Call of the Trumpet (30 page)

Nothing, no one had ever been like this. He had had many women and enjoyed their bodies, their lovemaking. But no one before had ever touched the core of his very being. Supported on one arm, Matthew rolled over to gaze at her.

“Dhiba,” he whispered, but she did not stir. Her head was pillowed at the base of a dune, arms akimbo and hair in magnificent disarray. She wore only the copper jewelry.

A feeling surged through him, akin to passion yet tempered with a tenderness he had never known before. It confused him. He did not know whether he wanted to take her in his arms again and devour her with his hungry mouth, or simply hold her and rock her, stroke her long hair and tell her she belonged to him forever.

But did she?

Matthew pulled at his chin, confusion turning to a now-familiar torment. Despite what had transpired between them, he was afraid he still did not know or understand her, at least not fully. Her moods baffled him. She had come to him, but did she wish to remain with him?

Matthew shook his head. He didn’t know, didn’t even want to think about it. Not now. Not when they were together at last, the barrier between them at least temporarily lowered. He only wanted to revel in her, to pretend the rest of the world did not exist, to make believe they were alone in this sandy wilderness and would be together until the end of time. They had to be. In a lifetime, he knew, he would never have enough of that lithe, mysterious, sensual body.

Unable to control himself any longer, Matthew leaned down and gently pressed his lips to the white-ridged scar upon her breast. “Dhiba,” he murmured, and felt her arms glide around his neck.

This time they had both fallen asleep, sated, wound in each other’s arms. The heat was intense, and their bodies glistened with moisture, yet even in sleep their need to be close was so strong they did not separate. Cecile woke once, briefly, and wondered at the absence of the
Shamal
‘s hot breath, longed for the feel of it against her damp flesh. But with consciousness came reality, and she did not want to face it, not yet. She wanted merely to lie in his arms, pressed to his lean, strong, masculine frame, and pretend they would be together thus forever. She closed her eyes and knew no more.

It was nearly dusk when they finally awakened. The light had dimmed considerably. Gently disentangling himself from Cecile’s arms, Matthew rose and stretched. It was then he noticed what he should have seen long before.

His skin prickled with alarm. Twilight was the wrong color, and an eerie glow shone from the northwest. The
Shamal
still had not returned, but now he knew why. Lost in his concern, he did not remember his nakedness, which seemed so natural in this time and place, or notice the shining look directed at him from the woman at his feet.

He is beautiful, Cecile thought, if such an adjective could be ascribed to a man. So tall and perfectly formed, narrow at the waist, broad at the shoulders. Even the way his long, straight hair fell against his neck was appealing. Her need to touch him was overpowering, and she rose gracefully to her feet.

Her movement caught his eye, and for a moment Matthew forgot his worry. Never had Allah made a woman so splendid, he thought, and watched as she approached, clothed only in her jewelry. He shivered, in spite of the heat, when she raised a hand to his chest and stroked the thick, dark curls. The impulse to pull her to him almost overcame his judgment. But her safety was a more pressing concern. He grasped her wrist and put it away from him.

Misunderstanding, Cecile’s eyes darkened. Matthew gripped her shoulders gently and nodded toward the northwest sky. “We must return to the camp,” he said, surprised at the sound of his voice. He realized his words were the first uttered, besides her name, since he had followed her into the dunes. He wished they could have been different ones, but it was too late now. “The
Shamal
builds; I’m afraid a sandstorm brews.”

In response, Cecile clung to him, laying her check against his chest. “No,” she murmured. “Not yet.”

Matthew closed his eyes and enfolded her, but only for an instant. With every ounce of will he possessed, he pushed her from him. “We may be in danger, Dhiba. And I … I cannot allow anything to happen to you.”

Cecile’s bright gaze did not flicker. His words echoed in her heart, but she knew she must not dwell on them, not yet. At this moment it did not matter if he loved her, truly loved her … not Aza. All that mattered was that they were together. Tomorrow, later, someday, she would worry about it. Not now.

Matthew broke her reverie. “I’ll be right back,” he said shortly, and turned away.

Wondering, Cecile watched him climb to the top of the nearest dune. He remained on the ridge, gazing into the distance. In the next moment, reality rudely intruded, and she realized what he looked at.

Matthew’s jaw tightened, and he cursed himself for becoming so distracted he had not heeded the signs in time. It would be a race now. They must leave at once. He spun, only to find her standing at his side.

“We must go,” he said simply, an explanation no longer necessary. Even as he watched her, seeing the undisguised anguish fill her gaze, the
Shamal
sighed its first warning and lifted the hair from her shoulders.

Cecile did not move. She blinked and turned her eyes to the dark and angry distance. Terror rose in her breast.

The sky was red, crimson with the dust from the northwest plains. Just above the horizon, something grew, something black and horrible, and it moved toward them swiftly. Matthew did not have to tell her what it was.

“We’re in danger, Dhiba. The entire camp is in danger.”

Even as he spoke, her fear receded, replaced by a stronger emotion. The instinct for survival … but the survival of something far more important than mere life.

She had to keep him with her, alone with her, just a little longer. She had to win him. She had to.

“The camp has weathered these storms before,” Cecile found herself saying. Her eyes did not move from the black, rapidly advancing core. “They will lower their tents, crouch by their camels, and pray to Allah for deliverance. Just as we will do … right here.”

Strangely, her words did not surprise him. What amazed him was his own inclination to stay, to let the storm rage around them and be damned. As long as they were together.

But it was madness. Matthew gripped Cecile’s arms. “You don’t know what these storms are like. Sometimes they go on for days. We’ll need to be near water, and …”

“There’s a water skin hanging from your camel’s pack,” Cecile replied calmly, ignoring her whipping hair and the sand that swirled at her feet. “Also blankets, a small tent, and food. I packed it for you. Remember?”

He was able to hear the distant moan of the wind now, growing louder. He gave her a little shake, barely aware of his words, or why he spoke them, and said, “Fear the storm, Dhiba, not the future. Come back with me …”

His words were blown away in a gust of wind. It staggered them, and he clutched her tightly to him. Now was the moment, he knew. Further delay and it would be too late. He could easily lift her into his arms, carry her to the kneeling camel, and force her to obey him. Their lives, perhaps, depended on it.

His hand slid down her back, over the smooth, tight curve of her buttock. Fighting his rising desire, Matthew bent and scooped her into his arms.

The wind abated in the lee of the sheltering dune. Though she had closed her eyes, Cecile felt its lessening almost at once.

The camel had repositioned herself, turning at an angle to the wind. Her heavily lashed eyes were half-closed to the blowing dust.

Matthew hesitated, reluctant to surrender his burden. A sudden gust lashed at his back, and to his left a spiral of sand rose high in the turbulent air. His heart swelled with emotion and a desire so basic, so primitive, it rocked him.

Cecile opened her eyes as she felt herself lowered. She stood by the camel as Matthew retrieved their scattered clothing. Her
makruna
had long ago blown away, but she did not care. Nothing mattered any longer. She obediently took the bundle when he handed it to her.

“Shove these things in a pack. There’s no time to dress.”

Confused, Cecile did as she was bid. Would they ride back to camp naked?

No. For they were not returning. She understood now.

The wind rushed about them, and sand swirled nearly to their knees. Neither moved. They were naked and alone in the world. One man and one woman. Whom he would protect with his dying breath, if need be.

There was very little time left. The black, menacing core of the storm had grown, nearly filling the sky. They saw it above the dune, only a few miles away. Even as they watched, a single, deafening boom of thunder rolled across the desert, and bright white sheets of lightning flickered against the blackness. The decision had been made, and there was no turning back.

Cecile did not have to be told what to do. She watched as Matthew tucked the food containers snugly against the camel’s flank, then helped him with the flapping length of material.

Matthew wrapped it around them, pulling Cecile close to him. He kissed her once, hard, then drew her to the camel.

They lay down together, flat against the
dahlul
on the side away from the wind, and Matthew pulled the tent material over their heads. They were bound together, encased in a darkness redolent with the musky spice of their love-sated bodies. The wind whined and rushed and buffeted, in concert with the hiss of blowing sand, but they paid no heed. The world had ceased to exist. Locked in each other’s arms, legs entwined as their sweat-slippery bodies strained together, they closed their eyes and slept.

Night fell unnoticed. In the heart of the storm, there was no differentiation in degrees of darkness. It simply went on and on. Sand rained on their makeshift shelter, and the wind tried to snatch it away, but they were secure.

Several times they woke together, never quite sure what had roused them. Except, perhaps, the desire to revel in their closeness, or reassure themselves that they were not, indeed, in a dream. They would move against each other, then, simply to feel and know the other’s body, skin texture, warmth, and damp.