Call of the Trumpet (21 page)

Was it enough?

Fragile hope quivered in Cecile’s breast.

But it was all too much, especially after such a long and emotional day. Cecile felt overwhelmed. If only she was able to think clearly!

The idea came to her just before she plummeted to the depths of despair, and Cecile looked about her guiltily. But no one would know, not if she was careful. It was the only way she knew to clear her mind. It had always worked in the past. It would help her now.

Picking up her skirt, Cecile hurried away, careful to remain unseen as she slunk through the palms in the direction of her tent.

Matthew’s mood was so foul, his mind so intent upon its own dark thoughts, he strode into his tent and flung himself on the ground before he realized he was not alone. Irritated, he glanced sharply at the girl who knelt in the corner. “Who are you?” he inquired, more brusquely than he had intended. “What are you doing in my tent?”

Aza crept forward on her knees, her eyes downcast. “I must humbly beg your pardon,” she murmured. “I did not mean to offend by my intrusion. I merely came to offer you the bounty of my father’s tent. Will you not accept this poor food?”

Matthew finally noticed the steaming bowls she had pushed in front of him. The aroma was delicious. When the girl raised her eyes, he also realized she was no stranger. “Aza,” he said, pleasantly surprised.

Aza’s heart fluttered. “You remember me,” she replied softly. “I am honored.”

“No more than I by your thoughtfulness.” Matthew could tell by the way her eyes shone that she smiled behind her veil. She smiled very prettily. Her manner was comfortable, too, soothing. Particularly after what he had just endured. He beckoned her closer.

Aza shyly moved forward. When she had reached his outstretched feet, she offered him the food.

Matthew took it gratefully. He stared at the girl’s modestly lowered head and thought how kind she was, how gentle and considerate. Quite the opposite of …

With a returning surge of anger, Matthew vowed to forget Al Dhiba until her hour was up. In truth, it pained him too much to think of her. What if she did
not
want to marry him?

The mere anticipation of such rejection was more than Matthew could accept. No, he chided himself, he shouldn’t even contemplate it. For an hour he’d rest and think nothing but pleasant thoughts.

While Matthew ate, Aza took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and reached for his booted feet.

“What are you doing?”

“Merely removing your boots,
ya ammi
,” Aza replied in a faint voice. “Is this not correct?”

Matthew chuckled. “Correct or not, you have my permission.”

Aza proceeded, her smile so wide she was sure her veil could not contain it. When she had removed the soft leather boots, she sat back on her heels and placed his foot on her lap. Before he could protest, she expertly began to massage.

Matthew groaned with pleasure, leaned back against his saddle, and closed his eyes. Yes, he thought, why not? For an hour he would indulge himself … and dream of Al Dhiba’s soothing ministrations. He had been alone, and lonely, for far, far too long. He loved Al Dhiba with all his heart and wished to save her from Rashid. But also a woman—a wife and a companion—he could no longer deny, was exactly what he needed and wanted in his life.

The ground sped past beneath her, dark puffs of sand spurting from Al Chah ayah’s hooves like smoke from a magic lantern. As the miles fell away, so, too, did the burden on Cecile’s heart. At last she reined the mare to a walk, listening to the comfortable noise of the animal’s puffing breath, the only sound in the desert around her.

No one had seen her sneak the mare from the camp, she was sure. Even if they had, the risk had been worth taking. The cobwebs had blown from her mind and, if she had not managed to banish quite all the pain, at least she had come to terms with the remainder of it.

This was the desert. Life was not all she had imagined it to be. But when did dreams ever really come true? She had come as close, perhaps, as she was ever going to get. Cecile halted and drew the velvet pouch from her bodice.

She no longer needed a piece of paper to tell her where she belonged. She knew. The only words of her father she needed to remember were already written on her heart.

It was where belonging began, as Jali had once told her … not in a place, but in the heart. And there was only one place her heart would reside in peace, if not in perfect happiness. At least not yet.

He would come to love her. In truth, Cecile believed he did, if only a little. The feeling would grow. She would nurture it, cherish it. It was all she had. All else, the false pride, the dreams of freedom and independence, even the yearning to belong, was as dust, blown away on the clear, crisp wind of reality.

And reality was her love for El Faris. She would be happy nowhere but with him. No matter that he married her simply to protect her from Rashid; it was a beginning. No matter that she would become his possession. She was already possessed.

The night breeze stirred Cecile’s braids. She felt good, strangely calm, not at all as she had expected to feel having made the most important decision of her life. Maybe because she had made it so long ago, very nearly at the beginning of their journey into the desert, and had only hidden it away in her heart until the moment he would come to her and she could call it forth, saying, “Yes, I will marry you. I have loved you from the first.”

And he had come, not as she had dreamed in her secret heart, but he had come. She would go with him. She was blinded by pride and fear no longer.

Al Chah ayah’s ears pricked forward, and she snorted, large, wide-set eyes gazing intently into the distance. Seeing nothing herself, Cecile stroked the mare’s neck and murmured soothing words. She gently pulled the reins to the right and pressed her heels firmly to her mount’s sides. It was time to go home. Her hour was nearly up.

The mare did not obey. With a whinny of fright, she shied to the left. Cecile was almost unseated and clung tightly to the horse’s neck. She did not see the coiled snake, and was unable to gauge the mare’s next, swift reaction.

Terrified, Al Chah ayah reared. Nearly vertical to the ground, her hooves pawed the air as she fought to keep her balance.

Cecile was totally unprepared. There was no time to reach for the flowing mane. She could only drop the reins to avoid injuring the mare’s sensitive mouth. Then she slipped and tumbled backward.

The snake, frightened in turn by the noise, slithered into the night. Chuffing loudly, Al Chah ayah sniffed the air, and when there was no sign of her enemy, trotted back to her fallen rider. The reins dropped to the ground as she lowered her head to nuzzle the girl.

There was no response, but the mare was well trained. Head down, she cocked a rear leg into a position of rest, and settled down to patiently wait.

“D
ON’T JUST SIT THERE, YOU FOOLISH OLD MAN!
Get up and do something!”

Jali glanced at Hagar, whose hands were planted firmly on her hips. “What can I do?” he inquired softly, his resignedly sorrowful mood in direct contrast to Hagar’s. “We don’t know what happened. We don’t even know where Dhiba is.”

“But we know one of El Faris’s servants has slaughtered a she-camel, don’t we?” she demanded.

A look of pain flickered in Jali’s eyes. He nodded.

“Then we must do something, old man!”

Jali finally stood. He crossed to Hagar and gently gripped her shoulders. “There is nothing we can do. At least not until we find Dhiba and learn what happened. Why don’t you make us some tea?”

Hagar looked directly into Jali’s eyes. “We could tell El Faris both Dhiba and Al Chah ayah are missing,” she replied evenly. “He would send riders into the desert to look for them and he perhaps would forget … what … what is on his mind.”

Jali slowly shook his head, and Hagar sagged in his grasp. He was right, she knew. For a woman to take a mare without its owner’s permission was a very great offense. Hagar suspected El Faris would easily forgive Al Dhiba, but if the camp learned of it, he would have no choice but to exact punishment. On the other hand … “But what if she has been hurt, old man? The desert is treacherous, especially at night.”

How well he knew, and the thought filled his heart with dread. Yet he could do nothing for Dhiba at the moment, and he was worried about Hagar. “You must not be afraid for her,” Jali said at length. “There is no finer horsewoman, I assure you. Besides, we do not know for certain that she took the mare to ride. You did not miss her until dawn, when you awakened, did you? She may only have taken Al Chah ayah for an early morning walk.”

There was truth in Jali’s words. Even if nothing had happened to Al Dhiba, however, something had certainly gone wrong with El Faris. What could it possibly be? Hagar wondered. She had been so sure last night that …

Cecile was not sure she could stay astride any longer. Her head ached so badly she could barely see, and nausea assailed her. When she spotted the camp at last, she slid from Al Chah ayah’s back. No one must see her riding.

The last mile was torture. Cecile forced each step, stopping often to lean against the mare’s shoulder. Just before reaching the fringes of camp, she halted to dust herself off and rearrange the folds of her
makruna.
She prayed the bloodstain would be invisible against the dark cloth. Then she stiffened her spine, took a firm grip on the reins, and walked as steadily into camp as she was able.

Many called their greetings but few were curious. It was not uncommon for a woman to walk a restless mare. Teeth gritted, Cecile continued on to Hagar’s tent. She tethered Al Chah ayah, fighting dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her as she knelt, then rose and stumbled through the tent flap.

“Dhiba!”

Cecile glanced briefly at the old woman. She did not notice Jali. She sank to the sleeping quilt and closed her eyes.

Hagar took command. “Out,” she ordered, and pushed Jali toward the tent opening. “I will send for you later.”

With a last backward glance, Jali did as he was told. Hagar hurried to Cecile’s side. “Hush, don’t talk.” Not yet anyway, Hagar added to herself. “Let me see what you have done to yourself.”

Cecile protested in vain. Hagar unwrapped the
makruna
and sucked in her breath when she saw the bloodstain. “What have you done, child? How did this happen? Never mind, don’t talk yet. I must tend to this.”

Remembering the girl’s aversion to
baul,
Hagar poured water into a bowl and found a soft, clean cloth. She felt the back of Cecile’s head, then parted the long, shining hair. Another small gasp escaped her. “Allah is Merciful,” the old woman muttered. “How you returned to camp with this I will never know.” Tenderly, she bathed the wound and rinsed away the embedded sand and grit. When it was clean, blood flowing freely once more, she took another cloth and pressed it over the wound. “Hold this. I will pour you some tea.”

Holding the clean rag to her head, Cecile managed to sit up and drink the tea Hagar brought to her.

“Now.” The old woman folded her arms over her breast. “I think it is time you tell me what happened.”