The Bride Price (44 page)

The feel of Derek’s lips on hers was pleasant and familiar. When he kissed her, Bryna was not unmoved, but his nearness did not stir the emotions in her it once had. So much had changed. He seemed more serious, and his face had an attractive, new maturity. And she knew she was a different person from that girl in Tangier.

Drawing back, she gazed up at him with troubled eyes. “Derek, you do not know...many things have changed,” she began painfully.

“I love you. That has not changed,” he interrupted, putting a silencing finger to her lips as he had months ago when he had proposed. “Do you remember how I feel about you?”

“You said you loved me,” she confirmed softly.

“And that I wanted to marry you. I still do. Please say you will be my wife as soon as we can get out of this godforsaken country.”

“I am already married,” she said because she did not know what else to do.

Bryna felt his arms tense around her before he released her, but the young Englishman’s manner was tolerant. “If it will make you feel better, we’ll have your Moslem marriage set aside when we get back to civilization. It means nothing. I won’t let Al Selim keep you here against your will anymore.”

“Sharif would not do that,” Bryna protested, shocked that he would think such a thing.

“What do you call locking a woman in a harem?” Derek asked, his voice becoming harsh as he paced. “Or giving her a different name? Or marrying her under false pretenses?”

Suddenly Bryna felt weary, and the aching in her head returned with greater force than before. “I don’t know... I don’t know.”

“I am sorry, darling. It is just that I have waited so long to find you, to know that you are mine.” Taking her hand, he said solicitously, “I know you are tired and you’ve had a terrible shock today. I can wait a little longer. I won’t press you.”

“Merci,”
she whispered, gently reclaiming her hand.

When they joined the others in the outer room, Ernst looked up from the camel’s bridle he was mending and smiled approvingly.
“Mashallah,
now I see the reason we have searched all Arabia.”

“Oui,”
Blaine agreed, beaming at his daughter with paternal pride.

“Bon soir,
Mademoiselle O’Toole.” The Swiss guide rose and presented himself with a courtly bow. “I am Ernst Mann, guide and traveling companion of these demented kaffirs.”

“How do you do, Monsieur Mann,” she greeted him. But her gracious smile faded when she heard the call to evening prayers from a nearby minaret. “I must send a message to Sharif,” she said to her father. “He is probably out of his mind with worry.”

“You cannot, mademoiselle,” Ernst interjected, “if you do not wish to endanger our lives.”

“Sheik Al Selim would not harm you.” Again Bryna found herself in the uncomfortable position of having to defend her husband.

“No, but could he keep others from doing so? We are infidels—kaffirs—in the holy city of the Moslems.”

“What he says is true, my lady,” a wiry man spoke in Arabic from the landing, where he had halted to listen to the conversation in the room above. “They would die terrible deaths, and so would I, for bringing them here. I beg you to reconsider.”

“This is Mustafa, who is bringing our dinner. May I suggest that we eat, then talk of business?” Ernst said.

Dinner was a noisy affair, with conversation conducted in French, English, and Arabic, depending on the pairings. Despite his initial disapproval of the unveiled woman, Mustafa took a liking to Bryna and was ecstatic to have someone new to talk to. Throughout the meal the four men regaled Bryna with tales of their adventures. When the meal was finished and they sipped their coffee, the conversation turned to plans for departure.

“Whether you go or stay, mademoiselle, it will be better for the rest of us to go quickly,” Ernst said, summing up their situation.

“You cannot consider staying,” Derek objected at once, “not now that you have a chance to go home.”

“I do not know what to do,” Bryna confessed miserably. “I do not think I’ve ever been so confused. Not even when I couldn’t remember who I was. I must speak to Sharif.”

“And so you shall,” her father declared firmly. “We both will...tomorrow.”

No one slept in the Selim household. It was nearly dawn when Sharif questioned the figure kneeling before him in his
majlis.
“Tell me once more, Abu Ahmad,” he interrogated the aged servant again. “You never saw her again after the boy ran through the market?”

“No, my sheik. One moment the lady Farha was there, the next moment she was not. I saw no one following us, no one who wished to do us harm, I swear by the Prophet. I searched the bazaar, every stall, but no one saw her once the confusion started. And this was all I found to show she had been there at all.” He held out Bryna’s
burqu
toward the man.

“Where can she be?” Sharif’s face was agonized. “Who could wish to harm her?”

In a panic when Bryna had not returned that night, the sheik himself had searched the bazaar. Wise men said that evil lives in the two holy cities, for no sooner were pilgrims forgiven their sins than they sought others to take their place.

He had frantically combed the deserted maze of streets that were Mecca, past the doors of coffeehouses closed for the night; past sleeping households; past mosques, where beggars and pilgrims slept, lining the walls. At last he had found Abu Ahmad seeking shelter in one of the mosques near the souk. The intrepid old warrior had feared to face the sheik’s fury if he came home without his mistress.

“Please, my lord,” Abu Ahmad entreated, “fear not. As soon as it is light, I will search the market again. Surely someone saw something.”

“My men and I will search with you,” the sheik said grimly. “We will find Farha if we must take Mecca apart.”

“Insh’allah,
” muttered one of his retainers. “And the dogs who have taken her will die this day.”

“Perhaps no one has taken her,” Sharif mumbled more to himself than to the others. “Perhaps her memory has failed her once again.”

Or perhaps, he thought wretchedly, it has returned.

That morning, while Sharif and his men combed the souk, Abu Ahmad returned to the spot where he had lost his mistress. Nearby he found a stooped old crone who sold baskets, sitting in the sun. She rose respectfully when the man approached her. Yes, she thought she remembered the woman who stood near the barrels before they fell. But no, she had seen nothing else, only the excitement of the chase.

“She was hurt when the barrels fell,
sidi,”
the woman’s grandson volunteered helpfully. “I saw it. Two men took care of her.”

“What men?”

“Two of the ones who are staying above the shop of the olive merchant.” The boy nodded to a doorway across the street. “I think she is there yet.”

So that was how she had disappeared so quickly, Abu Ahmad realized with relief. She was simply taken in when she was injured. Then he scowled darkly. Two men helped her? He must tell his master immediately so Sharif could reclaim his wife before any harm was done.

* * *

Bryna awakened slowly to the rhythmic pounding from the other room as Mustafa prepared the morning coffee. Soon other noises drifted in from the street. Mecca was awake and beginning a new day. Sluggish after a poor night’s sleep, she rose and dressed, then went out to meet the others.

In the
majlis
she found the air electric with tension. Mustafa fussed over breakfast, advising fretfully that the sheik’s men were already searching the market. Ernst did not seem to hear him. He ate silently, his mind full of plans for departure. Blaine sipped coffee and watched his daughter. Although he lounged on a cushion, he was poised, as if ready for action at an instant’s notice. But it was on Derek that Bryna’s gaze rested worriedly. He had already honed his sword this morning, and now he oiled his pistol, a preoccupied frown on his face. It was as if he were preparing for war instead of flight.

After breakfast Ernst and Mustafa went to oversee the loading of the camels and Blaine disappeared into the bedchamber to gather his belongings. Sheathing his sword and tucking his pistol into his belt, Derek came to stand beside Bryna.

She accepted the hand he offered and allowed him to pull her to her feet. The young man stood very close, but he did not touch her.

“Bryna, I have been thinking,” he said huskily. “You are right. We’ve both changed a great deal in the past year. In fact, it seems a lifetime ago since that night on the
Mab
and half a lifetime since I proposed to you in Tangier.

“I don’t know if we will get out of Arabia alive, but I’m not sorry I came. I’ve learned a lot, about friendship and loyalty and love. You must believe me. It was not money or position or influence that brought me here, not all this way. I came for you. And somewhere on the journey, I realized why I had to find you, because I want to give instead of always taking, because I want what is best for you, because I love you.”

Oh, Derek,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears. She did not know what to say.

But the young man did not seem to expect an answer. He drew her into his arms and kissed her tenderly, savoring the feel of her in his arms. Then he released her and went outside without a backward look to prepare for the trip to Jidda.

Turning, Bryna saw her father in the doorway, and her face crumpled. “I am so afraid I will do the wrong thing.” She wept, accepting the handkerchief he offered.

“I know,
chère.
I worry for you, too,” Blaine said sympathetically, putting his arm around her shoulders. “But all will be well if you follow your heart. Whatever happens...
Insh’allah.
Your sheik would tell you so himself.”

“Insh’allah,
“ she repeated doggedly.

As her father opened the door to the stairs at the back of the building, the sound of horsemen reached their ears.

“It is Sharif,” Bryna said positively.

“Stay here,” Blaine ordered. He paused just outside, blocking her way. “I do not want this sheik to haul you onto his horse and gallop away with you. He and I have a few things to discuss.”

Over Blaine’s shoulder, Bryna could see Sharif and his men gallop into the dusty stable yard. The sheik led the way, Târiq rearing in the center, while his men ranged around the enclosure, cutting off Derek, Ernst, and Mustafa from the building.

Sharif wasted no time in polite greeting. “I have come for my lady, Farha Al Selim.” His glare swept the courtyard. His retainers pulled their swords and brandished them in murderous warning at the men beside the camels. “Give her to me or you will surely die.”

“Let me talk to him,” Bryna whispered from the dark doorway behind her father.

“Of course,
chère,
but in privacy,” Blaine murmured under his breath. “What you have to say is between the two of you.

“As salaam ’alaykum, sayyid,
“ he called down to the man in careful Arabic.

Sharif wheeled his horse and glared up at the big man who slowly descended the stairs.

“You must be Sheik Sharif Al Selim,” Blaine greeted him cordially. “Please, will you come inside? We must talk.”

“I did not come to talk, so do not speak to me of ransom, kaffir,” the Arab shouted. “I do not pay for what is mine.”

“I seek no ransom,” Blaine answered quietly, lowering his voice in hopes no one could overhear, “but I must tell you that Bryna is not yours unless she says she is.”

“Who are you?” A look of fear crossed Sharif’s face.

“My name is Blaine O’Toole. I’m Bryna’s father. Now please come inside where the two of you can talk privately,” the big man insisted.

“There is nothing to talk about. She is my wife. She belongs with me.”

“She does not belong to you, you bastard,” Derek bellowed, breaking away from the others. “Bryna is going to marry me. You can’t have her.”

“No,” Sharif roared, leaping from his horse at the other man’s throat.

Maddened by the thought of losing Bryna, Sharif paid no heed to the sword he held in one hand while the other grasped Derek’s throat. He wanted to choke this foreigner with his bare hands.

“Where is she?” he demanded. “Where is Bryna?”

Sharif did not hear her call his name or see her as she shoved past her father to dart down the stairs. He only heard the angry rush of blood in his ears and saw the contorted face of his enemy as the Inglayzi fought for air.

One of Sharif’s men captured the weeping woman by the arm and kept her from the fray as Derek broke Sharif’s infuriated grip and they circled each other in the dust.

Sharif recovered himself and raced toward his opponent, his sword drawn back for a brutal blow. Just as the sword descended, Derek drew his own weapon and parried the blow.

The courtyard was silent except for the clanking of the swords and the grunting of the men as they fought, circling the fountain. Sharif was a desperate man, slashing his blade in a frenzy. Derek fenced skillfully, managing to nick
the Arab’s shoulder and bring blood.

At that moment the young Englishman glanced toward Bryna and was rocked by the stricken look on her face as she strained against the man who held her. She loved Al Selim, he realized bitterly. If he killed the sheik, she would never forgive him. With a look of grim resignation, he began to advance rapidly, hoping to tire his opponent and disarm him before any more blood was shed.

But Sharif seemed inexhaustible in his fury. He fought as if possessed, attacking savagely, cornering the Englishman against the stairs. As he drew back his sword to deliver the death blow, Bryna broke free from her captor to throw herself across Derek’s body.

“No, Sharif, do not kill him!” she shouted in French.

“Get out of the way, Bryna!” both men shouted.

“If you love me, my lord, you will not kill him,” she pleaded.

The sheik’s shoulders slumped dejectedly and he lowered his sword. “You care for this man?” he asked, looking as if his heart would break.

“Oui,”
Bryna affirmed gently. “I do not want you to kill him.”