Call of the Trumpet

by Helen A. Rosburg’s

  Or was it? Was there a chance? Was there?

  Aza recognized his silent plea and answered it. Even as she ached for his sadness, the newfound courage welled inside her and the words Allah had given her tumbled from her lips.

  “It is not too late, my lord. Do you remember the tale of the Prophet and his mares? I have often heard you tell it. He gave them their freedom, you said. After many days without food or water, he set them free near an oasis. Then he recalled them. He blew upon his trumpet, sounding the call to war, and summoned them back to his side.”

  Aza took another deep breath, then said softly, “And the faithful returned. They repaid the love and devotion he had shown them. They returned. He had only to call. Only to call.”

  The day was mercilessly beautiful. The sun, now directly overhead, shone from a cloudless sky and glittered on the surface of the sea. Gulls whirled and swooped and dropped to the water to ride the lazily rolling swells. A stirring breeze whispered through the palms along the cliff’s edge and, to the right, through the lush-leaved branches of a pecan orchard. A salt tang mingled with the clean, moist smell of the earth, and the last of the season’s blossoms bloomed crimson by the side of the road.

  Cecile noticed none of it. She stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed to Ahmed’s broad-shouldered back. The beauty of the land she traversed, for the last time, was yet another dagger in her heart, and she could scarcely endure the pain of it. She did not want to look, to bid it farewell. She wanted only to forget.

  It wasn’t difficult. The pall of her misery wrapped her in its folds and dulled her senses. Even her thoughts were still. Only an aching emptiness accompanied her as she followed Ahmed along the road to Muscat.

  The way dipped, then rose again, climbing a gentle hill. The pecan orchard gave way to a gnarled stand of tamarisk, then to an open sweep of countryside, brilliantly green with the life-giving rains. From here at the top of the rise, Ahmed knew, his master’s home could be clearly seen in the distance. It was the last glimpse they would have before beginning the long, slow descent toward the city.

  Al Chah ayah had stopped, Cecile realized vaguely. Pulling herself up from the dark well of her pain, she glanced dully at Ahmed.

  He had paused automatically. Whenever he traveled this way, on some errand for his master, he always stopped to take in the breathtaking view. But the look on Al Dhiba’s face froze him. The hand with which he had been about to gesture at the scene dropped numbly to his side. He urged his horse forward, and they crested the hill and disappeared from sight on the downward slope.

  The wind had risen. It tangled the robe about his ankles as he walked briskly through the garden, following the winding path that led to the cliff’s edge. A sense of urgency descended upon him, and he broke into a jog.

  The road to Muscat paralleled the sea, curving in and out, back and forth as it followed the shoreline, then up and down as it reached the distant range of hills. Matthew squinted, his hand shading his eyes. The road was empty. They had covered the miles quickly and must have already begun the descent toward Muscat. Something cold gripped his bowels. Too late.

  Or was it? Matthew transferred the horn from his left hand to his right and took several long, deep breaths as he raised it to his lips.

  It had been a long time. Could he do it? It was not easy to bring the full throat to the war trumpet, and he had had little practice the past few years. Would he be able to give it the strength it needed? Would she hear? Hearing, would she return?

  Matthew’s hand dropped to his side, the trumpet dangling. It was insane, unreal … was he really doing it? He must be mad!

  Yet he had divorced Aza, as she had asked. He had been thinking very clearly when he did it. For she was right. Her life needed to be lived with another, just as he and Al Dhiba needed only each other.

  Which was why, Matthew knew, he would go ahead and take the risk. For he was sure, deep in her heart, that Al Dhiba felt the same. He had loved her deeply and truly. Aza was right, and whatever reason Al Dhiba had for leaving him might be forgotten, put aside. She would respond to the devotion he had shown her if only he called to her. If only he called.

  The horses heard it before their riders. Their sensitive ears picked up that first, low, sliding note that slowly, inexorably grew in strength … grew until it burst into the air in all its brassy, full-throated glory.

  Al Chah ayah reared and wildly tossed her head from side to side. Cecile reined her sharply, but as the clear notes rang again, the mare pawed at the earth and tried to take the bit in her teeth.

  “The war horn … the summons to battle!” Ahmed exclaimed, trying to control his own plunging mount. “El Faris calls to the Faithful!”

  “But why … ?” Cecile’s jaws clamped together tightly, cutting off the question. A lightning bolt of feeling exploded in her breast and flashed through her body, setting her entire being aflame.

  War mares … the trumpet … the Prophet. He had set the mares free, to test the Faithful … then he called …

  Could it be? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, for she no longer had control. As if of their own will, her hands loosened on the reins. Al Chah ayah bolted.

  “What is it? What’s happening, old man?”

  Jali turned from the window of the large, airy room he now shared with Hagar. “El Faris has … has blown the war horn,” he said uncertainly. “I do not understand.”

  “The war horn?”

  “Yes. He has sounded the call which summons the war mares from pasture. But why? Horse thieves again, perhaps …”

  Jali stopped short, aghast at the look on Hagar’s face. Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, she beamed from ear to ear. “What … what is it, old woman?” Jali stammered. “What’s wrong? What … ?”

  “Haha!” Hagar cackled. “There is no enemy, no horse thieves, you foolish, blind old man. Just two stubborn donkeys. And one of them is standing out in the garden, right this very moment, braying his heart out. That’s what you hear … haha! That’s what you hear! Now, come on, you lazy old fool. Hurry up and let’s go watch!”

  He couldn’t see. He had left the garden to stand in the main courtyard, where she must come first. And come she would, for he could now hear the thunder of hoofbeats on the hard-packed ground. They echoed in his heart, matched its rhythm beat for beat, and sent the hot blood singing through his veins. She had come …

  Al Chah ayah reared again, fighting the pressure on the bit. Her forelegs rent the air, and she whinnied shrilly in protest. She came down dancing and pranced into the courtyard, halting when she felt her rider slip from the saddle.

  Time stopped. The world ceased its spinning. Blue eyes locked to black, they stood, neither daring to breathe. Neither daring to speak.

  “Kiss her, you great big addlepated fool,” a dry, merry voice chortled in the background. “Kiss her!”

  And he did. Forgetting the ache in his shoulder, he took her in his arms, crushed her to his breast, and kissed her until it seemed she had melted into him … until she had fused with his body and he knew that nothing would ever separate them again. Then he released her and held her at arm’s length.

  “I love you,” he gasped. “Aza has gone. Will you marry me? Again?”

  “Stop it, old man!” Hagar hissed. “What are you doing?”

  Jali’s grip on his wife’s arm remained firm. “I’m taking you back inside, where you belong.”

  “But I want to hear what she says!”

  Jali paused, looked over his shoulder, blushed beneath his mahogany skin, and smiled. “Come on, old woman, let’s go,” he said. “I think the answer is ‘yes.’“

  “Yes,” Cecile murmured again, joyously, before his hungry mouth could move from the hollow of her throat back to her lips. “Oh, yes …”

  Don’t miss the next exciting novel by Helen A. Rosburg

  A SONG OF THE SEA

  Prologue

  Midnight, the western coast of Ireland

  “OOOOO, YOUR HAN
DS ARE COLD. GET THEM OFF … off!” Sarah giggled and pushed at the groping fingers under her blouse.

  “Come on, Sarah.” Bobby plunged his face into her neck and tried to fasten his lips on the tender flesh he found there. When she pushed him away again, he put his mouth to her ear. “Why’d y’come out with me tonight if not for a bit o’ fun?”

  Still giggling, Sarah twisted away and ran a few steps down the beach. When he grabbed her from behind, pushed her long, brown hair aside and began nibbling the back of her neck, she got such delicious shivers she let him continue. She closed her eyes and momentarily surrendered to the sound of the waves pounding on the shore and the feel of Bobby’s insistent lips, at the moment capturing her left ear lobe and sending even stronger sensations through her body. Did her knees actually feel weak?

  Yes, they did. They definitely did. And the answer to Bobby’s question was yes. Yes, she had agreed to sneak out and meet him on this lonely patch of coast for “a bit o’ fun,” as he put it. She really did like him, and she loved the way he made her feel. Forcing herself to relax, Sarah leaned back into Bobby’s embrace.

  His ardor was immediately evident. There was that funny feeling again, deep, deep in her abdomen. She did not protest when he gently began to turn her in his arms.

  “Aaaahhhh!” Sarah clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her frightened cry. She felt Bobby stiffen.

  “Holy God,” Bobby muttered. “What’s that?”

  Sarah could only shake her head as she watched the ghostly figure walk slowly down the cliffside path to the beach. It appeared to be a woman; the night wind billowed the voluminous white garment she wore and made a tangled riot of long, dark hair … streaked with white, she could now see.

  “I thought you said we’d be alone here,” Bobby hissed in her ear.

  Sarah nodded. The figure was certainly human, not a wraith. “I … I thought we would be,” she whispered. “There’s only old Mrs. Mahoney who lives in a cottage nearby. But she’s … she’s …”

  “She’s what?” Bobby prompted, growing impatient as passion cooled.

  “She’s old and sick,” Sarah replied quickly, turning over the village gossip in her head. “All her grandchildren have come to visit this summer. Everyone says it’s to say goodbye.”

  “Well, she doesn’t look terminally old and sick right at this moment in time.”

  Sarah had to agree. Momentarily forgetting her interrupted tryst with her erstwhile boyfriend, she watched the woman she presumed to be Mary Mahoney walk to the seashore with strong, determined strides.

  “In fact,” Bobby growled, “she looks pretty damned healthy to me.”

  “Sssshhhh.” Sarah felt Bobby pull away. “What’s she doing?”

  Bobby was about to turn away in disgust, but the scene did indeed seem suddenly very strange. Feeling the hairs prickle on the back of his neck, he watched the old woman pause at the edge of the water and raise her arms as if in supplication. Barely realizing what he was doing, he crouched and moved forward, nearer to the lone figure with the dying wavelets lapping at her ankles.

  “Bobby—”

  This time it was he who did the shushing. The hair on his forearms stood as erect as the ones on the back of his neck.

  She was speaking. He could just make out her quavery, papery voice. She was speaking to someone as if they were out in the water. He glanced over the waves, molten silver under the moonlight.

  Nothing. Nothing he could see, at least. He returned his attention to the old woman.

  “Soon … soon, my love …”

  Icicles raced up Bobby’s spine, momentarily paralyzing him. Sarah must have heard it, too, because she clutched his arm in a death grip. Who in the hell was she talking to?

  As if in response to his silent question, there was a rushing sound. The rhythmic hiss and roar of the waves abruptly changed to a strange, syncopated pattern, then came faster and faster, as if a film had been fast forwarded. And they gathered, almost like muscles bunching Bobby thought wildly. It couldn’t be happening!

  But it was. And the sea rose up as if a mountain below was thrusting upward, trying to reach and touch the sky.

  “Yessssss, my love …”

  It was a miracle his bladder hadn’t let go in that moment. Sarah was no longer attached to his arm. He reached behind him, but felt nothing. Then he heard her footsteps pounding across the sand. He turned and fled in her wake.

  THE SEA RECEDED. THE WAVES CALMED AND THE EBB and flow of the tide returned to normal. Mary felt the weight of her years press down on her again. She turned and walked back to the cliffside path, footsteps dragging. She hugged her arms across her narrow, shrunken breast.

  It was cool, especially for a night nearing midsummer. What had she been thinking, coming out in only her nightdress?

  Memory tugged at the corners of Mary’s mouth, turning it upward. There was no thinking; there was only feeling, just as there had been that first time, so very, very long ago. There was only the magic, and the wonder of it. She planted a foot on the winding, narrow path to the clifftop.

  It would probably take her the rest of the night to make it back up to her cottage.

  This time a soft laugh accompanied the smile. What had she been thinking?

  This is the last time I will make this journey. That’s what she had been thinking.

  It was time. It was almost time.

  Coming in August, 2008

  Medallion Press

  Diamond Imprint

  www.helenrosburg.com

  Ellie’s Mysterious sister died and left her everything: money, a fabulous horse farm, and a husband. But not just any husband … Ellie and the Elven King.

  An adventure into fantasy, romance,

  and the magical hearts of horses.

  ISBN#0974363901

  ISBN#9780974363905

  Platinum Imprint

  US $24.95 / CDN $33.95

  Available Now

  www.helenrosburg.com

  By Honor

  Bound

  Helen A. Rosburg

  Bound by fate. Bound by love. Bound by honor …

  Honneure Mansart, orphaned child of a lowly servant, never dreamed that she would one day find herself at the glittering palace of Versailles as a servant to the young and lovely Marie Antoinette, future Queen of France. Nor could she have imagined the love of her life would turn out to be her beloved foster brother Phillipe, who also served the young princess. Their lives were golden.

  But the young princess, Antoinette, has a mortal enemy in Madame du Barry, the aging king’s mistress. And Honneure has a rival for Phillipe, a servant in du Barry’s entourage. Together the women scheme to destroy both Antoinette and Honneure. Then Louis the XV dies, and his grandson inherits the throne. Marie Antoinette becomes the Queen of France.

  Honneure and Phillipe, their lives inextricably entwined with those of the king and queen, find a second chance together. Yet as France’s political climate overheats, sadness and tragedy stalk both couples once again … tragedy, and a terrible secret that might lead Honneure to the guillotine in the footsteps of her queen.

  ISBN#097436391X

  ISBN#9780974363912

  Gold Imprint

  US $6.99 / CDN $9.99

  www.helenrosburg.com

  A PERFECT TEN!

  “In my opinion, BY HONOR BOUND is a must-read for any romance fiction fan, and assuredly deserves the distinction of a Perfect 10. It’s just that good!” —Romance Reviews Today

  The

  FLYER

  Marjorie Jones

  Paul Campbell has fought the Turks, Germans, and the occasional rogue crocodile. A confirmed bachelor, veteran of the Great War and Jack-of-all-Trades in the rough country of Western Australia, he is free to live the rest of his life in peace. He has only one goal: to make life easier on the residents of the Outback by flying medicine, supplies, and the occasional letter to those who live in Australia’s sprawling Interior. That is, until a wounded woman lands o
n his doorstep begging for a gentle hand and a warm kiss—even if she doesn’t know it yet.

  A new doctor, Helen Stanwood leaves the relative comfort of her San Francisco home with a mission. She will abandon and forget the pain of her former existence by devoting herself to helping those in need. But when she arrives in Australia she is faced with the realization that she can’t run away from herself, her past, or …

  The Flyer.

  ISBN#9781933836225

  Jewel Imprint: Sapphire / Historical

  US $7.99 / CDN $9.99

  September 2007

  www.marjoriejones.com

  First three is a River

  Kathy Steffen

  A family conceals a cruel secret.

  Emma Perkins’ life appears idyllic. Her husband, Jared, is a hardworking farmer and a dependable neighbor. But Emma knows intimately the brutality prowling beneath her husband’s façade. When he sends their children away, Emma’s life unravels.

  A woman seeks her spirit.

  Deep in despair, Emma seeks refuge aboard her uncle’s riverboat, the Spirit of the River. She travels through a new world filled with colorful characters: captains, mates, the rich, the working class, moonshiners, prostitutes, and Gage-the Spirit’s reclusive engineer. Scarred for life from a riverboat explosion, Gage’s insight into heartache draws him to Emma, and as they heal together, they form a deep and unbreakable bond. Emma learns to trust that anything is possible, including reclaiming her children and facing her husband.