The Bride Price (30 page)

Bryna’s tempest of unwanted emotion was mild compared with Sharif’s vexation. He was delighted at the thought of talking with the girl. Returning to his tent, he reviewed their brief conversation. It had revealed that she was educated and well-spoken, and he longed to know more about her, to hear her story from her own lips.

But he must not. For her good as well as his, he must not seek out this woman, he reminded himself savagely. But as the day wore on, he found he could not get her out of his mind.

“You sent for me,
ya amm
,” Nassar said, answering Sharif’s summons the next day.

“Sit, nephew, and hear my idea.” After sending for coffee, the sheik asked, “You have visited the town that lies to the north?”

“A few times.” In no mood for a lecture, the young Arab regarded his uncle warily.

“I have been thinking that after many months in the desert, there is news a man can receive only in the coffeehouses, and our women would like to visit the souk and sell their handiwork.”

“You are taking the
smala
into town?”

“No, after our visit to
Kasr
Al Haroun, the smell of civilization still hangs upon my robes. We will be in Riyadh soon enough and I will miss the desert. I thought perhaps you would like to take them in the morning and lead them home after sunset prayers,” Sharif suggested. “It would be good experience for you to have such a responsibility. What do you think?”

“You would let me lead them, and not Sa’id?” the young man asked excitedly.

Sharif nodded. “But there is one stipulation if the people are to go.”

“What is that?” Nassar asked suspiciously. He had known it was too good to be true.

“The common slaves must stay behind and someone must stay with each tent. Those who have servants enough to dismiss from the herds may leave a servant. Those who do not must leave a family member.” The plan made good sense, but Sharif felt duplicitous because he knew Nassar could not dismiss Ali from the herds. Since he must leave someone with the tent, he had no doubt Nassar would take Pamela and leave Bryna.

The party departed merrily the next morning and Bryna was indeed left behind, but she did not seem to mind. Sharif was constantly aware of her as she hurried to finish her tasks so she might have a rare afternoon of leisure. He watched wistfully as she disappeared toward the pools with a bundle of laundry, but he did not follow. He must not be alone with her, for he feared what might happen. Instead he waited. There would be time to talk to her later.

After midday prayers, Sharif found her seated under a tree in the middle of the camp. As she leaned over her embroidery, her hair fell in damp, heavy strands under her
ghata.
She had washed more than the clothes this morning, he thought with a smile.

Positioning himself on the opposite side of the tree, he leaned against the trunk and began to mend his saddle. He worked silently for a time, his mind distracted from his task for each breeze carried on it the clean, sweet fragrance of her hair. In the middle of the deserted camp, while the others slept through the heat of the day, the couple began to talk quietly.

Bryna’s heart pounded in anticipation. The opportunity she’d awaited had arrived. She would soon appeal to the sheik for her freedom. But time spent among the Arabs had taught her well: business must be broached slowly, once the courtesies and proprieties had been observed. Only after a leisurely conversation would it be proper for her to present her petition. As they talked, Sharif was pleased to discover that although the American girl seemed nervous with him at first, she was as intelligent as he had thought and quick-witted, too. To his amazement, Sharif found himself telling her things he had long ago forgotten—childish adventures, the story of his life.

So enthralled was Bryna with his tale that she forgot for a moment the urgency of her request.

The sheik was the son of Musallim, a Selim chieftain and Zeineb, an Ottoman princess, the old man’s third wife. The marriage had been arranged as a political alliance, but the aged sheik doted upon his young bride. She was fond of him as well and bore him a son, Sharif.

Then, in quick succession, two daughters were stillborn and another son died in infancy. Always delicate, the princess went into a decline. Frantic to please her, the sheik promised that she could visit her homeland when she recovered. This gave her renewed purpose, and within six months Zeineb had recovered sufficiently to return to her father’s court for a visit. She departed, accompanied by Abu Ahmad, one of the sheik’s most trusted retainers, and Sharif, now aged four.

At home in the Ottoman court, the princess was reasonably happy, although she missed her husband. Unexpectedly word came that Musallim was dead and had been replaced by his brother, Malek. The new sheik had married off Musallim’s widows and offered now to marry the princess himself when she returned to Arabia. Although she had been fortunate in her first marriage, she could not bear the thought of marrying another man, not even her brother-in-law. Diplomatically she declined. She tried to send Abu Ahmad back to Arabia with the message, but he stubbornly refused. His duty was to protect the princess and her son, and he would do so in Arabia or in Ottoman Turkey.

Zeineb settled into a small palace and dedicated herself to the rearing of her son, teaching him music, poetry, and literature. But when he was eight years old, the frail woman died. The young Sharif had no clear memories of his homeland, but it beckoned him. His grandfather, the sultan, forbade him to go, making him a virtual prisoner in his palace. The old potentate did not want the boy to return to Arabia. After all, he had only half brothers and sisters there; in Turkey he had his grandfather and a chance of succession to the throne.

Once again Abu Ahmad was dismissed to return home, and once again he refused. The sultan was only mildly annoyed. The lad could use a man to teach him manly arts, he thought, while he taught Sharif politics and power. Over the next four years the boy learned not only of diplomacy and government, but of corruption and court intrigues. He learned of the empire within the empire, built and overseen by powerful eunuchs.

When at last the sultan sickened, Sharif made plans for flight. He feared that when the old man died, even though he was low in the line of succession, he might be murdered by fearful uncles or cousins. As the deathwatch progressed, the faithful Abu Ahmad gathered provisions and purchased fast camels. The moment the death keening began, they fled. By the time the covert poisonings and overt manipulations began, the boy was well on his way to Arabia.

Abu Ahmad had trained his young charge in many athletic feats and had taught him to fight in the Arabian style, but nomadic life was difficult for a soft boy brought up in the courts of the Sultan. Yet Sharif found his inner strength in the vast emptiness of the desert. Daily he grew taller and tougher and more agile.

The awkward, introverted stripling arrived at Malek’s home in Riyadh and was welcomed. At first it was Alima, his aunt, who made his life bearable, but slowly he adapted to life in Arabia. Sharif was schooled with his cousins, the sheik’s sons. Another cousin, Sa’id, became his best friend. They fenced, rode, and flew their falcons together. They studied the Koran, arguing late into the night. And they were friends to this day.

At fourteen Sharif was sent to a Bedouin tribe in the desert. At sixteen he returned to Riyadh a man. Soon he was heard in the
majlis
and earned the trust of Malek, whom he served for nine years.

When Malek died suddenly, Sharif did not know what was said privately among the tribal elders. He did not know they admired his reputation as a fearless warrior, his even temper, and his well-thought-out opinions. He knew only that when the council met, he found himself, to his amazement, sheik of his tribe at the age of twenty-five.

For nearly twelve years now he had led the Selims, good people who flourished despite the zealots, the Wahabis, who’d settled in their territory. They had enjoyed peace and prosperity, Sharif said with a smile. They were truly blessed by Allah.

When it became necessary for him to take a wife, the young sheik selected a daughter of a powerful chieftain in Medina. Once again an arranged marriage blossomed into love, and Noorah became the light of his life. Sadly they had been married only a year when she died giving birth to `Abla. The hakim did all he could, but Noorah died and `Abla lived. Poor little `Abla.

Sharif could not tell Bryna about the numb emptiness he had felt all these years. He’d performed his duties automatically, living for the welfare and honor of his tribe and his family. When his half-brothers died, he had married their widows, as was right. He did what he must, feeling nothing but sadness—until now.

All these thoughts of honor... Suddenly the sheik hated himself for what he was doing. He despised himself for arranging this meeting in his nephew’s absence. And he had been the one who had sent him away. Filled with self-loathing, Sharif jumped to his feet and stalked off, leaving Bryna alone under the tree, hurt by his sudden shift of mood and despondent over the opportunity she’d missed.

In the days that followed, Sharif struggled with his growing obsession with Bryna. Wrestling with his feelings, he hunted, sending his saluki coursing after gazelle day after day as he galloped behind. He stayed active, as if exertion would keep him from giving in to his weakness.

“Wallahi, I wish Sharif would sleep away his
zahlán,
his melancholy, whatever causes it,” Sa’id griped wearily after a long day’s chase. “To do so would be better—for all of us.”

But the sheik would not, could not. Tired and restless, he lay awake at night, longing for the girl as her name echoed in his head. Truly it was best that men and women were kept apart, he reflected, fighting the ache to touch her, to lie with her, to be with her until the end of time. He must avoid her, or who knew what the consequences would be?

* * *

It had been a year since Bryna’s capture, and her burdens had never seemed so heavy to her. In need of solitude one afternoon, she walked alone in the lush oasis, settling beside the isolated pool farthest from camp. There in a copse at the water’s edge, she sat down despondently, hidden from prying eyes.

While the caravan had moved through the desert, she had almost forgotten what lay at the end of the journey. Now she remembered with stunning clarity that when they reached Riyadh, she would be forced to marry Nassar. And she had wasted her only chance for freedom, she thought, surrendering to depression.

Gazing at her reflection in the water, the girl felt the same disquieting emotion she had felt in the
hammam.
The face that stared back at her from the pool belonged to an Arab woman, draped and covered, perhaps doomed never to know freedom again. Deliberately she removed her
ghata
and veil and turned her face to the pale, dappled sunlight that filtered through the trees. For a long moment she savored the feel of the rising wind, rustling the leaves around her, stirring her unbound hair, until she heard for the first time a distant roll of thunder.

It was going to rain, she realized with a start. She should get back to the camp. But when she picked up the crumpled pile of fabric that was her veil, she could not bring herself to put it on. It was the uniform of a prisoner.

She was alone in a strange land. The more she knew about this wild country, the more she knew escape was improbable for her alone and impossible if she took Pamela, she thought bitterly. After months of wandering in the desert, she did not hold much hope that her father or Derek would ever find her. And how she hated the idea of having Nassar as a husband.

If she had not been kidnapped, she and Derek might have been married by now. They might have gone to England, and she would have had a normal life, the family and the sense of belonging she had always wanted.

Why was she torturing herself with what might have been? Bryna asked herself as she stubbornly tried to visualize Derek’s face, without success. Perhaps it had been too long since she’d seen him. Or perhaps the memory of his hazel eyes had been supplanted by the presence of a pair of piercing gray ones.

Heaving a mighty sigh, she wondered again why Sharif had stalked away from her in anger the last time they had talked. She reviewed their conversation for the hundredth time, trying to decide whether she had said something that offended him. He had been so gentle one moment, so forbidding the next. Even as his smoldering gaze had followed her the past few days, she had not been able to forget the tenderness of his caresses. She had never known such a man, difficult and mercurial and remarkable.

And now she did not even have the comfort of his friendship. She might never feel his touch again, might never touch him, but she could not bear the possibility that he hated her. Her loneliness seemed suddenly too much to endure. She began to cry softly, unable to hold back the tears.

* * *

Sharif also sought privacy. When he spied the first ominous black cloud, he knew every man in camp would seek shelter in his tent from the rain. He needed a moment of quiet before they came.

As he walked beside the secluded pool, the sheik caught sight of Bryna sitting on the other side. She was alone, and he could not resist giving in to the desire to gaze upon her unveiled face once more. Shielded by the trees, he made his way toward her, stopping when he realized she wept. His heart nearly broke at the sound of her deep, hopeless sobs. Heedless of the impropriety of being alone with her, the man went to her.

“Why do you weep?” he asked softly in French.

The girl started violently but relaxed when she saw it was Sharif. “You frightened me. I did not hear you approach, my lord,” she said, dashing the tears from her eyes.

“I asked, why do you cry?” he repeated.

“Because I am lonely, because I am in a foreign place, because I may never go home again,” she answered, feeling oddly defiant.

“Arabia is your home now,” the man insisted gently but firmly. Taking her hand, he pulled her to her feet. His searching gray eyes drank in Bryna’s beauty as the wind whipped her dark hair. Belatedly realizing he still held her hand, he released it.