The Bride Price (7 page)

“I don’t hate you.” She sighed ruefully.

“You mean there is hope?” he crowed, his countenance brightening. “Then I will call on you. I’ll call every day until I win you over. I’ll make you love me, Bryna,”

“I don’t know what to say.” Bryna rose and walked to the doors to look out over the garden.

“Say you love me, too.” She heard him rise and step toward her. “You know you care for me. Remember all those moonlit nights on the
Mab?”

“Derek...” When Bryna turned, she found him standing very close. He made no move toward her, but he was so near she could feel his warmth. Almost shyly she looked into his hazel eyes and was assailed by memories of being held in his arms. Her heart pounded and her breath was short. “I...I do not know what I feel.”

“I have overwhelmed you, haven’t I, sweetheart?” Derek’s voice was low and amused. “I don’t think I ever realized how small and fragile you are. Why, you only reach my shoulder! And you’re even more beautiful than I remembered. I was a fool to let you go,” he said fervently, convincing himself as thoroughly as the girl.

“I shouldn’t have been so vehement, darling, but I had to tell you how I feel. I’ll go now, but I’ll return tomorrow and the next day and the next, until you admit that you love me as much as I love you.”

“Please, Derek—” she began to object.

“No, my darling, I will do what I must.” Drawing Bryna into his arms, he kissed her tenderly, chastely. But before his nearness had time to cast its spell on her, he released her. “Until tomorrow, my love.”

“Until tomorrow,” she murmured, bemused. Perched on the edge of the chair she had recently vacated, she stretched her legs out in front of her. Serious thought was vanquished when she caught sight of her toes, pink under a coating of dust, peeping from under her skirts. A mischievous grin lurked suddenly at the corners of her mouth. He had thought she was small and fragile when she was only barefoot.

Then another fanciful thought occurred to her. In bare feet, she had just entertained a proposal of marriage from the very proper Derek Ashburn. Did he need a wife with only position and influence, or must she also have shoes? The idea of an unshod Mrs. Ashburn struck the girl as very funny, and her shoulders shook with her laughter. She was grateful no one could see her fit of hilarity. The servants would probably think her mad.

She probably was mad even to consider marrying Derek, she realized, suddenly sober. Did he love her or the fact that she was now an heiress? She would give much to know whether his last five days had been spent learning about her father’s business.

Sighing deeply, she went into the dusky courtyard. What strange tricks life plays, she mused, sinking onto the stone bench beside the fountain. For years she’d thought no one loved her; now she had a father and a suitor.

She sat, lost in thought, until the call of the muezzin. Night had fallen, she realized. It was past time for dinner, and Fatima had not come for her. In fact, she had not seen any of the servants for some time. Puzzled, she listened for sounds from the house.

Suddenly Bryna’s head reeled with the pain from a brutal blow. Lights danced before her eyes, dimming as she slumped to the ground at the feet of her assailant. No one stirred in the house as the rough Arab nudged the girl with his booted foot, rolling her onto her back to be sure she still breathed. Moving unhurriedly, he sliced a piece of fabric from her pink skirt and secured it to the outside of the gate with a small ornate dagger.

“Let there be no doubt,” the man muttered grimly. “O’Toole must know Gasim Al Auf has taken his daughter and understand the reason.” Flinging the girl’s limp body over his shoulder, he stole into the night.

* * *

The injured girl lay very still, not daring to stir. Clenching her teeth, she steeled herself against another wave of bitter bile that burned the back of her throat. She swallowed hard and willed herself not to retch. Moving her head slightly, she gasped as an excruciating pain exploded behind her closed eyes. Lights flickered inside her lids again, now bright and red-tinged.

“She’s coming around, I think,” Bryna heard a female voice exclaim excitedly. The cultured English accent of the speaker cut through a discordant rise and fall of otherworldly wails whirling around her pounding head.

She opened her eyes and blearily surveyed the murky darkness of a tiny, windowless room. Groggily she focused on the fragile, blond-haired girl who leaned over her.

“I say, are you all right?” the British girl asked anxiously.

“I think so,” Bryna answered hoarsely in English, stirring tentatively on the blanket that shielded her from the hard-packed dirt floor.

“We’ve been ever so worried about you. You’ve scarcely stirred since they brought you in last night.”

“Last night? Where am I?” Bryna attempted to sit up but succeeded only in jostling her throbbing head.

“Slowly, dear, you’ve quite a goose egg,” the other girl warned, pressing her reluctant patient back on a filthy pillow.

“Who are you?” Bryna asked curiously. Her nurse was young and obviously a gentlewoman, though her patrician face was streaked with dirt and her hair matted and dirty.

“I am Pamela Hampton-White,” the girl responded, graciously offering her hand. “And like you, I am a captive of the slave trader Nejm Al Anwar.”

“A slave trader?” Wincing, Bryna lifted herself onto one elbow. “Where are we?”

“We are still in Tangier, but I do not know for how long.” Pamela’s chin quivered, but she continued bravely, “We are, all of us, to be sold into bondage. Even those poor wretches from among his own people.” She gestured toward the opposite corner of the filthy room.

Bryna peered through the gloom, where she discerned a huddle of black-clad Arab women who clung to each other, a tragic chorus that lamented its fate loudly. Their voices rose and ebbed, echoing off the high-domed ceiling of the minuscule chamber.

“We cannot be sold into slavery,” Bryna muttered disbelievingly.

“Of course we can,” a contemptuous voice disagreed from nearby. “This is Morocco.”

“May I present Condesa Theresa Delgado, a noblewoman of Spain.” Pamela directed the newcomer’s attention to the source of the voice. Bryna twisted gingerly on her pallet to see another woman in European dress, sitting behind her with her back to the clay brick wall. Theresa nodded disdainfully, her demeanor haughty even under these adverse conditions.

“Theresa was captured by pirates.”

‘“They had the audacity to attack my father’s yacht,” the Spanish girl fumed. “The Conde Tomas Ramone Fernando Delgado, the most powerful man in Ceuta.” The nostrils of her aquiline nose flared with indignation.

‘‘Yes, yes, Theresa,” Pamela interrupted soothingly, having heard the story a dozen times. “May I introduce...” She faltered. “I am sorry, what is your name?”

“Bryna O’Toole.”

“How do you do, Bryna,” Pamela replied courteously. “I am happy to meet you, whatever the circumstances.”

“I am glad to meet you, Pamela,” the Creole girl responded inanely, “and you, Theresa.” She nodded to the other woman, who obviously took it as her due. Still propped on her elbow, she muttered more to herself than to her companions, “Surely there is a way out of this situation. Some law—”

“You are in the Islamic world now,” Theresa scoffed. “The law, the
Sharià,
is the Koran, and the Koran is the word of God. An infidel woman will find no deliverance in Muhammad’s law.”

Bryna addressed Pamela desperately. “Then what about...”

“Nejm Al Anwar,” the blonde supplied gloomily.

“Where will I find this Nejm Alsa Anwar? I must speak to him.”

“It will do you no good,” Theresa interjected. “The Aribi say he will sell all of us. I will die before I will be sold again.”

Theresa’s passionate declaration was lost as Bryna cried, “You understand Arabic?”

“Sí.
” Theresa sniffed disdainfully. “One must to survive in this part of the world.”

“Could you translate for me when Nejm comes?”

“There is no need. French is the second language of the Ottoman empire, thanks to Napoleon and the Mother Church. Nejm speaks it.”

“Don’t worry,” Pamela insisted. “Lie down and rest a moment.” She gestured toward the insect-infested cushions.

“I think I would rather sit up.” Bryna frowned distastefully. Her skin crawled, but whether with real or imagined insects, she didn’t know.

“Nejm probably will not come here, anyway,” Theresa contributed bitterly. “The only one we are likely to see is the eunuch who brings our breakfast, such as it is.”

“Yes,” Pamela agreed woefully, “but it is better than being hungry. I get very hungry when I am upset. I’ve always had a good appetite, but now I feel as if I am starving almost all the time.”

“Does the eunuch speak French?” Bryna interrupted unsympathetically. Before she worried about her stomach, she must talk to someone who could correct the error that found her in the hands of a slave trader.

“He speaks a little,” Pamela answered, “but you’ll soon find out, for here he comes with our breakfast.”

Across the room, veils were hastily pulled into place as a black servant entered the room, bearing a kettle of couscous flavored with stringy bits of mutton. Above their face coverings, the Arab women’s dark eyes cast spiteful stares at the eunuch’s back as he threaded his way to the corner where the infidel women sat.

“Bonjour,
Mubarak,” Pamela greeted him. The eunuch’s face lit with a smile.

“Bonjour,
Mademoiselle Pamela,” he responded in a high, piping voice. His French was rough and heavily accented. “Look, I have brought food for your friend.” Squatting down beside Bryna’s pallet, he thrust a dish of food and a greasy doughnut called a
sfenj
toward her. Then he served the European women.

“Mubarak,” Bryna began tentatively, “I need your help. I must speak to Nejm Al Anwar and explain that I am not a slave. I am a free woman, an American.”

“But you are a slave, mademoiselle,” he said perplexedly. “My master paid a good price to your old master.”

“But he was not my master. He had no right to sell me.”

“Yet he did. So your fate is as Allah wills. Nejm Al Anwar is your
sidi,
your master, as well as mine.” Rising quickly to thwart further argument, the eunuch took the pot to the hungry Arabian women. He set it unceremoniously in the middle of the floor and withdrew, closing the door behind him. The dark-skinned women fell upon their breakfast ravenously, dipping their bowls into the steaming pot, then feeding themselves with their fingers.

“I do think it is a nasty custom,” Pamela complained, gingerly following suit, “but one must make do here. There are no knives and forks. But take care to use only your right hand if you wish to get along. The left is considered unclean.”

Bryna nibbled at the tasteless food, her stomach churning with every greasy mouthful, but she must eat. She must stay well if she was to survive.

In time Mubarak returned and paused to speak to the native women in Arabic. When he finished they resumed their wailing with renewed vigor. Wincing, he presented himself to Bryna, Pamela, and Theresa.

“So sorry to disturb you, young ladies, but my
sidi
Nejm orders you to make yourselves presentable for the souk,” he informed them apologetically.

“What is that?” Bryna questioned, dreading the answer.

“The bazaar,” Theresa answered before the slave could, “where we will be auctioned like live-stock. Is that not so, Mubarak?”

The eunuch glanced unhappily at Pamela. The dainty blonde’s face had blanched at the announcement, and she awaited his answer with tears brimming in her brown eyes.

“
Oui
,” Mubarak said at last, “you go to the auction house. But do not fear. It will be over before you know it.”

“I will not go. I will die first,” Theresa declared dramatically.

“Please do not speak of such things, mademoiselle,” the eunuch begged woefully. “The taking of one’s own life is
harim
...forbidden.”

“Well, if we must go to the souk, perhaps you could bring water so that we may wash,” Bryna suggested with wry practicality.

“Yes, some water would be nice.” Pamela roused herself from her black study. “At least we shall not go to our fates looking like slatterns.”

“Très bien,”
Mubarak agreed, relieved by the attitude of the two women. He hurried to fetch a basin of warm water for them.

Gratefully they scrubbed the worst of the grime from their hands and faces, combed their hair with their fingers, and straightened their wrinkled dresses. As she did so, Bryna was pleased to discover her mother’s locket still concealed under her clothes. Her captor had not found it.

At last the door opened and Nejm Al Anwar himself appeared, wearing a dingy white turban and the red robe of the slave trader. Belted around his waist was a Turkish scimitar, its surface dull and tarnished but its edge honed and deadly looking.

Bryna scrutinized the Arab with interest as he slouched in the doorway, speaking to someone in the hallway outside. A quiet gasp came from Pamela when he entered, but neither she nor Theresa moved. Drawing a deep breath, the American girl went alone to speak to the gaunt, unkempt man.

“Are you Nejm Al Anwar?” Bryna asked politely in French as she neared him.

“Away, woman, I have no time for you now.” A forbidding frown on his face, Nejm looked over his shoulder to see who dared approach him. Ah, the American was awake. Stepping into the room, he walked around his latest purchase, his black eyes raking her from the tips of her bare toes to the crown of her dark head.

“Where are your shoes?” he demanded curtly.

“I...I have none,” she stammered, taken by surprise.

Gasim Al Auf, Allah blacken his face, was not satisfied to overcharge me, Nejm seethed. He also stole the slave’s shoes. The trader scowled at Bryna as if it were her fault.

“Please,” she entreated, “I must speak with you.”

“Silence!” Nejm roared, continuing his inspection. She was taller than he had thought, and by Allah, she had blue eyes, marking her as one who could cast spells. And what was worse, he realized those blue eyes held no real fear of him.