Free The Bride Price by Karen Jones Delk Page B

sudden decision. “Perhaps I could take the Spaniard off your hands, if that is the only way you will let me buy the blonde.”
    “No, Hajji, all three or none,” Nejm insisted boldly, thoroughly enjoying the haggling.
    “Then you must send them all back to Mubarak.” Suleiman sighed. His sides quaked gleefully under his caftan as he watched the other man’s face fall.
    “Oh, Suleiman, Beloved of Allah, I fear he has relieved you of your wits if you will pass up such delicate blossoms of womanhood,” the trader lamented, gesturing extravagantly toward the women.
    “He has not deprived me of my wits completely, for I will not buy any women without bargaining first, Nejm. Let us speak of their worth. But I warn you, if I must take all three to have the one, I expect a good price from you.”
    “Wallahi,” Nejm cried as if affronted, “I have never been anything but fair to you.”
    “What do you suppose they are saying?” Pamela found the courage to whisper to Bryna.
    “I think they are striking a bargain,” Bryna answered, drawing herself up, “and they are much mistaken if they think I am going to stand by quietly and be sold.”
    “Remember the bastinado,” Theresa muttered in her ear.
    “Oui, remember the bastinado,” Mubarak advised from behind the women. Stepping into the room unobtrusively, he grasped Bryna’s arm so tightly that she nearly cried out in pain. Holding her in place, he whispered urgently, “I do this for your own protection, mademoiselle, for I tell you, you will regret it if you shame my master.”
    “Silence, women!” Nejm bellowed. “Mubarak, take them back to the harem.” Rubbing his hands in anticipation of the second round of dickering, the trader returned to his customer.

CHAPTER 5
    “ Balek! Make way!” Suleiman’s little slave shouted. Holding the stirrup of his master’s donkey, he trotted alongside, urging the crowd out of their path. The party made slow progress as the massive Turk swayed from side to side on his donkey, his ample girth overhanging either side of the tiny saddle, threatening in many spots to brush the walls along the narrow streets.
    Behind him, Bryna, Pamela, and Theresa followed on foot, sweltering in stiff black haiks and yashmaks. They were flanked by Suleiman’s guards, four armed Nubian eunuchs, and marched through the streets at a brisk clip.
    Bryna tried to keep up, the men’s sandals Mubarak had finally located to fit her flapping in the dust. Hoping for a miracle, she looked around desperately, her vision impaired by the heavy veil she wore. If only she could spy her father’s face in the crowd, she would call out to him, she could escape.
    Soon they passed through a gate into streets that became wider and less congested. The air even seemed cleaner. Slowly they descended toward the shimmering blue brilliance of the ocean, which they could see in the distance beyond the sunbaked brick buildings. Glancing over her shoulder, Bryna thought she could see Blaine’s home perched on the cliff above them.
    Suleiman’s company stopped before a large whitewashed compound. The marriage broker dismounted with an exercised wheeze and led the way into a pleasant courtyard, its lush growth encircled by colorful tiled walls. In each of the four comers of the enclosure, small fountains tinkled musically, and in the center another shot a stream of water into the air, where glistening droplets caught the sun like tiny prisms. The main house, built around the courtyard, was spacious and open, permitting a sea breeze even in the walled courtyard.
    Breathing heavily, Suleiman collapsed on a stone bench. “Turki,” he gasped, motioning for the black boy to fan him. As the three white women in their uncomfortable costumes and the Nubian guards stood by in the sun, the boy applied himself energetically to his task.
    When he had recovered sufficiently, the fat man clapped his hands and an aging black eunuch appeared. Dignified and efficient, the slave