The Bride Price (29 page)

So the old man said nothing when the young men departed for a day’s hawking, waiting until he could make his proposal to Sharif in privacy.

“The American girl is not for sale,” Sharif declared, to Faud’s amazement.

“But I thought she belonged to Nassar,” he stammered apologetically.

“He bought her, but he traded my camels for her and he has yet to repay me.” Sharif felt a bewildering sense of outrage. What was wrong with him? Faud had not offended merely by offering to buy Nassar’s slave.

“If she is yours legally, I will buy her from you.”

The sheik shook his head doggedly.

“Be reasonable, Sharif,” Faud urged. “For the sake of Musallim, your father, I will make it worth your while. I will give you the armorer plus the price of the camels.”

“You would pay for seven Al Selim camels?” The sheik’s voice was deceptively mild.

“Seven?” The merchant gulped. Al Selim camels were among the most valuable in Arabia. But he remembered what Oma had said about the girl. “Yes, I will pay the price.”

For a moment Sharif saw his old friend’s face through a red haze, and his fists clenched and unclenched as he fought for control. At last he sighed deeply. “I am sorry, Faud. She is not for sale.”

Faud’s fat face darkened momentarily, then he shrugged. “As Allah wills it. A mere woman must never interfere in a friendship.”

Sharif did not answer. When his small caravan departed to rejoin his
smala
that afternoon, he left a purse in payment for the Frenchman. It contained what Faud had asked, plus a few extra gold pieces.

“Allah keep you on your journey, Sheik Al Selim,” the merchant called as they rode away. He hefted the purse in his hand and smiled with satisfaction. “And may your shadow never be less.”

* * *

“Water,” the sick man croaked, “water.”

“Praise be to Allah, the Englishman is not going to die!” Mustafa exclaimed.

“I wasn’t going to let him die,” Blaine muttered.

“Surely you are a great hakim, O’Toole Effendi,” the little slave agreed, hovering just behind him.

“Let’s just say between Ernst and me, we’ve had a bit of experience with these fevers,” the Irishman grunted.

“But,
sidi,
I saw with my own eyes your skill,” the Egyptian flattered with natural ease.

Blaine frowned and ordered, “Just fill that cup with water and hand it here.”

When Mustafa had obeyed, he held the cup to Derek’s cracked, dry lips. “Easy, lad, easy,” he cautioned, allowing him only small sips so he would not choke.

After seeing that his patient rested comfortably, Blaine drew the Arab servant away from the bedside and instructed him quietly, “Find Ernst and tell him Derek has regained consciousness. We must make ready to leave.”

“What you say is true,
sidi.”
The servant expelled a breath in relief. “It is dangerous to stay longer. I will tell him at once.”

The big man stood at the window and stared down unseeingly at the throngs clogging the street of Jidda. His party had barely touched solid ground when Derek collapsed with a fever. Mustafa had located a cheap inn, where no one would ask too many questions. There Derek had thrashed deliriously in a narrow bed and insisted he must find Bryna. He had been wrong...so wrong, he groaned. He must go to her at once. It was all the others could do to keep him in bed.

Now the worst was over, but so much time had passed. And each day it seemed as if Bryna was farther away.

Not since Catherine’s death had he been so torn by duty, Blaine brooded. If only the young Englishman had not been so ill, he could have gone. But he could not leave him in Jidda to die. Whatever Bryna’s relationship with him, whatever his own feelings about him, he reflected, Derek had stood by him in the fight with Gasim and had withstood the hardships of desert and sea.

Let no one say Blaine O’Toole had not returned the favor, he told himself. He had stood by the lad through his illness.

“Colonel...” The invalid’s voice reached him weakly.

“Ashburn, you’re awake.” Blaine strode toward the bed.

“How long?” Derek asked, swallowing painfully.

“Two weeks.”

“When do we leave?”

“In three days, if you can.”

“I can.” He sat up, the exertion bringing a cough.

“It’s going to be hard on you, m’boy, until you have your strength back, but we cannot tarry here.”

“I will make it,” the young man countered stubbornly.

Blaine sat on the chair beside the bed. Leaning forward, his elbows propped on his knees, he said bluntly, “‘Tis only fair to warn you. Derek, Ernst and I have talked about it. If you cannot keep up, we will leave you and Mustafa in the first village we come to.”

“I hate to undo any plans the two of you may have made, but I am going with you to find Bryna.”

“Still determined, eh?” The big man rose and grinned at him. The lad had more backbone than he had realized at first.

“More determined than ever, thank you,” Derek retorted with surprising vigor. “Besides, we would not want to separate that happy couple, the Arab and the Arabist. I am ready to leave when you are, but for now, send Mustafa up with some food, will you? I could eat a—”

“A camel?” Blaine suggested, chuckling to himself as Derek’s pillow sailed past his head and bounced soundlessly off the door.

“Daoud, Sâlih, look to the west and tell me what you see,” Sharif called to the two young men one day as the
smala
marched.

“It is raining!” Daoud answered with a jubilant whoop.

“Look, rain on the horizon!” Sâlih shouted to the others, gesticulating wildly.

A shout rose up from behind them as all eyes turned to look at the gray-streaked sky.

“We are near an oasis,” the sheik mused, “but rainwater is always welcome.”

“Alhamdillah!”
shouted the others.

“Tell me,” Sharif addressed the young men with a smile, “you have the fleetest horses in camp. Do you think you could reach the rain before it stops?”

“Insh’allah,”
the young men answered. But they leapt gladly from their camels to their horses. With exhilarated shouts they galloped away, balancing jars in front of them, the hooves of their horses flinging sand onto the cheering onlookers.

The
smala
watched until the men and their horses were small dots in the distance, then Sharif gave the order to move on to the oasis. The caravan had been traveling for several days. Progress was slow, but the travelers’ mood was light as they neared their destination.

For the past few days Sharif had lessened his vigilance, for Nassar spent every free moment with Pamela now. Free of the sheik’s constant glower, Bryna also relaxed. She walked, sometimes with Taman, sometimes alone, enjoying the relative freedom of the desert. Occasionally she nodded her encouragement to Kedar, the new slave Sharif had bought in
Kasr
Al Haroun.

Wearing a thobe that was much too short for him, the big man balanced precariously at first on the back of a swaying pack camel, looking nearly panic-stricken. But as he became more comfortable, he rode along in silence, returning the smile when Bryna looked in his direction. They had never even spoken, but the girl felt as if she had found a friend.

But Bryna was not completely carefree today. She worried about Pamela and her unborn child. The English girl was ailing again. She had seemed so much improved when they had visited the town four days ago. And three nights ago at dinner, she had had her usual ravenous appetite. Bryna had watched, amazed, as the petite blonde ate an entire loaf of bread, then asked for dessert.

“Eating for two, you know,” she joked for the first time in months.

But yesterday and the day before, Pamela had lost everything she had eaten. It hardly seemed right, now that they no longer had to worry about near starvation, that she was ill.

Bryna was not the only one who fretted on this fine day. Swinging in her litter, Fatmah brooded. This morning the Inglayzi had scarcely been able to rise from her bed. All day she had swayed on her camel, looking as if she wished she could die. What if she did die? It would be Fatmah’s fault. The bitter potion she had administered secretly in Pamela’s tea was not meant to kill her, only to rid her of the child. The woman reviewed her actions of the past three days, regretting that she had doubled the dosage to make up for the days when there had not been enough water for tea.

During the afternoon, Daoud and Sâlih returned to the
smala.
Their clothes were dry after their ride across the desert, but the jars they carried were filled with rainwater. They were greeted with exuberant cries as they rejoined the caravan, headed toward the oasis that loomed before them.

Bryna stared at the park like refuge with wondering eyes. It was the most beautiful oasis she had ever seen. A luxuriant carpet of tribulus covered the desert floor nearby. Succulents bloomed among them in multicolored profusion, their perfume filling the air. A sandy clearing offered a perfect campsite in the shade of a veritable forest of acacias and fig trees. Three small pools of clear water that adjoined each other were screened from view by a border of huge
safs,
or palmettos. Jutting from the lush green vegetation were tall, swaying date palms, silhouetted against the cloudless sky.

As the herdsmen watered the camels at the pool nearest the campsite, Bryna searched for Pamela. She found her, still perched on the back of her couched camel. Her face was pale and there was a vacant look in her shadowed eyes.

“What is it, Pamela?” Bryna asked worriedly.

“I don’t know. I just don’t feel well today.” The answer seemed to take all the girl’s strength.

“Let me help you.” The American girl extended a hand in assistance. Pamela leaned toward her as if she would take it, then suddenly she pitched from her saddle, landing face down in the sand. A dark stain of blood covered the back of her
thobe
from her waist nearly to the hem.

“Pamela!” Bryna cried, kneeling by her side as the women hurried to see what was wrong.

“So sorry,” the English girl whispered. “Just a bit dizzy.” Then her eyes closed and her head lolled to one side.

“Is the Inglayzi dead?” Fatmah breathed in horror.

“She has fainted.”

“Stay with her, Bryna,” Taman urged, unexpectedly sympathetic. “`Abla and I will set up Nassar’s tent as soon as we have built our own.” She looked in silent askance at Sharif’s elder wife, receiving a nod of assent.

Pamela lay near death for two days as her body cramped and strained to rid itself of the child she carried. Bryna never left her side, feeding her, bathing her with cool water, until at last Fatmah’s potion completed its deadly work and Pamela miscarried what would have been Nassar’s first son.

The young Arab lurked outside the women’s quarters, terrified that his houri might die. When Pamela began to show slow signs of improvement, he was still so fearful for her health that he petitioned Sharif to stay at their latest campsite long enough for Inglayzi to recover.

Sharif needed no persuasion. There was time before the rainy season started, and he wished to rest the camels for the last arduous leg of their long trek. Besides, he did not want to see the foreign woman die.

He was still in no hurry to move when Pamela recovered enough to rise shakily from her bed. The Selims continued to camp at the oasis.

The weakened girl insisted she be allowed to work immediately. She knew what her friend had done for her before, but she had been too sick to care. Now, she declared pluckily, she would pull her own weight in Nassar’s household.

When no argument would change her mind, Bryna sent her to gather figs from a tree where the women and children congregated. It was easy work, and the convalescing girl could sit in the shade for a while without fear of recrimination, for all the women took their time at the pleasant task
.
Bryna set about the monotonous work of preparing
leben.
Weary and drained from nursing Pamela, she swung the skin back and forth, glad to think of nothing in particular.

As sounds of the camp swirled around her, Bryna nearly missed the one sound that stood out in sharp contrast with the others. From somewhere nearby, a voice was speaking French. She raced around the tent to discover Sharif, standing with his back to her as he inspected a rifle, hefting it appraisingly in his hand. Kedar, the hulking silent slave, could be seen departing.

Was it the new slave who spoke French? Or could it have been the sheik? She had only heard him speak Arabic. He seemed so completely Arab, she had not even considered that he would speak another language. She hesitated uncertainly, overwhelmed by the possibility.

“What do you want?” Sharif asked when he turned to find the girl standing behind him. Her blue eyes, wide above her veil, were fixed on him almost beseechingly. As much as he might wish to hear what she had to say, he could not be seen alone with her behind the tents. “Speak, woman, and be about your work,” he ordered.

Drawing a steadying breath, she responded in French. “I seek the man I heard speaking French.” Her face was alight with hope.

“I-I thought Americans spoke English,” he stammered.

“In Louisiana, where I come from, we speak French as much as English.”

Sharif digested that information with a look of wonder. Stepping nearer, he gazed down at her as if he had found an unexpected treasure. “Why did you not tell me?”

“I did not know you spoke French. Why did you not tell me?” she asked, her voice vibrant with joy. Her eyes sparkled as she tilted her head to look up at him.

Sharif’s smiling demeanor sobered as he remembered himself. “This is not fitting, Bryna bint Blaine. We cannot linger behind the tent. Go back to your work. We will speak another time.”

“But—” she protested, bewildered by his sudden change in attitude.

“Rûhh,
go,” he ordered harshly. “Your sheik commands you.”

Disappointed and angry, Bryna obeyed. Settling in front of the tripod, she told herself fiercely that she did not care if the mighty sheik did not want to talk to a lowly slave.
Dieu,
how she detested the arrogance of all Arab men, especially Sharif. In her mind she summoned his every scowling expression, but those memories were crowded out by recollections of a smile that was almost boyish. Even her memories of Sharif Al Selim kept her off balance, she thought wrathfully. With a vigor born of frustration, she gave the goatskin a mighty push.