore away the remaining hem of her tattered gown and tried to staunch the crimson tide. She did not look up as half a dozen men surrounded her. Only when Ahmed had knelt to scoop his master into his arms did she finally stir to life.
“Take him to his room,” she ordered. “And someone fetch Hagar … Hurry!”
Aza raced along the corridor, her pulse thudding. Horse thieves, one of the servants had said. Al Dhiba had stumbled upon them as they had attempted to steal into the stable. Matthew had gone to her rescue, and there had been a fight. Someone had been injured. El Faris, they said, but she did not believe it. Could not. Sobbing, she burst into his room. “My husband!”
Cecile turned. Hagar remained bent over the form on the bed. Aza’s hands flew to her mouth as her eyes took in the sodden, tattered blue gown, now stained red. Her stomach spasmed, and the room began to spin.
Cecile watched her sway. “My husband,” Aza had cried. “Go to him!” she snapped. “Go to him, then … Go to your husband!”
But Aza seemed paralyzed. The color drained from her cheeks, and her hands remained pressed to the veil over her mouth. She was completely powerless to move or to act.
“Dhiba!”
Hagar’s voice penetrated, cutting through the seething mass of emotion in Cecile’s breast. “Help me, Dhiba,” the old woman commanded. “Quickly. Press your hand here.”
Cecile jerked around, Aza forgotten, and placed her hand where Hagar indicated, over the deepest portion of the wound. Within seconds the clean white cloth she held was soaked with Matthew’s blood.
“Keep the pressure steady,” Hagar directed. “And try to hold him still if he moves.”
Cecile nodded, teeth clenched, and watched as the old woman poured an amber fluid over the bloodied shoulder. Then she threaded a fine bone needle, pulled the edges of the wound together, and stitched.
Time stretched. Minutes became
hours. Hagar continued doggedly, pulling the flesh together and binding it, her fingers flying. In a race against time, Cecile knew. For Matthew still bled, his life ebbing away into a spreading stain upon the silken sheets. Finally, she was forced to move her hand.
Hagar did not pause. Even as a fresh fount of crimson gushed from the wound, she deftly plied her needle. Soon her hands were slippery with blood, and she could barely see what she was doing. Working at last by touch alone, she finished stitching the ugly, gaping slash and swiftly bandaged it.
Cecile let out a long, shuddering sigh as the old woman straightened. “It is not over yet,” Hagar said wearily. “He has lost a great deal of blood. It is out of my hands now and in the hands of God … May Allah be Merciful.”
With a small cry Aza sank to her knees, clasped her hands, and began to pray. Cecile didn’t flinch. “I’ll stay with him, Hagar.”
“You will first let me see to your own wounds,” the old woman replied.
Startled, Cecile followed Hagar’s gaze and noticed, for the first time, the runners of red streaming down her arm from just above the elbow. Feeling something else warm and sticky, she lifted her hand to her neck and encountered a long, though shallow, gash. Aware now, too, of the stinging in her knees, she lifted the tattered hem of her gown and saw the damage done when she had tripped and fallen. Blood still oozed from where both knees had opened, and her shins and the top of her feet were awash in red.
“You must let me clean those, Dhiba. Aza will stay and …”
“No!” Cecile’s reaction was feral. She backed against the edge of the bed, arms protectively outstretched. “No, they’re nothing, only scratches. I will stay with him.”
Hagar heard the fierceness in her tone, saw the defiance in her stance, and smiled behind her veil. El Faris would live, she thought. Al Dhiba would not allow him to die. “Very well,” she said at last. “I will rest in your room. Watch him carefully and call me at once if he stirs.”
Cecile nodded and turned back to the bed. She remained immobile until she heard the sound of retreating footsteps, both Aza’s and Hagar’s. She heard the door close softly, then an undercurrent of voices, Ahmed’s and Jali’s. Murmured words from Hagar, more footsteps, and silence.
The stillness struck her with the force of a blow. Events and images rushed at her: flailing arms, glittering sabers. And Matthew in the midst of it all, fighting for her. Yet barely an hour before, she had thought he had dismissed her from his life.
The shock wore off, and its aftermath set in. Cecile sank to the floor before her knees buckled and buried her face in her hands. But she did not cry.
Once more, her fiery, too-quick temper had gotten her into trouble. Worse, it had again affected Matthew … and he perhaps would lose his life because of it. What was wrong with her?
She knew … jealousy. Murderous, poisonous jealousy. It had apparently affected even her good sense. Because of it she had jumped to a false conclusion and had foolishly disregarded Matthew’s warning, to the detriment and endangerment of his very life. And he loved her. How could she doubt that any longer? How far did he have to go, what did he have to do to prove to her that he loved her and only her?
Guilt Cecile had felt when she thought of Aza was as nothing compared to what she now experienced. Had she killed him? Had her ridiculous pride and insane jealousy murdered him?
“Oh, Matthew … Matthew, what have I done?” The agonized whisper echoed in the stillness of the room, condemning her. His hand lay palm down on the bed, fingers slightly curled, and Cecile turned her head to rest her cheek against the too cool flesh. “Oh, Matthew, my love,” she breathed. “Please don’t die. Don’t leave me.”
The tears ran unheeded now, spilling over his hand to mingle with the blood upon the sheets. “Don’t die, my darling. Stay with me, stay. I know you love me, not Aza. I’ll never doubt you again, not unless I hear it from your own lips. I promise. Don’t leave me … don’t leave …”
There was no dawn, simply a bleak filtering of light through the thickly massed clouds. Hagar woke slowly, smelling rain, thinking vaguely that it was early yet for Allah’s gift. She stretched her hand across the bed, feeling for Jali, and came instantly awake.
This was Dhiba’s room, not hers. And she had slept here because El Faris lay gravely wounded. With more agility than she had mustered in years, Hagar jumped from the bed and hurried to the door.
Cecile was where she had left her the night before, standing protectively by the bedside. But she had changed into a loose white robe and combed her hair. She had also somehow managed to change the bloody sheets.
“Dhiba, why didn’t you call me?”
“There was no need.”
“But you shouldn’t have moved him without help. You might have …”
“I was careful. As you see,” she said, gesturing at the bandage, “the wound did not open. There is no bleeding.”
Hagar grunted, but not with displeasure. “Has he wakened?”
Cecile shook her head. “No. He hasn’t so much as stirred. Hagar …”
For the first time since Hagar had entered the room, Cecile tore her gaze from the bed. The old woman winced at the agony written so plainly across her lovely features. She took the girl’s hand and squeezed it. “Do not fear, Dhiba,” she said gently. “He lost a great deal of blood, but he is a strong man. As your love is strong,” she added. “He will not die.”
Cecile looked away, a glimmer of tears in her eyes, and Hagar cleared her throat. “Come,” she said sharply. “Help me change the bandage.”
The wound looked raw, and blood still seeped from its edges, but the sutures held. Hagar nodded. “It is good, he will heal. Though he will carry a scar for the rest of his life,” she glanced sideways at Cecile, “to remind him of the night he fought alongside Al Dhiba.”
Cecile’s eyes widened. “What? I did nothing. What do you mean?”
“Do you not remember?” Hagar asked. “You plunged your dagger into the heart of one and the throat of another. Ahmed saw. You fought at your husband’s side; you saved his life. The tale is on everyone’s lips. Al Dhiba and El Faris … the she-wolf and her mate.”
Cecile felt the hot, bright color flood her face. The she-wolf and her mate …
“Yes.” Hagar nodded again and crossed her arms over her breast. “You fast become legend, Dhiba. Among the desert peoples, your name will be linked to that of El Faris for a long, long time to come. Is it not fitting?”
The first gently falling drops of rain were audible in the silence. They plopped on the garden foliage and thrummed softly against the ground. Neither woman noticed.
“Many generations will tell the story,” Hagar continued quietly, “of how El Faris rescued you from the caliph and fled with you into the desert. Of how El Faris fell defending you, as you fought at his side.” The old woman fell silent for a moment and studied the girl. Pride shone from her eyes, not the stubborn, narrow emotion that had caused her so much trouble, but true faith and confidence in who she was. And where she belonged.
Hagar knew she was going to have to talk to Aza, make her understand and believe that she was better off starting a new life of her own. That only Al Dhiba would be in El Faris’s life, with no room for any other, from now through all of time.
Hagar thought to tell Cecile she was leaving, but the girl was totally engrossed in the man lying on the bed. A roll of thunder, and the subsequent patter of rain, covered the quiet closing of the door.
The thrum of rain mingled with the sound of gentle weeping seemed to come from very far away. But it was real, not like the dreams in which he had been enwrapped for so long. The dreams receded, though, and he struggled to waken, to return to reality, to the woman who wept. It was Al Dhiba, he knew, and he knew also why she cried. The dreams had told him. Now he must tell her. He must waken and tell her.
Cecile tensed, then lifted her head from Matthew’s side. Was it only a sigh? Or had he tried to speak? “Matthew?”
Something was wrong. His lips were cracked and dry; he couldn’t move them, couldn’t speak. There was a sharp, rhythmic ache in his shoulder. He groaned.
“Matthew!” Kneeling forward, hovering above him, Cecile raised his hand and pressed it to her face. “Oh, Matthew, open your eyes … please, open your eyes!”
Dhiba … He had to tell her. He knew now, knew what he had done wrong. To both Al Dhiba and Aza. He should have freed Aza long ago, released her to have a real life. And given Al Dhiba the security she so desperately needed. He knew now, and he had to tell them. Both of them.
Matthew’s eyes creaked slowly open like ancient, rusty shutters. He saw her familiar, beloved features, raven hair cascading across her shoulders and over her breast. His hand lifted painfully, and he touched her face, felt the warmth of her satin skin. “Love … love you,” he whispered. “Ba’ad galbi … my heart.” Had to tell her … had to … And tell Aza … poor Aza …
“Aza …” he croaked. “Aza …”
Chapter
28
FOR THREE DAYS IT RAINED, A STEADY, DRIVING rain that broke fragile blossoms from their stems and overflowed the garden pools. There had been no wind, no waves upon the sea. The air had been eerily still, the atmosphere heavy. Even breathing had been difficult. The rain just fell and fell.
But it was over now, thank God. The new morn had dawned with brilliance. Soon everything else, as well, would be ended.
Cecile finished winding the snow-white makruna and fastened the pale, translucent veil into place. Then she rose and smoothed the simple white robe that covered her shirt and trousers. When she had planned, two days ago, what to wear, she had feared she would be too warm. But the air was surprisingly cool now that the rain had finally ended. The season had truly changed, she supposed. Three days ago it had been summer, now it was fall. Time to leave.
Turning slowly, Cecile glanced about the spacious though sparsely furnished room she had taken in the women’s quarters. Had she left anything behind? She didn’t think so. She had so little with her when she moved. During the long voyage she would have clothes made that would be more suitable for her arrival in Paris. Until then she would make do with her one small bundle. A bundle not unlike that with which she had begun her odyssey across the Sahara. How long ago had it been?
Call of the Trumpet Page 27