The Bride Price (34 page)

“Yes, if you do not give me away.”

“I will say nothing to anyone, old friend. I am a civilized man. I understand the heart and its waywardness. These Bedu and their superstitions are sometimes enough to make me long to return to Persia. But are you sure about this?”

A wave of relief washed over Sharif’s angular face. “If you will guard my secret, I will nurse Bryna. Then, when she is well again, I will win her. I want nothing more than her love, Faisal,” he said simply. “She will be my wife.”

“As Allah wills it,” the other man agreed reluctantly. The physician prescribed rest to mend Bryna’s wounded body and mind. Then he gave her a draft to make her sleep, intoning, “Praise be to Allah, the Curer, the Healer,” as he held the cup to her lips.

“She will awaken when her body is ready,” he told the sheik. “But, as for her mind, I do not know.”

Before he departed, the hakim removed the girl’s locket and handed it to the sheik. “Keep this for her. It would be a shame if our patient strangled herself with it in her sleep.”

Pausing awkwardly at the door, the doctor addressed his friend uncertainly, “Sharif, this girl bears more than a passing resemblance to Noorah...”

“You have seen her only when she is sleeping. When she is awake she shows a spirit my gentle Noorah never had. I do not seek another to replace my first wife. I love Bryna for herself.”

“You cannot blame me for my concern,” Faisal said seriously. “This woman must mean a great deal to you indeed, for you to love her so.” Then the hakim left quietly, closing the door behind him.

For me to love her more than honor, Sharif thought grimly, for that was what his old friend had meant. Faisal was right, but how could he explain, even to him, the depth of his love for Bryna?

Following his return to Riyadh, Sharif had gone about his business distractedly. The very night of his arrival, he had ordered two of his favorite camels to be slaughtered in honor of his dead wives and the meat to be given to the poor. He had greeted the friends and relatives who called the next day. He had arranged funerals for his family and visited the father of Farida, Nassar’s intended, to offer his sympathy. He had performed his duties as the sheik, dividing the booty of the raid equitably among his tribe. In general the sheik had acted as he always did, but all the time his mind was on the girl sleeping in the harem.

Every possible moment he spent at Bryna’s bedside, causing more than a few eyebrows to be raised. Mautlauq muttered to others, spreading the rumor that the sheik was going to be called before the emir himself to account for his actions.

If only she would awaken, Sharif thought now, even dissension among his tribesmen would seem worthwhile. Last rays of daylight slanted into the airy room and washed across the man’s outstretched legs while he sat beside her bed, brooding, his chin resting against his chest. Suddenly he sat erect when the girl stirred and blinked her eyes.

She lay very still. Where was she? The room did not seem familiar. How had she gotten here? A perplexed frown furrowed her brow, then she felt another presence in the room. The girl turned a groggy gaze toward a man sitting beside her bed. Under his snowy kaffiyeh, his handsome face was weary but alight with elation.

“Praise Allah,” he said exultantly.
“Farha,
my joy.” Carefully lifting the girl’s head from the pillow with one hand, he held a water cup to her lips with the other. She placed shaky hands around his and drank eagerly, then turned curious eyes to the man who bent over her.

“Where am I?” she whispered hoarsely.

Slowly he laid her back against the pillows and stared down at her disbelievingly. He had not expected her to ask the question in Arabic.

After a moment he answered deliberately in his own tongue, “You are in my home in Riyadh.”

“Riyadh,” Bryna repeated. Her dull eyes scanned the ceiling as if she hoped to find an answer there. There was a long silence as she digested the information, trying to collect her thoughts. Then, with effort, she asked him, “Please, effendi, who are you?”

“I am Sharif. Don’t you remember me?” he asked, his voice tight with misery.

Her sleepy eyes searched his craggy countenance for a hint of his identity. At last she sighed. “No, I am sorry, I cannot remember. I wish I did. Perhaps it will come back to me later, but for now, would you tell me?”

“I am Sharif Al Selim, the uncle of the man you were to wed. Do you remember that?”

She shook her head.

“Our
smala
was on its way to Riyadh when we were attacked by raiders and Nassar was killed.”

“Nassar? The man I was to marry?” she queried hopefully.

“Yes,” he responded, feeling a stab of pain. Could it be that she remembered Nassar but had forgotten him?

“He is dead?”

He nodded expressionlessly.

For some unknown reason, she felt no sorrow. Bryna examined the situation as best she could, but she did not understand why she felt nothing, not even a sense of loss.

“Did I love him?”

“I do not know.” The man was unwilling to put thoughts in her head or words in her mouth.

“I do not, either,” she whispered. Her eyelids were growing heavy. “Can you tell me one other thing? You called me Farha—is that my name?”

“You are my
farha,
my joy,” he murmured, stroking her hand, “as precious and rare as rain in the desert.”

But she did not hear him. She was already asleep.

Sharif sat on the bed beside her, holding her hand until the call to prayer at sunset, agonizing over what he should do. It seemed Bryna had no memory before awakening in his home. She did not remember those horrible days in the Rub al Khali. She had forgotten her earlier life in America. She did not even know she had been a slave.

She must never recall those terrible things, he resolved. She would have a new life. She would be happy in Arabia, he vowed. He would make it so.

Resolutely he opened the cupboard beside her narrow divan and thrust his hand inside. He froze guiltily when she stirred in her sleep but did not awaken. Then he withdrew what he sought, the locket she had worn, her only link with the past.

Opening it, he stared down at the tiny portraits it contained—her parents, no doubt. He could see Bryna’s gentleness in the woman’s serene face and her spirit in the man’s. What a marriage it must have been to produce his beloved, a marriage such as they would have one day.

Secreting the locket in the front of his robe, Sharif went to pray and then to find his daughter.

“She doesn’t remember anything?” `Abla asked worriedly. “Not even being rescued by you?”

“No, but it is just as well.”

The little girl did not agree, for the romance of the situation appealed to her. She put aside her disappointment, however, to ask, “But she was not as she was when you brought her home, was she, as if an evil jinni had stolen her spirit?”

“No, daughter,” the sheik responded with a smile.

“But she does not remember me.” She nearly wept. “I am her friend. Doesn’t she even recall that I taught her to speak our language and she helped me with my French?”

“No, but that, too, is just as well, for all she spoke this afternoon was our tongue. She seems not to remember her old language. With her past forgotten, perhaps she can be happy here with us.”

“I hope so.” `Abla threw her arms impetuously around her father’s neck. “I want her to be so happy that she will not leave us, even if her father does come for her, don’t you?”

“Her father seeks her?”

“Perhaps not. Bryna feared he would never find her,” `Abla explained earnestly, “and it made her very sad.”

“She shall be sad no longer. She has us now.”

“I will be good for her,
Abu.
I will not say anything or do anything to remind her of her old life. I love her and want her to stay here. You do, too, don’t you?” She looked at the man shrewdly, wise beyond her years.

“Yes, `Abla, very much,” he admitted. “But that must be our secret for a time.”

“All right.” the girl agreed at once, delighted to share a secret with her adored father. “Now, how can we keep her from remembering?” Immediately she set about hatching a plan.

“We will not keep her from remembering, `Abla,” Sharif commanded gently. “But we will not bring up memories, either, good or bad. We will speak only of today and tomorrow, and we will speak only in Arabic. I must warn you, `Abla, she will surely ask questions, and you must not lie to her, for that would be cruel.”

“But what if she remembers?”

“Insh’allah.”

“Oh, all right.” `Abla sighed. Although she did not like the order, she would obey. “But I do have a suggestion.” She brightened suddenly.

“Yes?”

“Since Bryna thinks her name is Farha, can we keep calling her that? It is such a lovely name.”

“Joy is a good name for her, indeed, daughter. We will call her that. Now run along to bed.”

He watched as the child raced out exuberantly, a troubled frown on his face. It was written, “Confound not truth with falsehood, nor knowingly conceal the truth.” But Sharif realized he was prepared to do both to keep Bryna by his side.

* * *

“Good morning, Farha, peace be unto you,” `Abla exclaimed when Bryna awoke. The little girl stood next to the bed, grinning. Her delighted smile was snaggletoothed as new teeth grew to replace the ones she had lost.

“And unto you be peace,” Bryna greeted the gray-eyed urchin uncertainly.

“Look, I have brought breakfast for you,” the child said, gesturing to a tray on the nearby table. “You do not remember me, do you?
Abu
said you might not. It is all right. I am your friend, `Abla bint Sharif. Can you remember nothing?”

“Nothing. What happened to me?”

“You were injured when raiders attacked our camp in the desert.”

“How did I get here?” Bryna asked, sitting up weakly.

“My father brought you. He saved your life.” `Abla plumped the pillow efficiently and arranged the rumpled bedclothes.

“Your father? Sharif?” The injured girl groped for the name.

“That’s right.”

“The sheik,” Bryna continued tentatively. An image of Sharif astride a rearing white horse flickered across her mind. “The Sheik Al Selim...”

“Yes, yes!” `Abla cried happily. “You remember my father! Do you remember coming home?”

“No...Is this my home?” Bryna frowned distractedly, looking around the unfamiliar room. It was pleasant and spacious, but she did not recall it.

“Of course. Never mind, Farha,” `Abla comforted her. “You will be better soon. Do you want me to feed you? Your hands are shaking.”

“No, thank you. I can feed myself.” Bryna stumbled over the words. She did not know which took more effort, spooning the warm liquid to her mouth or concentrating on understanding what the talkative little girl said as she sat beside the bed. At times Bryna’s mind wandered, mulling over what she already knew.

Her name was Farha. She had been the intended of Sheik Sharif Al Selim’s nephew. But Nassar had been killed and she had been brought here. The little girl—`Abla—said this was her home. But where was her family? Did she have none? Was that why she had been brought to live in Sharif’s house? Why was speech so difficult for her? Had she forgotten part of her vocabulary when she lost her memory, or was the language she spoke not her own? Why couldn’t she remember?

She pushed the bowl of broth away wearily. Immediately `Abla summoned a serving girl and Bryna’s body was sponged with scented water. Then her hair was brushed and braided and she was dressed in a new gown. She tolerated the coddling, knowing there was little she could do about it until she recovered her strength.

“You look better. Do you feel better?” `Abla said enthusiastically.

“Yes,” Bryna admitted. “If I trusted my legs to carry me, I would go outside.” She gazed toward the window. “It would be good to be outside on a day like today.”

“You have only to ask,” Sharif informed her indulgently. The sheik stood easily in the doorway, his shoulder against the sill. Below the turban he wore this morning, his bronzed face looked younger than his years and carefree. He laughed lightheartedly from pure happiness when he saw Bryna looking so improved.

“On this first day of your recovery, Farha, your wish is my command.” he teased, striding into the room.

“I think I can walk,” Bryna protested when he scooped her up from the bed.

“And I think perhaps you are not as strong yet as you think you are,” he retorted good-naturedly. With `Abla dancing behind them, he carried Bryna into the warm, sun-dappled harem garden, where he deposited her on a bench in the shade. “How is this?”

“Wonderful.” Bryna said delightedly.
“Merci.”

A shadow crossed the sheik’s face, but the girl did not even seem to notice the French word that had crept into her conversation. After a breathless instant, he answered courteously in Arabic, “It is my pleasure, Farha. How do you feel this morning?”

He relaxed when she replied shyly in Arabic, “I am much better. I...I understand owe you my life, my sheik. I—”

“Do not speak of your ordeal,” he interrupted her. Sitting down beside her, he took her hand in his. “Let us talk
of how lovely you are now that you are feeling better and how quickly you will heal under the care of Faisal, my hakim.”

“And me,” `Abla chimed in. “I am your nurse.”

“And you.” Sharif chuckled, ruffling the little girl’s black hair. “You’ve been a good nurse, `Abla.”

The child said nothing but reddened at her father’s unexpected praise.

“Sit here for a while and rest, Farha,” Sharif commanded tenderly, preparing to leave. “When you are ready to go inside, `Abla will summon a eunuch. I must go now. Allah grant you a speedy recovery.”

Bryna sat with the little girl in the pleasant walled garden throughout the morning. After lunch an elegant-looking man appeared in the doorway to the house.

“Greetings, `Abla,” he called to the girl, who ran gladly to meet him. “Good afternoon. May there be upon you nothing but health, if Allah wills, my lady Farha.” Faisal frowned worriedly toward the woman on the bench. He had received his instructions from Sharif, but he did not like this, keeping the foreign woman in isolation, giving her a new name to go with a new life.