The Bride Price (41 page)

“What a skilled rider you are, my lord,” his wife complimented him as he trotted back to where she waited.

“It is nothing,” Sharif said curtly, but pleasure at her admiration shone in his eyes as they continued their ride.

“May I have my veil?” she asked after a while, holding out her hand expectantly.

He seemed to consider her question before shoving the scarf even deeper into his
thobe.
“I think not. We are alone, and if we were to come across someone here in the desert, we would see him long before he reached us. You would have plenty of time to veil yourself. Stay as you are, Farha. It pleases me to see your face.”

Bryna smiled, overjoyed by his decision. Without the constricting veil to hold it into place, her
ghata
blew freely in the wind and her dark tresses lifted on her shoulders. Sharif rode beside her, captivated by her windswept beauty.

After several hours they neared the oasis, surrounded by date palms. Sniffing the wind and pricking up their ears, the horses quickened their step. The day had grown hot, and a drink of fresh water would be welcome. Suddenly Bryna urged her mare to a gallop.

“Come, my lord,” she called gaily, “it is but a short run. Let us see if my Scheherazade is as fleet as your Târiq.”

With an indulgent chuckle and a shake of his head, the sheik followed his impetuous young wife across the sand.

After the horses had been watered, Bryna and Sharif drank their fill and ate the food they had brought along. Then Sharif hiked his
thobe
around his knees, belted it, and waded into the water. Working together, with Bryna on the bank, they quickly filled the water skins. All the while she eyed the shaded pool longingly.

“Let’s go swimming. Sharif,” she implored when the full skins wobbled in a pile beside the horses.

“Swimming?” The Arab exploded with laughter. “Farha, sometimes I do not know where you get your ideas,”

“It is a good idea. It’s very hot.”

“Do you know how to swim?”

“I believe I do. I’ll be careful. Please, Sharif, no one will see us. You said yourself we would see anyone who approached long before he reached us,”

“I know, but...” He faltered, unable to deny his bride almost anything she asked.

Taking his hesitation as consent, she immediately sat down on the bank and began to tug at her red leather boots. “Besides.” she teased, grinning up at her husband, “I enjoyed seeing your legs, and I want to return the favor.”

“Farha,” he sputtered in embarrassment. Then he too smiled and began to shed his clothing.

When she was naked, Bryna poised at the edge of the shallow pool. Beckoning her husband to follow, she slipped contentedly into the warm water, tucking at the waist to dive below the surface. She swam gracefully, gliding through the pool as if she were a playful water creature.

Sharif quickly joined her underwater. His boyhood swims in pools in the Ottoman court came back to him, and his athletic training served him well. He was a powerful swimmer, his muscular body cutting through the water like a blade. Beneath the surface his arms wrapped around his wife and pulled her to him, his lips seeking hers. When they could no longer hold their breath, they ceased their kissing and their dark heads burst from the water.

Finding his footing on the mossy bottom of the pool, Sharif guided Bryna to a sheltered spot, where they stood, facing each other, waist deep in water. She could feel his hardness jutting against her as he licked away the drops of water that collected on her breasts. Joyfully she returned his caresses and wrapped her long slender legs around his waist. Buoyed by the water, they made love, slowly and tenderly.

When their lovemaking was complete and Sharif cradled his wife against his chest, Bryna pushed away gently to float a few feet away on her back. He caught her ankle and pulled her toward him across the placid surface of the pool. Gathering her in his arms, he waded to the sun-dappled bank. He laid her on his aba and stretched out beside her. Warm and drowsy, they basked luxuriously.

“This is my
kayf,”
Sharif murmured, pulling her close, “my time of tranquility and pure pleasure of which the poets write.”

“I am glad I please you, my husband,” she whispered.

“You do much more than please me,
maddamti.
It seems sometimes as if I did not live at all before you came into my life.”

“In Taif?”

Sharif lifted his head to stare down at her. “You remember Taif?” he asked apprehensively.

“I remember the mountains and the house—well, not the house as much as a garden.”

“Ah, the harem garden. I watched you there often.”

“Yes, from the balcony. I remember,” she cried gladly.

“What else do you remember?” Sharif tried not to sound anxious.

“Not very much.” She frowned in concentration.

“What do you think of Scheherazade?” he asked abruptly, desperate to change the subject.

“Oh, Sharif, I think she is wonderful,” Bryna exclaimed excitedly, propping herself on an elbow. Swooping down on him, she rained kisses over his face. “And I think you are the best husband a woman could have.”

“You are not a woman.” The man laughed, dodging the shower of kisses.

“What then?”

“A houri sent from heaven to comfort me in my old age.”

“You are not old,” his wife protested.

“I will be if I spend many more afternoons thus. A lifetime could slip away and I would not know it. It grows late and we must go.”

“Can we not stay just a little longer? I love the water.”

“No, Farha, my men wait for us at camp,” Sharif refused firmly.

Her face thoughtful, Bryna was silent while they dressed. “Have you ever seen the sea, my lord?” she asked at last.

“Yes.” Sharif grunted as he loaded the water skins on the horses.

“I would like to see the sea,” she said with a wistful sigh. “I think I have seen it before. Perhaps it would help me remember.”

“Farha!” Sharif strode around the horses and seized her. His face was a mask of pain as he looked down at her. “Can you not be happy with me, with our life together?”

Bryna stared up at him in genuine surprise. “Of course I can. I am happy with you, Sharif.”

“Alhamdillah!”
Relief replaced the cold steel in the sheik’s gray eyes, and he embraced her. “Let us go home, then, to our house of hair.”

“My veil first, my sheik,” she reminded him, arranging her
ghata
over her damp hair.

“In return for a kiss,” he teased, whipping the silken square from the front of his
thobe
to wave under her nose. When he pulled it out, her locket dropped into the dust at his feet. Instantly he thrust the veil into her hand and stooped to pick up the necklace, hoping she had not seen it.

She had not. “What was that?” she asked absently as she pinned her veil in place.

“Nothing...I just dropped something,” Sharif answered vaguely, thrusting the locket back into his
thobe.
“Let’s get back to camp.”

His lie haunting him, the guilt-stricken man rode with his wife across the desert. He had vowed to tell Bryna the truth when she asked, and now he hid her only link with the past. What a wretch he was, he thought miserably, but how could he bear to lose her?

Resentfully Bryna eyed her husband’s sturdy back as he guided Târiq along the rocky path in front of her. Although he did not seem to be angry, Sharif had been moody and withdrawn for three days. At first she had tried to be understanding, but now her patience was wearing thin.

This is how it has been since we made love at the oasis, she thought sadly. When they had returned to camp, Sharif seemed relieved to seek the company of his men and avoid her. Certain at first that she had done something wrong, she’d tried to talk to him, but he’d rebuffed every attempt to discuss the growing gap between them. The more uncommunicative Sharif’s behavior, the more furious Bryna had become. In turn he had reacted to her rancor with wary reserve. Now they were at odds and she still did not know why.

Though his wife chafed at the brusqueness of his order this morning, she was riding with him to Taif while the rest of the
smala
rode on toward Mecca. All Sharif would tell her of his change of plans was that he must see to some unfinished business there and he would have her go with him. He did not say that he needed Alima’s counsel more than he had ever needed it in his life.

The couple had ridden for hours in silence, saying no more than a dozen words between them, never slacking their pace. They had left the desert sands behind and now pushed on toward the mountains, purple in the distance. Bryna kept pace with Sharif, though she was hot and weary and thirsty. She would say nothing, do nothing, to slow them. He did not seem to notice her wrathful silence, so occupied was he with his own brooding. She trailed behind him, as grimly determined not to speak as he, her temper rising.

Halting suddenly beside a small mountain stream, the sheik dismounted and announced, “We will camp here.”

He set out at once to gather firewood, missing the mutinous stare his wife directed at him. Efficiently they set up camp, a silent team of two very independent members. Bryna built their small tent, and Sharif started a fire. Then she cooked dinner while the man made coffee. When his wife set his food in front of him without a word, he looked up at her as if seeing her for the first time that day.

“What is wrong, Farha?” he asked, frowning in puzzlement.

“Whatever could be wrong?” An icy smile on her face, a portent of the evening to come, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the tent.

Sharif sat beside the campfire for a few moments, debating whether he should try to make peace with his wife. He had thought she would like a trip to Taif. Why should she be upset? He had said nothing to disturb her. Then he realized he had said nothing to her at all for most of the day. For most of several days, in fact. He grimaced at the realization. No wonder she was angry. The emotions with which he wrestled were not her fault.

Drawing a deep breath in preparation, the man rose and went inside, where he found Bryna spreading his pallet.

“I realize I have been somewhat, er, preoccupied the past few days.” he began stiffly, unaccustomed to apologizing. “But I have many problems on my mind. They are for me to solve, and you must not let them worry you, Farha.”

“At first I was worried. Sharif, and angry,” she responded coldly. “Now I am just angry.”

“Angry? At me?” He blinked his gray eyes in surprise.

“Yes, at you.”

“I do not understand. Why?”

“Why?” She glared at him, nearly speechless with fury. “Because, my husband, you have done nothing but order me around for the past three days. You will not talk to me. When I try to talk to you, you say, ‘This is my problem. There is nothing you can do to help.’”

“And there is not. I explained that to you.”

“You explained nothing! I don’t even know what the problem is. You wouldn’t talk to me. It was as if you did not even know I was here.” she stormed. “You shut me out completely.”

In the face of his wife’s temper, Sharif struggled to control his own. “A man seeks solace in his tent, not a nagging wife,” he warned in quiet, measured tones.

But his stern stare did not intimidate her. Bryna’s chin lifted rebelliously. “Tonight, Sharif Al Selim, you will have neither solace nor a wife. I am sleeping outside,” she declared, gathering her sleeping rug and blankets.

“I would not do that if I were you,” he advised dangerously, catching the fringe of the rug to stay her.

“Why?” she snapped, yanking it from his grip. “Because you wish suddenly to sleep with me? It will be the first time in three days. All I have done is to follow where you lead—”

“I am your husband,” he exploded.

She would not be deterred. “I have set up your tent, cooked your meals, broken your camp. I might as well be a slave.”

“Slaves have been known to warm their masters’ beds more willingly than you would tonight.”

“Not even Nassar forced me to sleep with him,” she snapped hatefully.

Suddenly Bryna stiffened and dropped her burden, staring at Sharif in horrified disbelief.

“Nassar,” she repeated in a whisper. The argument forgotten, she sank weakly to sit on the ground. “Nassar bin Hamza...you told me he was my intended.”

“He was,” Sharif insisted hoarsely.

“But I was his slave, wasn’t I?” Her blue eyes searched the man’s stricken face apprehensively, finding the answer there he did not wish to speak. “It is true, isn’t it? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I love you.” He sat down beside her and touched her shoulder gently, encouraged when she did not shrink away. Stroking her hair, he spoke urgently, “Try to understand, Farha. You are a beautiful and spirited woman. I did not want you to remember that you had ever been bought or sold.”

She looked away beyond the tent to the limitless horizon, her blue eyes brimming with tears. “I am trying to remember, Sharif, but I cannot. Was I always...a slave?” The word was a sob, torn from her.

“Since I have known you, yes.”

“Just tell me one thing.” She lifted her tortured gaze to his. “When Nassar died, did I become your slave?”

“No, my joy, I became yours.” Gathering his wife into his arms, the sheik silenced her questions tenderly, his mouth seeking hers.

That night as Bryna slept, nestled against his chest, Sharif stared into the darkness. She would remember everything one day. Perhaps he should have told her all he knew, but he could not. He was running a great risk by taking Bryna to Taif, but they must return to his home there someday. Even more important at the moment, he was compelled to share this inner strife with the only person who would understand. He had to talk to Alima.

Bryna was over her anger the next morning, but she was subdued as they rode to Taif. It was not difficult to gauge her abstraction when they approached more populated areas and she donned her hated
burqu
without comment. Sharif could see her straining to recognize landmarks, looking for anything that would give her a clue to her past.