The Sheikh and the Servant (4 page)

The men sitting within earshot laughed, though not rudely. They knew their master and his odd ways well. Karam spoke up next. “Does he speak our language, my lord? Does he know anything of our ways?”

“He can obviously dance,” Rami added, which drew some of the other men’s attention.

The sheikh’s only response was a raised shoulder as he went back to eating, and Karam stopped short of rolling his eyes. The sheikh went back to his quiet conversation with Karam and Numair, feeling it was no harm to Noori for him to dance, should he wish it. He watched from the corner of his eye, for it was the first he’d seen the servant do so. The women were enjoying it, laughing merrily and joining him. When the song finally ended after long minutes, one of the women pointed Noori toward the sheikh. He knew not if words were exchanged. He thought it might be a good idea to see if Noori spoke the desert language. Many of his guards spoke the trade language, and it had not been an issue before now.

Noori wound his way through the revelers to bow before the sheikh before kneeling at his customary place at his master’s feet. The sheikh took up one of the several glasses clustered in front of him and offered it to him, not breaking from his conversation with Numair. He could easily see Noori was flushed and over-warm.

Noori took the offered drink, sipping the heady wine slowly. He peeked out from under his lashes at the men who surrounded his master.

Karam glanced down at Noori, his curiosity obviously getting the better of him. “Do you speak the desert language?” he asked.

Noori blinked, apparently surprised. He nodded, answering in turn, “Yes, Master. I have been trained in the language of your people.”

Now Karam was surprised, but he nodded, pleased. “Your accent is not terrible. I am Karam, our lord’s scribe and bookkeeper,” he answered. “Welcome to Meda’in Saleh.” The sheikh glanced over, taking note of the conversation, but he did not interrupt.

Noori bowed his head. “Thank you for your kind welcome, Master. I am Noori. I belong to the master,” he said with a light blush.

Karam blinked and glanced to the sheikh, who only raised an eyebrow and waited for some comment. He was also interested in seeing what else Noori had to say. Karam shook his head. “I also oversee our lord’s household. Tell me of your skills.”

Noori’s skin darkened with that blush. “I dance, Master. I am schooled in politics, religion, and business. I am a trained dignitary, I suppose one could say, Master. I have been trained in the art of pleas—”

“Enough,” the sheikh said gruffly, cutting off Noori’s words so that Karam frowned, not catching the end of the sentence. But Karam nodded, leaving off his questioning, though he peered at Noori a bit longer. The other warriors exchanged questioning looks, but their leader was not any more forthcoming as he went back to his dinner.

Noori’s face heated at having shamed his master in front of his councilors. “With your leave, Master, I will return to your quarters.”

The sheikh turned his head to reply, but his attention was caught by some commotion at the tent flap. An older woman entered, and the sheikh straightened upon seeing her. The chatter and laughter quieted as most eyes turned to the tent flap.

Two small figures ducked under the tent flap—a little girl, perhaps seven, holding the hand of a boy some years younger. They paused before walking around the low table to stop formally to one side of the sheikh. Everyone watched as they bowed. The sheikh nodded soberly to the children, then his face split with a genuine smile, and he held out his arms. “Come,” he invited. The children squealed with laughter and swarmed over to him, clambering onto his lap as, all of a sudden, the music and talking started back up.

 
“Noori,” the sheikh turned with both children in his lap. “Greet my children,” he invited, smile still clearly evident, though he felt consternation that Noori still knelt so silently.

Noori bowed low before the children, and the girl giggled while the little boy chewed on his finger. “Go make Noori feel welcome. He is shy,” the sheikh murmured to his children, and then they both kissed him, one on each cheek, and climbed down to move over and swarm into Noori’s lap. Noori was nearly bowled over by the force of the two small children, and a smile crossed his face as he glanced up to catch sight of two dark-haired imps.

The children settled on him, making themselves comfortable, as the sheikh watched indulgently. The girl took up one of Noori’s hands, stroking the pale skin, while the boy leaned against him as if to nap. “You’re so pale!” the girl piped.

“And you are so lovely and dark, Mistress,” Noori dared answer.

The little girl giggled. “My name is Sawsan, not Mistress.” she said. “He is Massarah,” she added, pointing to the boy. “He is my little brother. I am to look after him.”

“’Tis a worthy task for such a bright girl,” Noori answered, ruffling her hair as he settled Massarah more firmly on his lap. “I am certain you will not fail in your mission.”

“Girl!” Massarah piped up. “You are white like a girl!”

Listening in, the sheikh snorted, crossing his arms.

“I am just unfinished,” Noori pointed out. “Like when we bake bread over the fire. If you do not leave it over the heat long enough, it remains white. Mayhap my parents removed me from the flames too soon.”

As the children ooohed and ahhed, both poking at Noori’s skin, the sheikh raised an eyebrow, noticing the clever response. By this time, Karam was listening as well. “Is he to be your manservant, my lord?” the scribe asked delicately. “He is addressing you, indeed everyone, as if he were a slave.”

The sheikh’s smile faded some as he regarded Noori. Sawsan was now pulling lightly on his curls. “Qutaibah kept him as a slave,” he said, disdain in his voice. “He was wasted there. He will tend my residence and assist you with the scribing. Assign him a tent somewhere nearby,” he said gruffly, turning back to his dinner.

Shrugging, Karam just murmured, “It shall be done, my lord.”

The sheikh paused. “And tell him of his place here,” he added.

Karam frowned a little, but nodded.

Though the sheikh was mostly paying attention to his dinner, he was still watching Noori and his children. He saw Noori pick up Massarah and take Sawsan by the hand after the two demanded his entertainment. “Would the two of you like to dance?”

“I can dance already, see?” Sawsan spun in a circle and held out her arms. Massarah shook his head and made for his father, pulling on his robe to get his attention. Without stopping his conversation, the sheikh lifted Massarah into his lap, though he glanced toward Noori and his daughter. Noori was twirling Sawsan around carpeted floor, laughing along with her childish delight. A smile pulled at the corners of the sheikh’s mouth.

As the young girl started to wilt with fatigue, Noori made a show of scooping her into his arms and dancing her across the floor to her father’s side. He knelt at the sheikh’s side, cradling Sawsan in his arms as she drifted off to sleep. The sheikh gestured for one of the women nearby. She came over and took his daughter from Noori; another woman followed to take Massarah. The leader kissed both children on the forehead before he allowed the women to depart.

His attention was drawn back to Noori, who knelt at his feet. “Is there aught you require of me, Master?”

In conjunction with Noori’s question and the children’s departure, the music got louder and sexier, and the women started shedding clothing, revealing beaded dancewear, gaining howls and applause of appreciation. The sheikh stood, waving his warriors back to their seats, choosing to depart before the party really got going. Snagging a carafe, he made his way out of the tent. They would all enjoy themselves, with or without their presence.

Pausing before turning a corner, the sheikh remembered that he had forgotten to give Noori any orders. Too much wine, he mused. With a sigh, he moved back the way he came, stopping when he saw Noori heading in the wrong direction. “Noori,” he called.

Noori stopped in his tracks, turning to see the sheikh’s tall silhouette looming in front of him. “I thought I had lost you, Master,” he spoke, his voice oddly loud in the silence outside the tents.

The sheikh tilted his head. He studied Noori for a long moment, wondering if he ought to send the servant back to Karam to seek another tent. The sheikh actually was not sure if there was another tent to be had, so he just turned and started walking back to his own. Noori would stay with him one night; it would be no hardship. There was plenty of room in his pavilion.

“Have I displeased you in any way, Master?” Noori asked once they were inside the tent.

Frowning, the sheikh pulled off his vest and turban, tossing them aside. “No,” he said quietly, moving over to a carafe of water. Too much wine. He felt over-warm.

Noori removed his over-robe before kneeling on the floor. He waited patiently for any commands or requests the master might make. With a sigh, the sheikh blinked blearily at the tent wall before swinging his gaze back to Noori. The man did not displease him; he frustrated him—in several ways. Collapsing gracelessly into the pillows, still dressed, the sheikh considered him, trying to decide if he should explain the change of Noori’s lot in life since he did not seem to understand.

“Does master wish me to leave?” Noori asked, preparing to rise and leave the tent.

 
Taken aback, the sheikh blinked several times. He reviewed many of the one-sided discussions he’d had with himself the past few weeks. Finally he answered, “No.”

Noori moved closer to the pillows. “I must confess I do not understand my purpose here, Master. Before, my duties were clear. I know not whether to attempt pleasuring you or whether you wish me to leave your sight.”

“I have not decided your duties,” the sheikh said shortly, falling silent for a long moment before adding, “I do not believe in forcing someone to warm my bed,” he said gruffly. “It is… counterproductive.”

Noori peered at him. “’Twould seem odd to me to be taken to bed out of true desire on both parts,” he admitted.

 
Squinting, the sheikh frowned. “You are not a body slave here. At most, a servant until you have repaid the tribe for your purchase price,” he said, broaching the topic he had planned to pass on to Karam.

A wry laugh escaped Noori. “You speak as if I shall be free someday.”

The sheikh just tilted his head, brow wrinkling. Was that so difficult to understand?

Noori rambled on. “I beg you, Master, please do not lift my hopes only to dash them against the rocks.”

Remaining silent, the sheikh lifted an eyebrow, as if inviting any other comments.

Noori’s arguments lost momentum with a whispered, “’Tis not fair,” as he lowered his head once more.

The sheikh sat up from the pillows. “Life is not fair. Life is what you make of it.” He started unbuckling one of his boots. There was something else he meant to say, but the words kept escaping him. That damn wine.

Noori batted the sheikh’s hands away, brooding as he unfastened the boots and pulled them off, along with the stockings. His hands moved unerringly to the side-ties of the robes the sheikh wore, and he handily stripped him until the sheikh felt warm hands upon his skin.

Having watched, the sheikh laid back and yawned as he was efficiently stripped down. He noted drowsily that he could get used to such treatment. With a sigh, he chastised himself. It would do no good to think such thoughts when Noori would soon have his own life and responsibilities. Tiredly, he rolled over on the pallet, curling on his side facing Noori, as he always slept. “Tonight you sleep here. If you wish it, tell Karam tomorrow you want your own tent,” he rasped.

Noori settled himself among the pillows as well, becoming a pillow himself as the sheikh laid his head on his shoulder and pulled him close, just as he had every night for nearly two fortnights. This, too, he had grown too fond of, and it better off to have it stop.

Chapter 4

It
was a soft laugh that finally made him rouse from deep sleep, and his awareness slowly filtered back. The sheikh could hear the sounds of the village, muffled by the tent’s cloth walls, the laughter of children, the songs of working women. Another soft laugh made him frown, and he shifted, realizing his pillow was hard and warm. His eyes blinked open to see three of his seamstresses pulling his travel clothes out for cleaning, and they whispered and laughed, chancing glances toward his bed.

It was certainly a surprise to see him abed this late, although after the party last night, it was not a shock. No, they were more amused by the sheikh’s bed being occupied by more than just himself. Shifting slightly from where he laid against Noori, he looked down to study the sleeping face. It was soft and unlined, pale and flushed slightly pink. The sheikh thought it perhaps… beautiful.

Looking up at another giggle, the sheikh waved his hand in dismissal, half-smiling in resignation. Word would be all over the village within the hour. He sighed, settling back down once they were alone, propping his head on his hand, thinking about the consequences he had deliberately ignored to this point.