The Bride Price (A Historical Romance) by Delk Karen Jones

Author:Delk, Karen Jones [Delk, Karen Jones]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2013-08-12T04:00:00+00:00

* * *

Just before dawn, a bronzed, bearded man stood alone on the bow of a sambuk and searched the horizon for the first sight of land. Lost in thought, he was unaware that his brows were knit fiercely over his blue eyes, the wrinkles of his forehead disappearing under his turban. His striped djellaba billowed behind him on the salt-scented breeze as the little ship plowed through choppy waters toward the rocky Arabian coast.

“Good morning, sir,” a voice said quietly behind him, careful not to be overheard by the people who slept on the deck.

“Good morning, Ashburn,” Blaine answered without turning.

“It took a moment to be sure it was you.” The young man chuckled softly, moving to stand beside him on the bow. “You are beginning to look the Algerian you claim to be. It certainly seems to agree with you more than it does with me. Sun and sand and wind, thirst, then sun and sand and more wind. I have never seen such an inhospitable place as the Sinai, nor do I hope to again.”

“‘Twas only the beginning. Ernst said Arabia is mostly desert.”

“Ah, yes, Ernst, the desert expert.” Derek sighed, his frown revealing his annoyance for their guide.

“I didn’t hear you complaining when he talked us past three different sets of Arab tribesmen.” Blaine returned the frown. “Or when he got us through that scrape in Tur and onto this boat.”

“I suppose he has earned his pay so far,” Derek admitted grudgingly, “but he is a bothersome fellow. He and Mustafa are as thick as thieves.”

Ernst was bothersome, perhaps, but indispensable, Blaine thought. And it was a good thing he and Mustafa got on so well. They made an outstanding pair of guides. Ernst’s knowledge of the Arabian peninsula was as useful as Mustafa’s sword arm. Staring out at the predawn sky, the man remembered the past fortnight since they had received Ibn Hussein’s message.

When Blaine and Derek had learned they must go to Arabia, Mustafa had found Ernst Mann, an impoverished Swiss scholar who spoke five languages as well as several Arab dialects, to be their guide. With his surprisingly dark coloring and encyclopedic memory, the slight, middle-aged man passed easily as an Arab.

Having lived for years in North Africa, Ernst had heard of O’Toole Effendi, so he answered their summons with interest. Yes, he had been to Arabia briefly several years ago and lived to tell about it. Now it was his ardent desire to return and perhaps even to visit Mecca and Medina. But to undertake such an expedition required funds, funds he would never amass working as a scribe in the souk at Tripoli.

He readily agreed to guide the men, and he took charge of planning and provisioning for the journey with brisk efficiency. At last he turned his attention to their disguises.

“It would be best,” Ernst mused thoughtfully, “for you to pose as French-speaking Algerians. You do speak French?”

“Oui,” Blaine said at once.

“Yes...I mean, oui...I mean, not very well,” Derek stammered, reddening.

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