The Bride Price (25 page)

Bryna observed as Abu Hatim took a seat at the edge of the circle. He was much too polite to make someone else move. But Sharif spied the latecomer and greeted him, “Step thou hither, Abu Hatim.” And the sheik himself shifted to make a place for the venerable old man.

While much attention was being directed to the position of Abu Hatim, the girl slipped into the crowd of women and sat down beside Pamela. Sa’id stood at the top of the circle, ready to speak, when Bryna became uncomfortably aware of muffled cries behind her and a great deal of movement among the women.

She tried to ignore Sa’id’s frown of annoyance as Smemi materialized from the darkness. The black dog waded into the tight knot of women, snuffling loudly and thrashing those seated nearby with his wagging tail. When he located Bryna, he nuzzled her face with a rough wet nose, then lay down blissfully at her side. Curving his big body around her, he provided warmth and a welcome place to rest her back.

Although he scarcely looked in her direction, Sharif was very aware of Bryna’s presence across the campfire. He had not seen her since he had held her in his arms yesterday, safe from danger. Last night he had searched for her face among the women, almost fearful of what his reaction would be if he found it. Now she was here, and it was with great effort that he turned his attention to Sa’id’s poem of an ancient Bedu warrior.

The sheik appeared to be enthralled by the account of heroic actions as he stared into the fire, but his thoughts were on Bryna. Occasionally his gaze drifted upward and he watched the girl covertly over the flickering flames. She listened to the qasidah with as much rapt attention as he himself was trying to exhibit. Guiltily Sharif realized that the end of the poem was near and he had heard almost none of it.

‘‘Mashallah,
” he pronounced nonetheless when Sa’id finished, “it is said, ‘The beauty of man lies in the eloquence of his tongue.’”

“Mashallah,”
the others said. After the recitations came the music. Although many Moslems were opposed to music making, Sharif allowed the
rubabah,
a one-stringed guitar, and small drum called the
tabl
to be brought out.

He listened distractedly, willing the evening to be over. But he welcomed the end of the night’s activities no more fervently than Bryna as she, too, tried to put away the disturbing memory of yesterday’s embrace.

* * *

“He is frowning at you again,” Taman remarked casually as the girls walked the next afternoon.

Bryna did not have to look up to know she spoke of Sharif. “I know.” She sighed. “I think he hates me.”

“No,” Taman disagreed, “his face is always dark this time of year. This is the month his wife died. It is not good to think too much of the dead, but I believe our sheik still mourns for Noorah.”

Bryna walked on without replying. She supposed the information the Arab girl offered should make her feel better, but it did not.

As they neared the well beside which the
smala
would camp, Bryna noticed huge pillars of stone jutting up from the sand some distance away. Glad to find a new topic of conversation, she asked, “Look, what is that?”

“Another ruined town without a name.” Taman shrugged carelessly. “There are many buried in the sands.” Her mind now diverted from the subject of Sharif, she asked Bryna, “Are you going out with us to gather locusts?”

“I suppose. Nassar claims they are his favorite food and says Pamela will cook breakfast in the morning while I gather some.”

“He must be fond of them to eat what the Inglayzi cooks.” Taman grimaced distastefully. “Then I will see you an hour before dawn while the locusts are still sluggish from the cold.”

In the predawn darkness the Selim women searched for locusts, which rested, fat and sated, on fretted leaves. Shivering from the cold, Bryna gathered the insects rapidly until her basket was full.

When she looked up from her labors for the first time, she realized she had become separated from the main body of women and was now only a short distance from the ruins she had noticed yesterday. The walls, painted rose and gold by the sunrise, seemed to beckon her, promising a rare moment of privacy. She was not expected back at the tent for some time, so, trailed by Smemi, she started toward the deserted town, set on a closer look.

Bryna left her basket under a scrawny palmetto and stepped through a gap in what had once been the walls of the town. Smemi whined apprehensively at the sound of the wind whistling through the stones. The girl was slightly unsettled by the eerie sound, but she was far too interested in the ruins to turn back.

She stood in a tiny chamber with no ceiling, its walls collapsed on two sides. Its only door was blocked with rubble, but she could see, over the crumbled wall on either side of it, another chamber with three of its walls still standing. Scrambling over the obstruction, she examined a faded, ancient mural.

Shielded from the wind, Bryna was comfortable. She unfastened her heavy burnoose and removed her light veil. Later it would be hot; later she must don her veil and return to her duties; but for now she was free to wander.

One room linked with another, and at last Bryna turned a corner and found herself in a chamber that was almost completely intact. His claws clicking against the stone floor, Smemi made a quick circuit around the room, then halted near the opposite door, whining again uneasily. The girl also felt a stir of nervousness. This chamber had been occupied recently. The ashes in the fire pit in the center of the room were fresh, and the aroma of cooked meat still seemed to hang in the air. Glancing toward the corner, she saw a pile of saddlebags stacked neatly and covered with a rug.

Smemi growled, low and menacingly, as a faint sound reached their ears. His teeth were bared as he strained to determine its source. It sounded like footsteps.

Bryna’s heart skipped a beat. She had been foolish to come here alone. Taman had said this was the season of raider, and she had walked into a possible hiding place for the thieves with only the big black dog for protection.

As if reading her thoughts, Smemi snarled and placed himself in the doorway between Bryna and whoever approached.

The girl nearly cried out in relief when Sharif’s voice reached her. “Bryna bint Blaine, are you there? Are you all right?”

“My lord? Yes, I am fine.”

“Then tell your fierce protector I am a friend.” Sharif appeared in the doorway, his sword drawn, his handsome face distressed. But his concern gave way to wonder when he saw the unveiled girl kneeling beside the big black dog. Washed by pale light that spilled in through the only window, Bryna’s hair glowed with a red fire and her face, tilted up toward him, was fairer even than he had remembered.

“Mashallah,”
the sheik breathed involuntarily, his steely gaze locking with Bryna’s blue one. “Thou art beautiful.”

“And thou,” Bryna answered instinctively, without thought. Although she was unaware she had done so, she rose and held out a hand as if reaching for him. She was conscious only of her heart pounding as Sharif stepped nearer.

His sword held at his side, the man crushed her to him in a powerful one-armed embrace, murmuring, his voice thick with relief, against her hair, “Praise be to Allah, that I have found you unharmed. A party of raiders has been using this ruin. I was mad with worry when I realized you were here.”

Bryna stood very still, trying to sort through the sensations she was feeling. She felt secure and protected in Sharif’s embrace, but there was more to it—it was as if her entire being reacted to his nearness. Her knees felt weak. Her breasts pressed against him seemed to swell with longing, and the lower part of her body was swept with a delightful warmth. She did not understand the feelings, did not care to understand them. She only hoped Sharif was feeling the same emotions.

Wanting nothing more than to be even closer to him, to breathe his scent, to feel the warmth of his lean, hard body, Bryna pressed nearer and wrapped her arms around his waist.

Sharif’s arm tightened on her shoulders spasmodically, then, drawing a ragged breath, he said in a choked voice, “No, no, this is wrong.” Reluctantly he released the girl and stepped back from her embrace, his heart breaking when she would not meet his eyes.

Bryna stood with her head bowed, unwilling to look at him for fear she would cry. Not for shame or fear, she realized, but for frustration and longing.

“Come,” Sharif ordered gruffly, guiding Bryna out into the blinding sunlight, “we must leave here. The raiders’ party is too small to attack our
smala,
but they would delight to prey on three people alone.”

“Three people?” Her voice was taut with unshed tears.

Sharif looked at the girl beside him. She seemed as shaken as he felt himself. Desire coursed through him with each pounding beat of his heart, but he forced himself to speak calmly, “Sa’id and I rode out to investigate the ruins. When we had finished, I saw the footprints of a woman and a dog in the sand, so we decided to search. Who else could it have been but you?

“Veil yourself now,” he ordered, then shouted, “Sa’id! I found her.”

A muffled shout answered them, and soon they were joined by the sheik’s second in command. While Bryna retrieved her basket, Sharif looked closely at Sa’id, relieved to see he did not seem suspicious to find the girl alone with him.

“We will walk back to camp,” Sharif announced, relieved to realize it would be impossible to balance both Bryna and her basket on his mare. He did not think he could be near her again without making her his own.

“It is not meet that the men should walk with a slave,” Sa’id protested.

“I am sheik and I desire to walk. But you should ride, my old friend. I will see you back at camp.”

“If you walk, I walk. Where you go, I go, my lord.” Sa’id snorted, letting his chief know his opinion of walking and of playing chaperon to a slave.

Sharif and Bryna started across the sands toward the camp visible in the distance. Behind them. Sa’id led the horses and muttered ominously each time Smemi approached, his tail wagging.

For a time, they walked in silence. At last Bryna worked up her courage to glance at Sharif. To her chagrin, she found he was watching her.

“Your Arabic is improving,” he said casually, trying to regain his composure.

“`Abla has been helping me.” Her response was a whisper on the wind.

The silence stretched out between them until they had neared the camp.

“My lord Al Selim...” Bryna began urgently. Then, hearing Sa’id curse as he stumbled in the sand, she fell silent. She could not ask for her freedom. She could not even speak openly to Sharif in front of the other man. “I...I am sorry I caused you such trouble this morning.”

“It was no trouble,” the sheik assured her politely. “But please do not wander so far away again. The big dog is no protection against evil men.” Nor against foolish ones, he thought to himself bitterly.

They stopped suddenly at the fringes of the camp, and Sharif asked, “My nephew...is he good to you?”

Bryna’s blue eyes met his for an instant. But before he could read what they held, she lowered them and replied, “He has not harmed me.”

“That is not what I asked you, Bryna bint Blaine,” Sharif said sharply, “but I suppose I must take it as an answer. I have no claim upon you.”

With that he turned and strode away, leaving Sa’id to follow.

* * *

The next morning the
smala
resumed its slow progression toward Riyadh. Once again every day passed for the travelers as the day before. At last the red sands gave way to white, grazing became harder to find, and the distance between wells became greater. After a while both water and food were rationed.

What was wrong with her? Bryna wondered, shifting uncomfortably on her fidgeting camel while the men inspected some tracks, their voices loud in the desert stillness. They examined each set of tracks they came across and knew at once how many men had passed, what kinds of camels they rode, and, in some cases, who the other travelers had been.

While she waited, heat shimmered up from the sand, causing Bryna’s skin to feel as if it were stretched as tight as a tent wire across her cheekbones. Her eyes burned and watered from the glare of the sun. And she felt she would scream when Sharif’s men galloped across the sand to milk any roaming naga they saw.

When would they rest? she wondered irritably. She was tired and it was becoming more and more difficult to curb her temper. It was good Fatmah was no longer so antagonistic toward her. Since she had used Bryna’s poultice, the old woman was almost civil.

Then there was Pamela. The English girl hardly seemed interested in food now, a great change for her. Deprivation meant little to the Bedouins. For weeks at a time they might live on a handful of dates and some camel’s milk, but it was no diet for a pregnant woman.

“Bryna, look over there—wild thyme.” Taman’s voice interrupted her brooding. The Arab girl pointed to a scrawny plant that grew nearby in the shade of a palmetto. “I think there might be more. Shall we pick some?”

Bryna sprang from the back of her camel and landed on her feet in the sand beside the other girl before the question was finished. Laughingly Taman steadied her eager friend and they set off to harvest the herb. Delighted to find even more than they had expected, they worked their way along the camel train, stopping near the herds at the rear.

When the caravan lurched to a start, Bryna and Taman hurried toward the head of the procession. There was little danger they would be left behind, but they hoped to escape the dust stirred up by the herds.

A terrified bellow stopped them. Whirling, the girls watched as a camel sank in the sand not more than fifty yards from them.

“A
shott—
sinking sand!” Taman’s voice was filled with dread as she backed up a step, mistrusting the ground beneath her feet. “And it’s one of Daoud’s nagas.”

The camel flailed and roared in vain as she sank up to her belly in the sand. Her calf, only two or three months old, poised at the far edge of the
shott,
bawling piteously, then it followed its mother, sinking at once up to the knees.