Call of the Trumpet (24 page)

The marriage gifts from her husband were costly and elaborate, even though they had been assembled with great haste. Touched, Aza glanced at all the things surrounding her. There were rugs and blankets, a new sleeping quilt, cooking implements, and two new dresses with matching kerchiefs. El Faris was a thoughtful, caring man. There could be no doubt, especially now that Aza knew the reason for his troubled mind.

Cautiously, she glanced up at her husband. He paced again, striding from one end of the spacious tent to the other, hands tightly clasped behind his back. No wonder, she thought. Time was so short. There were only a few hours left. She would have to broach the subject to him immediately. Gathering her courage, Aza delicately cleared her throat.

Matthew ceased his restless pacing and looked at his bride, concealing his annoyance. “Yes?”

“I … I would speak with you, O lord of my tent,” Aza began softly. “There is a matter, I think, which needs be discussed.”

“Very well, Aza. What is it?”

“Will you not sit by me?” she timidly inquired.

Controlling his impatience, Matthew lowered himself to the carpet in front of his wife. “Go on, Aza. What is it you wish to say?”

Aza took a deep breath. “I … I think I know what troubles you, my husband. Please forgive me,” she added, seeing the scowl form on his brow, “but my heart cannot bear to witness your unhappiness any longer. I must speak.”

It was Matthew’s turn to draw a slow breath. “I doubt you do know, Aza. I don’t know how you could. But, please, speak what’s on your mind.”

Aza lowered her eyes. “There … there is to be a wedding tonight,” she murmured. “Shaikh Rashid takes a wife.”

“I know,” Matthew replied gruffly. “What has this to do with me?”

“I think you know, husband,” Aza’s voice was barely audible. “And it is what troubles you, I think. For you realize this woman does not wish to wed Rashid, and you would help her if you could.”

“What do you mean?” Matthew asked tensely. “What are you talking about?”

Aza held her breath. So, she thought. It was true what Hagar had told her. He did care about the woman’s fate, though he would deny it. She would have to choose her words carefully. “Again, I beg your forgiveness, my husband,” she continued. “But this is understandable, I think. After all, did you not save her from the caliph and bring her all the way to Ath Thumama? I believe it is natural for you to feel great responsibility for this woman. I think it is honorable that you do. So, I want you to know I am willing, should you wish to …”

“To what?” Matthew snapped.

Aza flinched. “I … I only wonder if it would not be an act of kindness, and generosity, to offer to wed this woman before … before it is too late, and she must go to the
hegra
of Shaikh Rashid.”

Something bitter rose in Matthew’s throat. He would have laughed but for fear of having to explain his mirth to Aza. Instead, he touched her hand and said, “You are an extraordinary woman,
halaila.
But I’m afraid you do not know Al Dhiba. I think she would rather die than wed anyone.”

“Oh, no!” Aza claimed, genuinely distressed. “You must not allow that to happen! You must go to her and make her understand. It would not have to be a real marriage, you see, not if she did not wish that. You would only be offering your protection, nothing more, until we are away from Ath Thumama and Shaikh Rashid. Then you would release her, to let her live her life as she chooses.”

Matthew pulled at his chin, fighting to control the war of emotions within him.
Was it possible?
he wondered. Though Haddal would be angry at first, he would eventually come to see reason. And Rashid, well … Matthew chuckled. Shaikh he might be, but also a weak and spineless man. He would not dare to cross El Faris.

Seeing her husband smile, Aza looked hopefully into his sea-blue eyes. “Does this idea please you then, my husband?”

The smile abruptly disappeared. No, he thought, the idea did not please him. What did he owe Al Dhiba anyway? She had rejected him, coldly and arrogantly. If she was forced to marry Rashid, it was exactly what she deserved.

On the other hand, he was still an Englishman beneath his desert robes, and she was not wholly Badawin. He could not, in all conscience, allow this marriage to take place, and she would never be able to bow to the Badawin law that permitted it. She truly would die first. He knew it.

Furthermore, hard as he tried to block it, a vision entered Matthew’s mind. Naked golden limbs, tangled raven hair, parted lips, wide dark eyes shining with fiery light. And Rashid …

Matthew rose and strode across the tent,
dishdasha
swirling about his booted legs. At the far end he stopped and turned, hands on his narrow hips. “Very well. I will go to her.”

“Oh!” Aza quickly ducked her head and clasped her hands, trying to subdue her very great pleasure. “It is a noble thing you do, my husband,” she murmured. “Allah will surely reward you.”

Again Matthew had to fight to restrain his bitter laughter. Reward, indeed. He had probably just cursed himself. But it was undoubtedly what he deserved for being foolish enough even to have considered what he was about to do. Before he might change his mind, he whirled and left the tent.

Aza watched him depart, innocent heart filled with joy. What a fine man her husband was! How blessed their life together would be, full of peace and love! Smiling, Aza folded away her wedding gifts.

“No, no, I cannot … I won’t!”

Hagar’s patience had come to its end. She gripped Cecile’s arms and gave her a careful shake. “Yes, you will. He has come to you, and you will see him. If you will not give him the explanation you owe him …”

“I owe him?”

“Do not interrupt! If you will not tell him what he has a right to know, at least do him the courtesy of honoring his request to speak to you.”

Cecile squeezed her eyes tightly shut. But the action would not, she knew, make the problem disappear. Nor Hagar. She sighed. “All right, Hagar. But don’t leave!”

“I will be right outside,” she responded briskly, and left before Cecile could utter another word.

It was a nightmare. It had to be. No other explanation was possible. Cecile knelt rigidly erect and stared at the man who sat across from her.

Matthew’s spine was equally stiff, his features impassive. “Well?” he inquired bluntly.

Cecile’s mouth felt dry. She licked her lips, but there was no moisture to give them. “I … don’t believe I heard you correctly.”

“You heard me well enough. I said I would still marry you. Maybe it’s simply the reason you misunderstand.”

“Reason?” Cecile repeated acidly. “What ‘reason’ could you possibly have?”

In spite of himself, Matthew smiled. But there was no humor in him. “Do you think I should have to explain? That’s rather odd, don’t you think, coming from someone who says so little herself?”

Cecile winced. But she would tell him nothing. Nothing! If he had loved her at all, he would not have turned around and married Aza so quickly. He would have given her a chance. He wouldn’t have given up after one short hour!

“What does it matter now, the words I might have said to you that night?” she asked finally. “And why do you plague me with another insincere proposal?” Cecile’s voice rose out of control, but she couldn’t seem to help it. “Is one woman not enough for you? Must you have two to satisfy your overblown ego and insane lus—”

The slap took her by surprise, and Cecile’s head reeled. Dizziness assailed her, and she had to put out one hand to steady herself. The other she raised to her flaming cheek.

Matthew’s heart froze. He had never touched a woman in anger before … never! Before he could stop himself, he reached for Cecile and gripped her shoulders. “Are you all right? I’m sorry … I … I don’t know what …”

She recoiled as if stung and wrenched free of his grasp. “Get away … don’t touch me!”

“I don’t intend to!” Matthew bellowed.

Shocked into silence, Cecile stared, jaw agape.

“And if you had been able to curb that razor tongue of yours,” Matthew continued, “you could have saved yourself the trouble of worrying about it. I have no intention of offering you a ‘real’ marriage. I simply offer you my protection.”

“Your … protection?”

“Unless you wish to marry Rashid?”

“No, no, I …”

“Then you will have to take me as a husband instead. Only Haddal could stop you, and he won’t know until it’s too late. Tomorrow we will leave for Oman. You will travel as my wife, in name only, and be under the protection of my tent. When we reach the coast, I will free you.”

Unaccountably, Cecile shivered. “You mean you would … divorce me?”

“It is easily done by Islamic law, don’t worry, and there is no dishonor in it. You will have wealth and possessions, too, don’t forget. I’m sure you’ll be able to make your way very nicely.”

Though the temperature soared well above one hundred degrees, Cecile’s flesh felt as cold as ice. “Your wife doesn’t object?”

“It was my wife’s idea.”

Somewhere deep in Cecile’s soul, a last small spark flickered and died. There was no longer any emotion within her, only cool, hard logic. It drew her to a single, inescapable conclusion.

She wanted away from the savage, dream-shattering desert. Matthew offered the safest, swiftest way out. “Very well,” Cecile said shortly. “I accept your offer.”

“I thought you might. Come to the
hegra
at the first fall of dusk,” Matthew ordered, more gruffly than he had intended. “Be sure you are on time, before Rashid’s servant has a chance to come for you. I will make certain both Rashid and Haddal are informed of this … event … at the appropriate time. And tell no one of this but Hagar.”

“Of course.”

With a terse nod, Matthew rose and left the tent. For a long moment after he had gone, Cecile remained motionless, aware of nothing but the faint, slow beat of her heart. Then she calmly packed her few belongings.

The sun was a flaming ball of orange at the moment it dropped beyond the far horizon. For an instant the rolling dunes were tipped in fire, then they faded in the dim gray light to mere shadows on the sand. The dust of returning flocks rose on the motionless air, hung briefly suspended, and began its slow, downward descent. The hour of dusk had fallen.

Only a curious few noted their passing. The
hegra
had been so hastily erected, no one realized a wedding was about to take place. So they moved on, Cecile and Hagar, silent and alone through the hot, soft twilight.

The two paused at the entrance to the small gray tent. Wordlessly, the old woman took Cecile’s hand and squeezed it. Cecile returned the pressure, if not the accompanying emotion. She was numb, her heart still and dead within her breast. Then she turned away and ducked inside the tent.

A single carpet covered the sandy floor. A wide sleeping quilt had been laid in its center, flanked by two flickering candles. Cecile sank to the ground, her back turned to the bed, and hugged her knees. Waiting.