Call of the Trumpet (17 page)

“Nothing, nothing at all,” Cecile replied quickly, and left the tent before Hagar might question her further.

Many of the women had already spread out from the camp, fanning across the surrounding desert in their search for what bits of brushwood might be found. Cecile followed them, lifting the hem of her skirt as she climbed up out of the shallow, elliptical basin where the camp had been pitched.

There was a rocky outcropping below and to her left. Just beyond it she spotted a dry clump of
arfaj.
It would yield a few sticks, she thought, and hurried to reach the plant before it became someone else’s prize. She hurried everywhere these days, and kept as busy as she was able, even on the long camel marches. It helped to keep her from thinking, from allowing her thoughts to turn to that night at the oasis.

Even now, with the mere passing of the memory, Cecile felt a familiar weakness in her legs. She stumbled, catching herself just in time. Which was exactly what she had done that night, she reflected bitterly. The interruption of that kiss had been timely. It had given her the chance to escape, to collect herself and regain control of her traitorous body. How could she have allowed such a thing to happen?

In the first place, she had broken her own solemn vow never to let a man touch her. In the second place, what they had done had broken Badawin law. Had she not agreed to live by it? And what of Matthew? He had once even assured her of the sanctity of an unmarried woman among the Badawin, and he lived as one of them; he took pride in following their laws and customs.

Yet he was not, ultimately, one of them, and neither was she. She had wanted him as much as he had wanted her, and they had both chosen to disregard the laws they lived by, for it had suited them to, and because the laws did not bind them as they would a true Badawin. A true Badawin would not even have experienced the lust they had felt and become slave to.

And wasn’t that what she had wanted, to be a true Badawin? It was not possible, Cecile realized suddenly. She was half-French, and she had been reared in European tradition. She could not change who she was, or become who she was not. Like him, she was both. Did it mean she would never truly belong here, either, in the land she had come to love so much?

She must not, Cecile knew, allow such thoughts to intrude upon the fragile self-esteem she had only lately managed to build. She shook her head to clear it, and set the narrow waist-length braids in motion against her breast and shoulders. A dry, stirring wind fluttered her veil, and she glanced at the western sky.

Odd, she thought. There was still more than an hour until the first pale coming of twilight. The night wind rose early this evening. Cecile knelt quickly and began to pluck branches from the
arfaj.

“The wind stirs,
ya ammi
,” Ahmed let the tent flap fall and turned to his master.

Matthew nodded absently, hand idly stroking his chin.

Ahmed tried again. “Coffee,
ya ammi?”

Matthew noticed his servant at last and allowed the shadow of a smile to touch his mouth. Once again he nodded. He enjoyed watching Ahmed perform the ritual of coffee making. It relaxed him, soothed his thoughts. Which was what he needed at the moment. He had been able to think of little else than that night at the oasis, and it was maddening. Emotion such as he had been experiencing could cripple a man. A dangerous thing in a land where almost every waking moment was a struggle for survival.

The coffee beans had been roasted, cooled, and were now being ground to a fine dust. Their aroma filled the tent, but Matthew did not notice. Suddenly restless, he pushed from the saddle against which he leaned and rose to his feet. Ahmed called to him, but he did not hear. He strode to the tent flap and pulled it aside.

Against his will, Matthew recalled the look he had seen in her eyes that night. What had she been afraid of? He had not treated her harshly. For a time, in fact, she had enjoyed his kiss, the touch of his hands. He had felt her body respond as urgently as had his own. So why had she run from him? Had her experience with the slave dealer touched her so deeply, scarred her somehow? Or had something happened long before, when she was growing to womanhood?

Matthew shook his head, trying to drive the memories from his mind. It did no good to dwell on such things. If a mare was intractable, fearful of man, as sometimes happened, one did not waste time trying to break her. Cruelty and force never worked in the end; though it might be possible to ride her, she would not willingly come when called. It was better to set such a one free in the very beginning and forget about her.

Yet Matthew found he could not forget. The recollection of her body, so firm and slender, and her breath, warm and sweet against his lips, returned to plague him with growing intensity. Forgetting the coffee, he strode from the tent, longing to stretch his suddenly aching muscles.

Ahmed was right. The wind rose early. Too early. The long, white
towb
whipped against his Matthew’s legs as he climbed from the basin, and he was forced to wrap the end of his
khaffiya
across his mouth and around his neck. At the top of the rise he paused.

The women straggled back with their loads of wood. Small eddies of sand and dust whirled among them, skittering at their feet as they hurried back to their tents. It was good, he thought. He wanted no one lost in the dust storm that might all too swiftly arise and envelop them. He turned to the northwest, from which the wind blew down upon them.

A gray-brown haze ballooned above the horizon. Also good, he mused. At least, not as bad as it might be. It was when the sky grew crimson, with a great black core, that one lowered the tents, crawled beneath a camel, and began fervent prayers to Allah.

Sand blew in his eyes. Matthew turned back toward his tent. And saw her, struggling now against the wind and her billowing skirt, trying to keep the small bundle of sticks balanced atop her head as she rounded a distant outcropping of rock.

Damn, he swore under his breath. Which of the women had been foolish, or ignorant enough, to ignore the dangerously rising wind?

He knew, even as he started downward in her direction. A curious mixture of irritation and eagerness warred within his breast.

Cecile was not worried, not yet. To her the wind was no more than an annoyance, a minor hindrance. She was surprised, therefore, to look up and see someone hurrying in her direction. Someone who urgently beckoned and called to her. But she could not hear the words and so she ignored them, skirting the lone figure as she continued in what she thought was the way back to camp.

But soon a spark of fear finally fanned to life in Cecile’s breast. Where was the camp? Surely she should have reached it by now. She paused, confused and blinded by the whirling sand. She jumped like a startled
dhabi,
heart pounding painfully, when a hand roughly gripped her shoulder.

“Have you no more sense than a rabbit?” Matthew shot out. “What are you doing out here?”

Fear vanished in the rising flood of emotions, anger foremost. How dare he speak to her like that? “Gathering wood, of course!” Cecile snapped. “Isn’t that what a woman is supposed to do?”

“Not in a sandstorm!” Matthew bellowed back.

Cecile flinched. She was barely able to see his hard, dark scowl through the blowing sand and dust. And she was glad. She was no longer able to trust her treacherous body, which seemed to melt at the very sight of him. Turning sharply on her heel, she wrenched from Matthew’s restraining grip.

“You little fool!”

The hand returned to her shoulder, grasping her tightly this time as it spun her around. Her bundle of sticks tumbled to the ground.

“See what you’ve done now?” Cecile cried. “What are you … ?”

“Shut up! And forget the damn firewood. You’re coming with me!”

Real fear flooded her now, flowing hot and thick through her limbs. What was he doing? Where was he taking her? Panicked, Cecile tried to pull her hand free, but he clung remorselessly, and she had no choice other than to stumble along behind him.

Matthew threw his free arm over his forehead, trying to shield some of the sand from his eyes. There was no time left to try to make it back to the camp. Visibility was almost zero. He would have to try and make for the outcropping of rock.

Though her eyes burned and she choked on dust, Cecile did not cease her struggles. Her fear of the wind was not nearly as great as her terror of the man who pulled her along in his wake. Why was he doing this, and where was he taking her? Had he lost control of his lust?

There was no more time for speculation. They had apparently reached whatever destination he had intended. With a rough shove, Matthew forced Cecile to her knees.

“No … no!” Flailing her arms, Cecile tried to fend off the grasping hands, but she was no match for his strength. When he had pinned her wrists, he pushed her flat to the ground and rolled her to one side.

Cecile felt something hard at her back. The outcropping of rock … so that was where he planned to savage her. Well, she would not give in without a fight. Frantically, she scrambled to her knees and tried to crawl away.

She could see nothing, not even her attacker. Hands pressed to the rock, Cecile inched along until she felt a deep cutaway. Flattening once more to the ground, she rolled beneath it. If she could not see him, maybe he would not be able to find her, either.

The wind whipped viciously, rushing in Matthew’s ears, obliterating sight and sound. Where the devil had she disappeared to? Feeling the sharp edge of approaching panic, Matthew dropped to his knees and groped.

His hand encountered the cutaway almost at once. Had she, too, discovered it, and been smart enough to crawl inside? He found himself praying as he crouched, flattened, and edged inside.

Cecile closed her eyes as she felt the length of his body press against her own. She did not want to look at him. She wanted to die.

The sound of the wind was less harsh beneath the sheltering rock. Matthew was able to hear the sound of Cecile’s rapid, shallow breathing. Carefully, he wiped the sand from his eyes and opened them.

There was at least a foot of clearance above their heads, and enough dim light to see by. Matthew turned over, propped himself on one elbow, and looked down at the woman by his side.

Her eyes were tightly shut, her hands clasped so firmly the knuckles showed white. Her veil had been lost, blown away, and even her lips, he saw, were pale with fear. Why, she was terrified, he realized. Is that why she had fought him? Had she, in her fear of the storm, temporarily taken leave of her senses? His annoyance was suddenly overcome with an overwhelming desire to comfort as well as protect her.

“It’s all right,
halaila
,” Matthew whispered. “The storm cannot harm you, not here.” Tenderly, he straightened her long, wind-twisted braids and smoothed the ruffled bangs upon her forehead. At least she did not flinch from him. And her skin was soft, so soft. His fingers moved to her cheek and he caressed it gently.

Something huge rose in Matthew’s breast, blurring his vision and confusing his thoughts. He wanted to crush her to him, yet he was afraid to hurt what appeared to be so delicate, so fragile.

“Ba’ad galbi, galbi,”
Matthew murmured, barely aware of the words falling from his lips. He touched her hand, squeezed it softly. “Do not fear; I am with you. I will let nothing harm you …
ba’ad galbi.
Dhiba bint Sada.”

The words quivered in Cecile’s breast. Now she was afraid to open her eyes lest she find it was all only a dream.
“Ba’ad galbi, galbi,”
he had whispered … “my heart.” Is that why he had brought her here? Cecile opened her eyes at last.

His face was very close, mere inches away, his blue eyes so large and clear that she seemed to swim in them. His breath was warm against her cheek, and she could see the faint dark stubble shadowing his jaw.

Her pulse still raced, though no longer with fright. As if of their own will, without thought or direction, her fingers reached to touch Matthew’s hard, handsome features. Wonderingly, she traced the square, firm line of his jaw, the high, sharp cheekbones and the straight, smooth ridge of his nose, coming to rest at last on the soft curve of his mouth.