Call of the Trumpet (41 page)

Cecile didn’t even flinch. “Very well,” she replied evenly.

Matthew frowned. He had expected an entirely different reaction, and had prepared for it. At least she hadn’t responded with that fiery temper of hers. Angered, she might very well decide to board the ship, which, as Jali had informed him barely an hour ago, had lately come to Muscat’s rocky harbor.

The knowledge lay like lead in the pit of Matthew’s stomach. Was she truly his? Had she forgotten and forsaken the vow she made to leave on the first ship? He must trust that she had.

“There is something I must tell you,” Matthew said abruptly, without expression. “Something I think you should know. There is … there’s a ship. In Muscat. In one week it sails for France.”

The silence was electric. Cecile sat ramrod straight, her eyes fixed to the wall in front of her. Was that all? she wondered. Simply … “there’s a ship” … Was that all?

But of course. What more should there be? It was crystal clear what had happened. Aza had presented him with her request. He realized how much he had missed her, how much he wanted her now that his passion for another woman was spent. Time to return to sweet, gentle, compliant Aza. That was why there would be no more rides. Horse thieves, indeed! That was why he had told her of the ship. He wished her to leave now. Of course.

Matthew pulled at his chin, alarmed by the protracted silence. What was she thinking? Why didn’t she speak? His fingers drummed on the tabletop.

The sound went through her like fire, searing her nerves. Was he so anxious, so impatient for her to be gone? Well, if that was his wish, she would not disappoint him.

Matthew gaped as Cecile rose, a swirling cloud of silver and blue. She did not even pause to speak, but fled the room as if pursued.

“Dhiba!” he called, to no avail. She was gone.

Cecile did not stop at her room. She never wanted to see it again. Clutching the hem of her gown so she would not trip, she raced down the corridor, through an arched doorway, and into the maze of gardens.

The night was sultry and still, the air heavy with perfume. Starlight glittered on the surface of a pool, and the lush, green foliage surrounding it was bathed in intermittent silvery moon glow. The beauty and peace of the place soon drained away Cecile’s rash anger, and more rational thought took its place.

Had she, she wondered, once more jumped … erroneously … to a conclusion? She had done so before, to her sorrow. Had she done so again?

Matthew had not even mentioned Aza. And he was an honorable man. He would have told her had that been the case.

Just as he had told her a ship had come to Muscat. He had been honor bound to do so, for she had once told him it was her greatest wish to return to France.

And he had warned her about horse thieves because …

Cecile froze. Her flight from Matthew had carried her through the garden and on to the stable. Now she stood in front of the wide, double doors. The left one was ajar.

She heard nothing and saw no one. She had no time to cry out as a hand snaked from the darkness, clamped over her mouth, and dragged her backward into the shadows.

R
EACTION WAS INSTINCTIVE
; C
ECILE’S FINGERS
tore at the large, callused hand that covered her mouth. Her body twisted. When she felt herself being lifted from the ground, she kicked and heard a gratifying “Oomph!” from her captor. But his grip did not loosen.

“Hold her, Zaal!” a voice growled. “Cut her throat … don’t let her give a warning!”

Panic lent her strength. Redoubling her efforts, Cecile flailed her arms and kicked with all her might.

“Bitch!” Zaal snarled, and with his free arm tried to restrain her. Cecile struggled harder.

Horse thieves … Matthew had been telling the truth. As fresh waves of terror coursed through her body, Cecile tried one last, desperate maneuver.

“Aiyee!”

Cecile bit harder into the fleshy base of Zaal’s thumb until she tasted his coppery blood. The hand that had pinned her arms now pushed her away as Zaal endeavored to extract his thumb from her teeth. It was her chance. Her only chance. Zaal’s accomplice, realizing what had happened, came at her. His
khusa
glinted in the fragmented moonlight.

He caught only the trailing hem of her gown. Cecile heard it rip away, and then she was running for her life into the night. “Matthew!” she screamed. “Matthew!”

The sound of her cry tore through him, a searing bolt of lightning that hurled him from his bed and to his feet. Naked, he stopped only to pull on trousers and an instant later bolted out the door, dagger in one hand, sword in the other. He did not stop to think. He knew. The ruthless men who stalked his horses had come upon her. She wouldn’t have a chance.

Cecile saw them from the corner of her eye. There were six of them, in addition to the two who had grabbed her in the stable, and they were in hard pursuit. In moments they would have her. She swerved to the left.

“Cut her off! Get her … quickly!”

Cecile ran swiftly, but the clinging gown tangled her legs, and the men who pursued were tough and desert-hardened. She felt fingers plucking at her trailing skirt. She lunged forward with a desperate burst of speed and felt another piece of material tear away. Then her foot connected with something hard and unyielding, and she sprawled. The breath was knocked from her lungs, but she managed to roll. The upraised dagger came down where her neck had been a fraction of a second before. She fought to regain her feet.

But there were too many of them, and they were upon her. Someone grabbed her feet. Another arm was lifted. It never came down.

The man cried out only an instant before his head was severed from his body. Matthew took another great swing, and a second body slammed into the ground. Then the other six were almost on top of him.

“Run, Dhiba … run!”

Cecile did not move. There was time for only one brief, knowing look between them. Then he tossed her his dagger and whirled.

The six surrounded him, blocking him from Cecile’s sight. She heard the clash of steel and something within her swelled and burst. With a cry she sprang forward.

Afterward she would never remember exactly what had happened. The memory would forever remain a blur, a collage of images … her knife slicing downward, a scream of pain. Someone wheeled away from her. Another body in motion, coming at her. And Matthew, his naked chest glistening with sweat as he raised his right arm again and again, slashing and carving with his bloodied sword, spinning and dodging, dealing death to one, then another.

Of the two who had approached Cecile, only one remained alive. Three men in all were left. But all three were intent upon Matthew now. And he was tiring rapidly.

Cecile threw herself forward, clinging to the back of the man who had turned away from her. He was unable to raise his blade arm. She plunged her dagger into his neck, and he fell.

Only two now faced Matthew, but it was enough. Horrified, she watched as the one called Zaal charged in … “Matthew!”

Cecile leapt forward, heedless of all save the bleeding, inert form before her. She did not hear the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, did not see the two remaining men turn and attempt, unsuccessfully, to flee. She was aware of just Matthew, and dropped to her knees at his side.

“Matthew … Dear God … Matthew!”

He lay sprawled on his side. He did not stir. Without hesitation Cecile tore away the remaining hem of her tattered gown and tried to staunch the crimson tide. She did not look up as half a dozen men surrounded her. Only when Ahmed had knelt to scoop his master into his arms did she finally stir to life.

“Take him to his room,” she ordered. “And someone fetch Hagar … Hurry!”

Aza raced along the corridor, her pulse thudding. Horse thieves, one of the servants had said. Al Dhiba had stumbled upon them as they had attempted to steal into the stable. Matthew had gone to her rescue, and there had been a fight. Someone had been injured. El Faris, they said, but she did not believe it. Could not. Sobbing, she burst into his room. “My husband!”

Cecile turned. Hagar remained bent over the form on the bed. Aza’s hands flew to her mouth as her eyes took in the sodden, tattered blue gown, now stained red. Her stomach spasmed, and the room began to spin.

Cecile watched her sway. “My husband,” Aza had cried. “Go to him!” she snapped. “Go to him, then …
Go
to your husband!”

But Aza seemed paralyzed. The color drained from her cheeks, and her hands remained pressed to the veil over her mouth. She was completely powerless to move or to act.

“Dhiba!”

Hagar’s voice penetrated, cutting through the seething mass of emotion in Cecile’s breast. “Help me, Dhiba,” the old woman commanded. “Quickly. Press your hand here.”

Cecile jerked around, Aza forgotten, and placed her hand where Hagar indicated, over the deepest portion of the wound. Within seconds the clean white cloth she held was soaked with Matthew’s blood.

“Keep the pressure steady,” Hagar directed. “And try to hold him still if he moves.”

Cecile nodded, teeth clenched, and watched as the old woman poured an amber fluid over the bloodied shoulder. Then she threaded a fine bone needle, pulled the edges of the wound together, and stitched.

Time stretched. Minutes became hours. Hagar continued doggedly, pulling the flesh together and binding it, her fingers flying. In a race against time, Cecile knew. For Matthew still bled, his life ebbing away into a spreading stain upon the silken sheets. Finally, she was forced to move her hand.

Hagar did not pause. Even as a fresh fount of crimson gushed from the wound, she deftly plied her needle. Soon her hands were slippery with blood, and she could barely see what she was doing. Working at last by touch alone, she finished stitching the ugly, gaping slash and swiftly bandaged it.

Cecile let out a long, shuddering sigh as the old woman straightened. “It is not over yet,” Hagar said wearily. “He has lost a great deal of blood. It is out of my hands now and in the hands of God … May Allah be Merciful.”

With a small cry Aza sank to her knees, clasped her hands, and began to pray. Cecile didn’t flinch. “I’ll stay with him, Hagar.”

“You will first let me see to your own wounds,” the old woman replied.

Startled, Cecile followed Hagar’s gaze and noticed, for the first time, the runners of red streaming down her arm from just above the elbow. Feeling something else warm and sticky, she lifted her hand to her neck and encountered a long, though shallow, gash. Aware now, too, of the stinging in her knees, she lifted the tattered hem of her gown and saw the damage done when she had tripped and fallen. Blood still oozed from where both knees had opened, and her shins and the top of her feet were awash in red.

“You must let me clean those, Dhiba. Aza will stay and …”

“No!” Cecile’s reaction was feral. She backed against the edge of the bed, arms protectively outstretched. “No, they’re nothing, only scratches. I will stay with him.”

Hagar heard the fierceness in her tone, saw the defiance in her stance, and smiled behind her veil. El Faris would live, she thought. Al Dhiba would not allow him to die. “Very well,” she said at last. “I will rest in your room. Watch him carefully and call me at once if he stirs.”