The Bride Price (15 page)

“Silence,” Sharif roared when Nassar and both of his wives began to talk at once. “Now,” he addressed his nephew in a more moderate tone, “where did this woman come from?”

“Jidda,” the younger man mumbled sullenly.

“Jidda? You were supposed to be in Mecca for hajj.”

“I will go on hajj next year. This year I heard I could get a better price on Egyptian grain in Jidda, so I went,” Nassar lied. He had gone to Jidda for pleasure, wanting to see that port city while it bustled with pilgrims. He had planned to be back in Mecca by the time hajj began, but he had lingered overlong. Then, hearing of Suleiman’s private sale, he had decided to stay on, putting the inevitable confrontation with Sharif from his mind.

It was worth it, even if his uncle was furious, Nassar thought, gazing possessively at Pamela.

“I saw you from the mountains as you returned, and you did not bring grain with you,” Sharif interrupted his gloating. “And now that I think of it, you had only six pack animals and no riding camels. Where are the others?”

“I traded them,” Nassar responded sulkily. “I will pay you for them.”

“You traded my camels?” Sharif repeated in a deceptively mild voice. “What, in the name of Allah, did you trade seven good camels for?”

“That one.” Nassar nodded toward the window behind the man. The sheik glanced over his shoulder. His body stiffened involuntarily, then he turned slowly to face the girl. Sharif was glad no one else could see his face as he beheld her sitting there, wearing a rose-colored harem costume in the manner of the Turks. Her face was shadowed as the sun streaming through the window behind her created a warm halo around her glossy hair. His gray eyes widened incredulously. Something about her reminded him of Noorah. How serene and docile she looked, how young, like his dainty, lovely Noorah.

But the resemblance disappeared when the girl rose and her face was clearly seen. She was lovely, though she was tall, almost as tall as he. And her eyes were blue and fearless as she met his scrutiny proudly. If she were a man, she would be a warrior, he thought, but as a woman she was disturbingly beautiful.

For a long moment Bryna faced him warily. At last Sharif shook his head as if waking from a dream and turned to his nephew. “What do you plan to do with these women?”

“I plan to marry them.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes, and Farida and `Abla as well,” Nassar retorted belligerently before his uncle could continue.

“I see...four wives,” Sharif mused. “Well, it is not forbidden to have four wives if you treat them equally. But usually wives come only one at a time.”

“Then I may have them? All of them?” Nassar asked eagerly, disregarding the caution in his uncle’s voice.

“Do not rush me,” Sharif exhorted, pacing the length of the room. “This decision requires thought.”

It was time his nephew settled down, Sharif reasoned as he walked. Nassar was a born troublemaker. Perhaps four wives would keep him busy. Still, these two were infidels...

Reaching the end of the room, he pivoted and his gaze fell distractedly upon Bryna. Annoyed by his own inattention, the man riveted his eyes to the tiled floor and continued to pace, trying to sort his thoughts. But with every step he was aware of her quiet presence. He passed her twice more, and Sharif’s mind was made up, whether he liked it or not.

“Let us speak first of your
bint ‘amm
and your intended,” he commanded suddenly. “Because `Abla is still young, we need not concern ourselves with that marriage at present, but you must marry Farida as soon as we return to Riyadh. When the foreign women submit to Islam, you may marry them, but in meantime they must remain untouched.”

“But, Uncle, I want the fair one now,” Nassar whined. “She is mine, and I want her as my concubine.”

“No.”

“It is not forbidden.”

“No, but we are descendants of the Prophet, and it is not meet. All four women will be wives, according to the Koran, and all must be treated equally. Do you pledge this?”

“Yes,” Nassar said with a pout.

“Then hear me, my ladies,” Sharif instructed Fatmah and Latifeh as he strode toward the door. “Teach them what they must know to be wives of a Selim and good daughters of Allah, and find something decent for them to wear.” He paused at the threshold. “Come, Nassar, leave the harem to the women,” he ordered.

Sullenly the young man followed, throwing resentful looks at his uncle’s back. Sharif could order him to leave them alone, Nassar thought wrathfully, but they were his slaves and he would do what he wanted with them. The sheik would not always be around to make sure his command was carried out.

* * *

The sun set early in the mountains. Soon after his evening meal, Sharif stepped out on his balcony to watch the moon rise over the eastern slopes. Later he would join his kinsmen on the roof before it grew too cool, and there they would say their evening prayers and pass a few hours in talk. But now he needed to be alone with his thoughts. Baffled by his response to the girl Nassar had brought into their home, the sheik sought refuge in solitude for the second time that day.

A movement in the harem garden below caught his eye, and as if summoned, she stepped into view, dressed in a pale blue
thobe,
the loose dress of the Arabs, with a snowy
ghata
covering her dark hair. The paths between the flower beds were dimly lit by lamplight from the house that seeped into the darkness through the open doors. Unaware of his observation, she strolled, stopping to pluck a scarlet rose. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the rose’s fragrance, and although he had glimpsed her face only once, Sharif could almost see the sooty fringe of lashes against her ivory skin.

Entranced, he watched as she walked to the tinkling fountain in the far corner of the courtyard. Sitting down, she released the flower to float in the water. In the faint light, it was a spot of bright color.

Bryna watched pensively as it drifted. Suddenly she lifted her face and looked to where Sharif stood on the shadowed balcony. He did not move, certain she could not see him in the darkness, but all at once the moon burst into full light over the mountain and her eyes found his across the courtyard. Unaccountably the man’s heart raced, and he felt a stir best forgotten.

He fought to control his long dormant emotions, and before clouds enshrouded the moon again, his handsome face rearranged itself into a fierce scowl. He glowered at the girl, then, arrogantly, he settled his sword at his hip and stalked back into his room.

Bryna sighed when he whirled and disappeared from view. She needed a friend, and she had seen an odd glint of recognition in his gray eyes that afternoon in the harem. But now he seemed hostile, as if he disliked her very presence in the garden. She fought back ire, forcing herself to realize it was directed not at the man, but at the situation over which she had no control.

One thing was certain, she thought, turning her mind to the problems at hand, the women in the harem had no intention of showing any warmth or kindness toward their unwelcome charges. Fatmah, the elder wife, had assigned each of the newcomers a bedroom at opposite ends of the harem, as if she feared what would happen if the foreigners were allowed to stay together. Bryna and Pamela were given food by curious servant girls and shown to the bath, then allowed to nap during the afternoon.

They had been awakened for the evening meal and instructed to join Fatmah and Latifeh as they sat in the common room, chattering away in Arabic. Bryna had squirmed on her pillow in the stuffy harem while Pamela sat beside her dully, not caring that she was obviously the subject of the conversation. At last Bryna could stand it no longer. She rose, nodding amiably toward the older women, and motioned toward the garden, her request to go outside clear. Fatmah glared at her, but Latifeh, the younger woman, gestured in dismissal. Bryna did not wait to find out if Fatmah agreed but departed swiftly.

Outside, Bryna walked dispiritedly, trying to formulate a plan. When she had a better mastery of Arabic, she would explain to the sheik that she was a free woman, that she wished to go home. She hoped he would consider the wrong that had been done when she was sold into slavery. She prayed her hope was not misplaced, for Sharif Al Selim seemed different from any man she had met in the Arab world. She had understood enough of what had been said that afternoon to know that when he had rendered his decision, he had spoken wisely and justly.

Then she had discovered him watching her from his jasmine-covered balcony, his expression unreadable. When he frowned as if she had offended him and went into the house, she felt as if she might never have the chance to appeal to him for her release.

Bryna’s contemplation was interrupted when a small projectile plopped into the fountain and splashed water on her. A muffled giggle came from the branches of the fig tree overhead. Looking up, she spotted a pair of pale dancing eyes peering at her through the thick foliage.

“Bon soir,
” Bryna called. “What are you doing up there?”

As a reply, she received a fig in her lap and more giggles. The branches swayed as the child attempted to conceal herself more completely.

“Won’t you come down?” Bryna coaxed softly. After a moment an impish face revealed itself and studied the girl on the ground speculatively.

There was more rustling of leaves as the urchin eased herself off the limb and hung by her hands for a few seconds before making the short drop to the ground. The little girl adjusted her rumpled clothes and shyly presented herself to Bryna.

She was an exquisite child about six or seven years old. Curious and solemn, she approached warily. Her gray eyes, set in a delicate face smudged with dirt and tree sap, seemed too old for the rest of her. But that impression fled when she smiled, revealing the gap left by the recent loss of baby teeth.

The little girl was barefoot. Her clothes, in poor repair, hung on her thin body. Her thick black hair, a riotous mass of ringlets, was matted and tangled around gold hoops that hung from her ears.

“Do you speak French?” Bryna asked, smiling down at her.

“Not very well,” the child responded haltingly.

“What is your name?”

“`Abla bint Sharif Al Selim.”

So she was not the child of a slave, but the daughter of the house, Bryna realized with a start. She should have recognized those amazing gray eyes. But why was the child so ragged and unkempt? Bryna did not question her but introduced herself instead. “I am Bryna...Bryna bint Blaine.”

“I know, Fatmah told me when I returned with the herds. You were in the bath. Are you really an infidel?” she asked excitedly. “I have never seen one before.”

“I am”— Bryna searched for the word — “Nasrani, from America.”

“Oh.” `Abla was unimpressed. Suddenly her lips curved in a conspiratorial smile. “Did you like the way I hid in the tree?”

“You hid very well.” Bryna laughed. “I didn’t see you until you dropped the fig into the fountain.”

“I know. My father did not see me at all. He never does.”

The way the child spoke made Bryna want to put her arms around her, but she refrained. If she had learned one thing during her months in Islamic North Africa, it was the Moslem’s aversion to contact with infidels.

“How is it you speak French, `Abla? I may call you `Abla, may I not?”

“Oui.”
The girl edged closer. “My
grandpère
spoke the Frankish language to me. He was my mother’s father, and he said she would have liked for me to learn it.”

“Your mother?”

“Noorah. She died when I was born,” the child explained seriously. “It must be confusing for a foreigner, but I do not have a mother. Fatmah and Latifeh are my father’s wives. He married them last year when my uncles were killed. He had to take the widows of his brothers, you know. It is our custom.”

`Abla fidgeted, bored with adult conversation. “Can we go in and see the other infidel? I heard the servants whispering in the kitchen, and they say she has hair the color of the white sands and almost as glistening.”

“All right.” Bryna smiled. Brushing the bruised fig from her lap, she rose. “I will introduce you to Pamela.”

“Pamela? What a funny name.”

“Pamela bint Harold,” Bryna amended.

“It is still a funny name.” `Abla giggled. “Yours is too, but I think you are very nice for a kaffir.”

Slipping her hand unexpectedly into Bryna’s, the little girl skipped as they returned to the harem.

* * *

“About time he showed up,” Blaine muttered, peering out of the window of the rented room he had shared with Derek on the outskirts of Tripoli for the past week. “I was beginning to think our information, as expensive as it was, might be wrong.”

Derek joined the big man at the window and looked out at the dusty street. Trailed by a glum servant riding a donkey, Gasim Al Auf rode along on an unkempt horse, on his way to visit his latest paramour, a dancing girl from a waterfront cafe.

“I still do not see why we couldn’t have just gone to the village when we first got here, instead of waiting for him to come into town,” Derek complained.

Blaine looked at the young man with ill-concealed annoyance, doubting again whether he had ever seen any action beyond the parade ground. “‘Tis hard to see how you got to be a lieutenant, lad, if you spent your time storming the castle. First, all of Al Auf’s family and most of his men live in that village. We would not have had a chance. Second, we didn’t know at first whether he might be keeping Bryna there. I will not have her harmed.”

“Nor will I,” Derek snapped, before adding stiffly, “You are right, of course, Colonel, as always. I bow to your superior experience in battle.”

Blaine considered reminding the young upstart that he was no longer a colonel, but since it had done no good so far, he simply suggested, “Why don’t we save the hostility, Ashburn? We’re going to need it for the fight that is sure to come.”

They returned their attention to the scene across the street. Gasim dismounted and went inside. The servant led both mounts around the corner to a stable yard behind the house.