Call of the Trumpet (36 page)

Cecile hesitated, hand in midair. It was the dress she had worn in the desert.

Her mind closed quickly, sealing off the memory. “Thank you, Hagar. I’ll be back in a little while.”

“Where are you going?” Hagar demanded, but Cecile left without replying.

The stream was not deep, but it was cool. Cecile stretched out, full length, gasping as the water rushed over her body. Her arms and legs tingled. Her heart beat faster, and the blood pumped strongly through her veins. She felt as if she had awakened from a long, deep sleep. The life force within her stirred, and along with it, a rising turmoil of emotion.

Cecile leaned back and listened for a moment to the rushing of the water and the wind sighing softly through the twisted, spreading trees. When the thudding in her veins had quieted, she ducked her head into the stream, rinsed her hair, and finished her bath. Then she crawled to the bank and dressed.

Matthew strode as quickly as he dared through the deepening shadows of the tamarisks. Knowing how easily Dhiba startled, he did not want to frighten her. Yet he was impatient to find her.

“Give her a little while,” Hagar had said. “She has gone to bathe.” So he had waited as long as he was able, wondering if the old woman was indeed correct. “There was a light in her eyes. I think her spirit may be returning. Go now, go to her, Faris.”

He came upon her suddenly and halted, afraid she would jump and run. But she didn’t move, and Matthew realized she had fallen asleep, back against a great, gnarled trunk. Her veil and
makruna
were clutched in her hand, and the moonlight sparkled on her shining blue-black hair. He knelt beside her. “Dhiba?”

The dream was the same. It was always the same. They were in the desert, alone, and she was happy. He called her name and she smiled.

“Dhiba? Don’t be afraid, Dhiba, it’s me.”

Cecile awoke, but the dream lingered. “Matthew?”

“Yes.” He took her hand. “Are you all right?”

It was not a dream. She was awake, and he had come to her. She rose up to him.

He saw the change in her, the light in her eyes. Scarcely daring to hope, he reached for her. He tenderly cupped her face in his hands, thumbs lightly tracing the ridges of her cheekbones. She remained very still. His fingers slid down her neck.

“I need you, Dhiba,” Matthew groaned. “I love you. I’ve missed you so much.”

Cecile trembled as his palms brushed her breasts, and Matthew smiled. Hagar had been right. The sickness had receded; life and warmth were returning. With deliberate ease, he slid his hands down her hips and moved closer.

The lethargy that had paralyzed Cecile for so many days was gone. She felt alive again, more alive than she had ever been.

Matthew wanted her. A vision of Aza flashed briefly in her mind, but Cecile banished it. Though she still might share his life, Aza would not share their tent. They would be alone together. She pressed her hands to his chest, then found the opening in his robe and let her fingers caress his flesh.

Matthew bent his head. “Will you come? Are you well enough?” he murmured. “Will you return to my tent?”

Cecile nodded and flicked her tongue against the hollow in his throat. “Yes, I will come,” she whispered.

He held her gently, acutely aware of how fragile she had become. He felt her ribs as his hand moved from her waist, and he was surprised, therefore, at the strength with which she clung to him. Abandoning restraint, he let the passion engulf him and buried his face in her hair.

“Dhiba,” he groaned, and Cecile smiled as her body arched to meet him.

C
ECILE ROUSED SLOWLY, REVELING IN THE SOUNDS
that greeted her ears: the wistful call of a dove; the rasping sigh of the palms; the rushing, rhythmic surge of waves against the shore.

It was not quite dawn. Only the faintest hint of pinkish light stole in through the tent flap. Cecile carefully edged from beneath Matthew’s outflung arm and dressed. She gazed at the slumbering form as she expertly wrapped the
makruna,
and her heart welled with love.

Where, she wondered, had all the other emotions gone? Where was her pride? What had happened to the vow she had made never to share him, never to consent to being second wife only? Well, that vow had been broken long ago, she reminded herself. She had broken it the day she had lured Matthew into the desert. She hadn’t cared then; she didn’t care now. It was she Matthew wanted, not Aza. It was she who shared his blanket, who moved with him in the night and knew the intimacies of his body.

Cecile drew a long, shuddering breath. Matthew wanted her; he loved her. Perhaps one day he would realize the torment Aza’s presence caused her and divorce her. Guilt assailed her, but Cecile pushed it aside. She must continue to fight for him, as she had done the day she had lured him into the desert. She had her strength back now, her will, and she would fight for him until she had won. Until either Aza … or she herself … had gone.

For the possibility of departure still loomed, no matter how remote it might appear. Because there would only be one, just one woman for El Faris. She simply could not live any other way. But she was confident. And she was strong.

The sky was still dark, though the east was tinged with light. Cecile moved to the edge of the bluff, wrapped an arm about the weathered trunk of a towering palm, and looked out at the sea.

It was lightening; she was almost able to see its blue-green color, so different from the deep, deep blue of the Atlantic. Below, wavelets lapped at the sand, the tide ebbing along with the night. Cecile pushed away from the palm and followed the cliffside until she came to a narrow canyon. Holding tightly to ferns that sprouted luxuriantly from the rocks, she descended.

Somewhere above, a spring gurgled from the ground. Its waters rushed in a delicate fall from the top of the bluff into a series of pools along the canyon floor. At low tide, when the sea receded, they filled with fresh, clear water. Cecile knelt, cupped her hands, and filled them. She laughed as she splashed her face.

“I thought I might find you here …
bathing
again,” Hagar snorted.

Cecile’s laughter blossomed anew. With a dismissing grunt, the old woman knelt and filled her skin. But she watched Cecile from the corner of her eye.

“And what are you doing, old woman? Isn’t it a bit early for you to be up?”

“I have to rise early,” Hagar retorted. “Now that I have no one, however worthless, to help me with my chores.”

Cecile smiled at the good-natured barb. “But isn’t this what you always wanted?” she teased. “For me to return to my husband’s tent?”

Hagar looked up but did not reply. Yes, she thought. It’s what she had wanted. And she had thought her worries would be over when it finally happened. But something was not quite right. She sensed it, though she could not put her finger on what it was.

“What’s wrong, Hagar? Why do you look at me so strangely?”

The old woman turned away. “I was just thinking,” she hedged.

“About what?”

“Questions! You are always so full of questions!” Hagar barked. “If you must know, I was thinking about tomorrow night. There is much to do before then, you know.”

Cecile felt the ebullient mood slip away. She had forgotten, or perhaps had simply put it from her mind. She had become quite good at that lately. Now, however, she had to think about the future. She could put it off no longer. “Oh, Hagar!” she cried, tears in her eyes. “I don’t want you to go. Please … please don’t leave!”

The old woman blinked back her own tears, touched by Cecile’s outburst. “Do not fret, silly girl,” she chided in an unsteady voice. “These old bones of mine may object to another winter in the desert. Maybe, this year, the others will have to return without me.”

“Hagar! Oh, Hagar, would you?”

“Hush, foolish child,” Hagar said with a wave of her hand. “I have decided nothing. We will see.” She turned away before Cecile could importune her again, and headed up the canyon. Then she chuckled. No, she would not be leaving. But she wanted to keep her surprise a little longer. She was not young anymore, and had few pleasures left to relish. She would relish this one to the very last moment.

Matthew woke, stretched, realized his arms were empty, and sat up. Where the devil was she? He jumped to his feet and straightened his robe.

The sun had risen and the camp slowly stirred to life. Matthew strode past the tents, nodding to those who greeted him. He did not pause. He knew where she had gone.

She stood on a large sea-washed rock at the mouth of the canyon, gazing out over the water. Waves slapped at her feet, splashing upward to dampen the hem of her robe, but she did not seem to notice. Her back was straight, her shoulders square, her chin upwardly tilted. Like the very first time he had seen her, with the golden collar encircling her slender neck. The blood of the Badawin must run in her veins, he had thought then, and he had been right. The fierce, hot blood of the desert. He knew because it had burned him, seared him to the very core.

“Good morning.”

Cecile whirled, balancing gracefully atop the slippery rock. A smile lit her eyes. “Good morning. I didn’t hear you come.”

“You were absorbed in your thoughts.”

“In the beauty of this place. It’s the loveliest spot I’ve ever seen.”

“There’s more.”

“I know. And I wish I might see it all, every square inch.”

Matthew returned her smile, then grinned. “You appear in exceptionally good spirits this morning. Are you restless, perhaps?”

Cecile flushed. How well he always sensed her moods, guessed her thoughts. She shrugged. “A little, I guess.”

“Then I think we should do something about it. Don’t you?” Today, he decided, was the perfect day to take her for the ride he had planned. “Would you like to try out another of your mares?”

“I think,” she replied softly, “that is a very good idea.”

Although she had dressed as a man, her hair tucked beneath the
khaffiya,
its end draped across the lower half of her face, everyone in camp knew it was she who rode upon the prancing mare. Cecile wondered if they watched disapprovingly. But when she dared glance at the upturned faces, she saw something else—awe, perhaps.