Call of the Trumpet (31 page)

At some point, neither knew exactly when, he had slipped inside her, as easily and naturally as her head cradled against his breast. There was no passion, just a need to be as one. And so they remained together as night, unnoticed, surrendered to a day they could not see, and the storm raged on around them.

T
HE WIND HAD FALLEN.
T
HE FULL FORCE OF THE
Shamal
had passed, though it still blew strongly. Matthew heard the change in its whining tune. But he was no longer able to feel it pelting against him, for there was now a dune at his back.

How he longed to move, to stretch! He had lost track of the hours spent in their muffled darkness, but it had to be nearly an entire day. His muscles ached, his throat was parched, and his belly groaned with hunger. But he dared not move, even to moisten his dry lips, for fear of waking Al Dhiba. Her misery would be at least as great as his own, and there was nothing he could do for her yet. Not until the air was breathable.

Matthew closed his eyes again, though he knew he would not sleep. He was sated with sleep … and its accompanying dreams. Dreams of Al Dhiba leaving him. He was powerless to prevent her. When he tried to reach for her, his arms would not move. When he tried to call to her, no words came from his lips.

As careful as he had tried to be, she seemed tuned to the slightest twitch of his body. He felt her eyelids flutter, long silky lashes tickling his throat. He held her tighter.

The nightmare dissipated, drawn away by the strength of his powerful arms. He was there, Cecile told herself over and over. She had nothing to fear, not now. He was there, holding her. Their precious time together was not over. She might continue to pretend for awhile that she was his only wife, that he loved her and only her.

“Dhiba?”

Cecile nodded against him, lips pressed to his chest.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded again. The dryness of her throat, the ache in her body, was nothing, nothing as long as she did not have to move from his arms.

“The wind falls. Soon we’ll be able to move.” Mistaking the reason for her body’s sudden tension, Matthew hastened to reassure her. “Don’t be afraid, Dhiba. The worst is over. When the sand settles, I’ll take you back.”

Cecile squeezed her eyes shut so he would not feel her scalding tears against his breast. How she longed to tell him she never wished to return, never wished to be confronted again by the gentle Aza. A crushing wave of guilt rolled over her when she thought of the sweet, innocent girl-woman, whose husband she had deliberately set out to steal. For Cecile could no longer deny it.

She wanted him, all of him, for all time. She wanted to be the only one, had to be. There was no room for sweet, gentle Aza. And it made Cecile feel sick with guilt.

But she would not think of it now, not yet. Instead, she silently prayed to Allah that the
Shamal
would never end.

The wind, however, fell at last. Cecile felt Matthew stir and gripped him more tightly. “Is it … is it over?” she whispered.

“Almost,” he replied, and wondered why he did not feel a greater sense of relief. “At least we can move a little.”

Under Matthew’s direction, they sat upright side by side. Though the wind had died, he explained, the air would still be dangerously full of sand. But he could reach the water skin now, and food. Keeping the tent material over their head, he retrieved the skin and food pouches he had stashed beneath the camel’s flank.

There was enough dim light to see by. Cecile munched a handful of
hamida
and glanced from time to time at the strong, handsome face beside her. Each time she looked at him, a faint shock trembled through her. Would it always be thus? she wondered. Would she yearn each time she looked at him?

The light was fading. “It must be near dusk,” Matthew said reluctantly. “The air should be clearer now. I’d better see if we can … travel yet.”

Cecile did not protest. She didn’t think she would be able to speak. All she could think of was Aza … the look in her eyes when she saw what was between them, when she saw she had lost her husband. For good.

Or had she?

Matthew had felt something for Aza, or he would not have wed her. Would he now put Aza aside, divorce her? Or was she, once again, indulging in foolish hopes?

“Keep this over your head,” Matthew directed, rousing Cecile from her reverie. “Tightly.” He was gone before she could reach for him, slipping silently from their cozy darkness.

The sand-laden air was as thick as pea soup. Squinting, Matthew threw an arm across his nose and mouth and took a tentative step forward. His foot encountered the dune that had built against them during the storm, but he could see almost nothing. Even the camel was an insubstantial shadow in the gloom. Travel was impossible. But they might at least make themselves more comfortable.

Cecile could scarcely contain the joy that flooded her heart. They would not yet return! In the meantime, they would erect his small tent. If only for one more night, she would lie with him again and pretend she was the only one …

“Dhiba? Are you listening to me?” When she nodded slowly, he handed her the
khaffiya
he had fished from the pack. “Put this on. Wrap it tight across your face.”

Cecile did as she was told, then watched as he cut a length from the hem of her
towb
and likewise covered his face. It reminded her of their nakedness, which had seemed so natural she had all but forgotten about it. So had Matthew, apparently, for he put the dress aside. “We’ll have to work quickly,” he said, his voice muffled in the folds of the material. “Are you ready?”

The
Shamal
had died completely, its fury temporarily spent, and the stillness was eerily thick. Combined with the almost total lack of visibility, Cecile had the sensation of moving through a dream world.

Working together despite the impenetrable gloom, the tent was swiftly erected. No sooner had the last pole been set than Matthew gently pushed Cecile inside. But he did not follow, and for an instant she was alone, and frightened, in the darkness.

He reappeared shortly. She could just see his outline as he crouched through the tent flap. When he straightened, his broad, dark shadow blotted out the remaining light. With a smile, Cecile unwound the
khaffiya
and reached for him.

Their bodies met, tingling. Matthew felt her long, tangled hair brush the backs of his hands as she raised her face to his. But he did not bend to her mouth, not yet. Smiling into the anonymous darkness, he released her and stooped to retrieve the bundle he had brought in with him. “Here,” he said, thrusting it between them. “I’ll start a fire if you’ll unfold the sleeping quilt …”

Cecile did not miss the teasing tone of his voice. “I hurry to obey … O lord of my tent.”

Space was at a premium in the small, circular structure. There was barely enough room for the two of them, much less a fire pit, rug, and blanket. When Cecile had completed her task, she sat, hugging her knees and staring into the darkness, listening to the sounds Matthew made as he assembled his small store of fuel. At last a tiny flame flickered to life. The darkness wavered, receded, and a soft glow filled the tent. Matthew’s features and his lean, hunkering frame were illumined.

It was as if she saw him for the very first time, and Cecile drank in the sight of him. The lambent light threw the smooth, hard planes of his face into sharp relief, accentuating the strong, well-chiseled lines. His blue eyes shone, and his black hair glistened in the dancing, shifting shadows. Never, she thought, had Allah created a man so perfect. She hardly dared to let her eyes caress the rest of him for fear of losing what little control remained in her.

Matthew was not unaware of her regard. It pleased him, excited him as he felt her bold, bright stare lick his body. He couldn’t help thinking of Aza, or any of the other women he had known, whose eyes would be downcast, hiding the sensual secrets in their hearts with modest timidity.

But not Al Dhiba. She barely seemed aware of her nakedness. She was innocently unashamed, proudly cloaked in her breathtaking beauty, defying him to respond to the undisguised desire in her eyes.

Matthew hesitated, but only to prolong the knife-edged keenness of his anticipation. Never, he realized, never before had a woman made him feel so intensely male, so aware of his own power and strength. For hers was equally, if differently, as great. It drew him, an irresistible force toward which he must move and unite. Uncurling from his position by the fire, he reached to touch her at last.

Cecile closed her eyes as Matthew’s palm pressed to her cheek. Her heart squeezed at the tenderness of the touch, and a bolt of passion seared downward through her belly. Placing her own small hand over his larger one, she held it there a moment, then guided him to her breast.

He had meant to love her slowly, to savor every inch of her body, to explore and adventure and invent new ways to bring her pleasure. But she had enflamed him, and he could not control his body’s need for her. With a muffled groan, he gathered her into his embrace.

Their need had been equal, their union all the more intense for its brevity. Bathed in sweat, panting for breath, they lay together and listened to the crackle and hiss of the flames.

Soon they would have to eat, Cecile thought, though she never wanted to move from Matthew’s arms. Putting out her tongue, she tasted the salt in the hollow of his throat.

“Is that an invitation?” Raising up on his elbows, Matthew grinned down at her. “So soon?”

She smiled back. “If you mean an invitation to dinner … yes, I’m starving.” Laughing, Cecile pushed at his chest.

“Or what?” he asked, solidly resisting her attempts to dislodge him from a most strategic position. “What will you do if I don’t go away?”

“I’ll roast more than just wheat for dinner!”

Matthew’s chuckle erupted into laughter. Cecile squirmed from beneath him and crawled to the other side of the fire before he could regain his composure.

There was little to eat, and they were low on water, but Cecile took great pleasure in preparing the simple meal. Almost as much as Matthew derived from watching her. He wanted to fill himself with the sight of her, brand the vision of her upon his memory. For morning would come all too soon, and what would happen then, when they returned to camp? Would this strange, wonderful interlude be over? Or would it last? And why, if she desired him as much as her body proclaimed, had she so coldly rejected his proposal of marriage?

Matthew shook his head. He might never know the answer to that. But one thing he did know.

He loved her. He would do anything to keep her at his side, as his true wife, forever.

Cecile had forgotten about the
at-tita
bulbs she had slipped into the pockets of her dress. Hunger now triggered the memory, and she added them to their meager fare. It wasn’t much of a meal, but the best she could do under the circumstances, and the result pleased her.

Matthew barely noticed what passed his lips, caring only for the woman at his side. Hunger sated, he again devoted his full attention to watching her, her skin glowing golden in the firelight. He touched her and saw her breast heave, the great lush mass of her extraordinary hair tangled about her shoulders, looking for all the world like an Olympian goddess prepared to go to battle. She enflamed him.

Cecile gasped as Matthew’s hand fastened on her wrist. He pulled her to him and roughly shoved her back upon the sleeping quilt. His naked desire left no doubt of his intention. Her hands, pinned in his vice-like grip, were forced to the ground above her head and her legs were parted forcefully as he insinuated himself between her thighs. Her body lay stretched and open like some sacrificial animal about to be put to the knife. Biting back a cry, she turned her head from his searching mouth and closed her eyes to the sight of him, prepared for the brutal thrust she knew was about to come.

But it did not. She felt instead his lips upon her throat, then her breast, licking at the taste of her flesh as his tongue traveled downward. Wincing with too-keen pleasure, she felt it swirl in her navel … and continue.