Free The Bride Price by Karen Jones Delk Page A

tarboosh with its meticulously wrapped white turban, his face, flushed from the heat, showed signs of indulgence. His eyes were almost lost in folds of fat, and over his triple chin his beard was combed to a neat point.
    “Permit me to introduce myself,” Suleiman said. “I am Hajji Suleiman Ibn Hussein of Baghdad. My old friend Nejm Al Anwar, this most courteous of men—May Allah watch over him!—has arranged for this private display today, knowing how I despise crowded auction houses. They tend to be so uncivilized in the Mahgreb.” He smiled appreciatively as the procurer positioned himself behind his buyer to whisper bits of helpful information into his ear.
    “Come closer now where I can see you. And you, frightened little hare, come out of hiding,” the obese man gently urged Pamela. “I know you are there behind the others.”
    Reluctantly, the blond-haired girl slipped between Bryna and Theresa and stepped into the light.
    “Mashallah,” Suleiman breathed when he saw the dainty British girl with her pale skin, honey-colored hair, and brown eyes. She was a houri, a woman such as those who await true believers in Paradise. The dark beauty of the others dimmed to his Eastern eyes as Pamela presented herself, her head bowed sorrowfully.
    “You have done well this time, Nejm,” Suleiman purred in Arabic, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “I will take this pale-haired one. It is unfortunate, however, you have only one blonde and no redheads.”
    “Unfortunate indeed. But the other two, Hajji, are they not also fair?” Nejm cajoled. “The one has the glow of fire in her hair if you look closely.”
    Almost as an afterthought, the buyer glanced at the other girls again. They resembled each other slightly. He toyed with the idea of selling them as a pair. Both women had dark hair and both looked aristocratic, but there the similarities ended. The Spaniard was dainty, with olive skin and tousled curly locks. The American was tall, but she was graceful. Her skin was fair and the pink of the dress she wore lent its color to her cheeks. Her hair was dark, but in the light there were indeed glints of red. It was too bad about her eyes, he mused, but perhaps somewhere he could find a buyer who was not superstitious.
    “The dark ones are strong and healthy,” Nejm pressed. “They will bear many sons and bring a fine bride price.”
    “I do not know.” Suleiman sighed expressively, reaching for a sweet. “In Arabia are many dark-haired women,”
    “But none so fair,” the slave trader argued.
    “I suppose,” the fat man replied doubtfully. “But at least Arabian women are obedient daughters of Islam. These two—”
    “Will hear and obey your every order, my lord,” Nejm finished his sentence eagerly. “They, too, will be Moslem as soon as they have made their shahada, their professions of faith.”
    “I do not know,” Suleiman repeated dubiously, watching the slave trader’s tense reaction out of the corner of one hooded eye. “Have they any blemishes, beyond the unfortunate color of that one’s eyes?” He nodded toward Bryna, noting that her blue eyes watched their exchange with intelligence.
    “None, sidi, they are perfect,” Nejm assured him, although he had not inspected their bodies.
    “They are virgins?”
    “Of course.” The trader assumed an air of injured dignity. “Do you wish them to disrobe?”
    Suleiman waved his hand in negligent refusal. White women were at a premium and greatly desired in the harems of Arabia. As quickly as he reached Jidda, he could easily sell any of these, sight unseen.
    “Then you wish to buy them?” Nejm asked eagerly, but his potential purchaser remained noncommittal. The slave trader coaxed and bargained and finally, in frustration, threatened to withdraw his offer to sell any of the women. But even as he herded them toward the door, waving his arms behind them and shouting, Suleiman seemed unmoved.
    “Wait,” the Turk called as if he had made a