Free Abigail by Jill Smith Page B

as Abigail twisted yarn through the distaff from the wool of Nabal’s many flocks. The new, multicolored robe they were weaving was one he had commissioned through Zahara the night before he’d left them. The intricate design rivaled a garment fit for a king, which fit Nabal perfectly, since he acted like one.
    “You said he was checking the sheep and paying a visit to the king in Gibeah. Such a journey can take time.” It still irritated Abigail that Zahara had been the one to convey this information, something Nabal should have told her directly.
    “His visits are usually shorter.” Zahara threaded red yarns through the weaver’s loom, her back to Abigail.
    As the sun warmed this section of Nabal’s spacious roof, silence fell between them, provoking Abigail’s long-held curiosity. She cleared her throat. “How did you come to be in this house, Zahara? You are not of our people, so how did Master Nabal come to make you his servant?” The questions had burned in her heart since that first day in Nabal’s house when she’d sensed this girl held her husband’s interest in a way she could never seem to do.
    Zahara focused her attention on the loom as though she didn’t want to answer, but at last she straightened and looked up. “I was captured as a spoil of war. Nabal’s father bought me.” She met Abigail’s gaze, then quickly lowered her head back to the loom, but not before Abigail caught the bold gleam in her eye.
    “I see.” Part of her felt compassion that the girl had obviously lost her family, but she chafed against Nabal’s obvious favor toward her. He even went so far as to make Abigail, mistress of the house, feel like she was somehow beholden to the girl. “What happened to your family?”
    “I don’t know. My home is here now.”
    Abigail studied Zahara, catching the defiant tilt of her chin before Zahara respectfully lowered her head. “Tell me, Zahara, how is it you have been with my husband all these years, and yet you have not given him a son?”
    The girl looked up at that, surprise etching her features. It was a risky question. Abigail didn’t know for sure that Nabal had been with Zahara. But a part of her told her he had.
    “I could ask you the same question, my lady.” Zahara made no attempt to hide her disdain in the lifted brow and scorn twisting her normally pleasant mouth. A strand of her raven hair slipped from beneath the linen head scarf. The jewels Nabal had given her enhanced her dark, exotic beauty. She was dressed in robes nearly as rich as Abigail’s, and her manner when Nabal was not around bordered on arrogance.
    “We’re talking about you. What is your precise relationship with my husband?”
    Zahara reached for another colored thread, her movements exact, not missing a beat, while Abigail’s thread knotted, forcing her to stop to tug it loose. “There are ways to avoid giving a man a son,” Zahara said, sidestepping the answer Abigail desired. Her voice was a mere whisper.
    Abigail’s hands stilled, the distaff slowing. “What do you mean?” Had the girl done something . . . Impossible! And yet . . .
    Zahara continued to weave the thread as though nothing they had said held any importance. She met Abigail’s gaze. “My people are schooled in many arts, some of them more practical than others. Women can learn to manipulate men, and there are ways to remove things that are unwanted through certain herbs . . . if the woman would prefer barrenness to the burden of bearing the child of a man who does not deserve an heir.”
    Abigail’s heart skipped a beat as she looked at her maidservant in disbelief. “You would kill an unborn child to keep Nabal from having a son?” For all of Nabal’s cruelty, only Yahweh had the power of life and death.
    Zahara lifted one shoulder in a shrug, her defiant gaze never leaving Abigail’s. “So you have been with him, but you have destroyed his seed?”
    “You are putting words in my mouth.”
    “Then speak plainly