Free The Bride Price by Karen Jones Delk

retreat. “My name is Bryna O’Toole. My father is Blaine O’Toole—”
    Nejm slashed the air in front of her face viciously with his sword to silence her. Then, placing the point under her chin, he pricked her skin lightly and cursed, “Wallahi, deceiver, you most worthless of women, I do not care if your father is the Aga Kizlar to the kadin of the sultan himself. I tell you, you are my slave and you will obey me.”
    Her chest heaving with fury, Bryna forced herself to stand still as a drop of blood trickled down her neck and spread in a tiny stain on the collar of her dress.
    “Dispute me and I will cut out your tongue,” the Arab threatened ominously. “Many men prefer silence in their women.
    “That is better.” He lowered the sword and stepped back “Come, you may be spared a trip to the souk. A buyer has come.” He beckoned Pamela and Theresa, who had watched the scene, horrified, from across the room. They came at once, weaving their way resignedly past the stunned and silent Arab women.
    “Now follow me,” Nejm ordered. “Keep your heads bowed and show much respect, for this man is a marriage broker of Baghdad. He is a great man, a hajji who has made pilgrimages to both Mecca and Medina, those most holy of cities.”
    “Do not argue,” Theresa murmured in warning behind Bryna. “I do not believe he would cut out your tongue, but I have heard the bastinado is painful indeed, a form of torture. They beat the soles of the feet with a rod, sometimes crippling the victim. You do not wish to be punished in such a manner.”
    Swallowing defiant words, Bryna led the other women down the narrow corridor behind the slave trader. The rebellion quelled, Nejm strutted importantly at the head of the procession, resembling nothing so much as a bantam rooster, trailed by three disheveled, unwilling hens.
    He stepped into the majlis, or reception room, and motioned the women to follow. They hesitated in the shadowy hallway and peered through the open door. Behind them, Mubarak spoke quietly and insistently in French, herding them into the room before taking his position in the doorway.
    Although far from luxurious, the majlis was the most comfortable room in Nejm’s house. A few worn carpets decorated the floor and cheap, colorful cushions were tossed onto low, threadbare divans. Through the open grillwork over the windows, a solitary mimosa, flowering in the courtyard, could be seen. Ceramic pots filled with water were positioned in the corners of the room to cool it.
    On the divan at the far end of the room sat the roundest man Bryna had ever seen. He lounged, sipping coffee, eating gazelle’s horn pastries and sweating profusely in the heat. A sleepy-eyed black boy stood behind him, lethargically wielding a huge ostrich feather fan. When the man spoke sharply over his shoulder, the lad immediately put more energy into his fanning, but his effort diminished as soon as his master turned his attention elsewhere.
    “As salaam ’alaykum, Hajji Suleiman Ibn Hussein,” Nejm greeted his visitor respectfully.
    “Wa ’alaykum as salaam, Nejm Al Anwar.” The fat man’s voice was sweet and surprisingly reedy for one so large.
    “Welcome a hundred times,” Nejm intoned. “May Allah give you a happy day.”
    “May your day be blessed and prosperous, though not too prosperous at my expense.” Suleiman wheezed at his own joke. He looked to where the women stood and asked, “They speak French?”
    “Yes.”
    “Come forward, my lovelies,” he instructed them kindly in French. As the women stepped forward, the potential buyer inspected the two dark-haired girls who stood nearest him. They were beautiful indeed, but even though their heads were bowed decorously, he saw too much pride in their manners.
    Through the screen of her lowered eyelashes, Bryna regarded the corpulent man with equal interest. Suleiman Ibn Hussein was obviously a man of great wealth; his very bulk bespoke a life of plenty. Under his scarlet