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“He is a tribal judge, and the highest in my tribe. As Bedouin, we honor our tribal elders, and he is the most respected man from my tribe.”
The driver returned with a dark blue folded cotton garment and handed it to Mikael. Mikael shook out the robe and told her to slip it over her head. “This is more conservative, and should make him feel more comfortable.”
She reached up and touched her hair. “Shouldn’t I have a headscarf too?”
“He knows you’re American, knows your father was Daniel Copeland. No need to pretend to be someone you’re not.”
“But I also have no wish to further offend him.”
“Then perhaps braid your hair and tie it with an elastic. But your hair is not going to protect you from judgment. Nothing will. This is fate. Karma.”
Jemma swiftly braided her hair and then stepped from the car, following Mikael. Fate. Karma. The words rang through her head as she walked behind the sheikh toward the house.
Robed men and women lined the small dirt road, bowing deeply. Mikael paused to greet them, speaking briefly and then waving to some children who peeked from windows upstairs before leading her to the arched door of the house. The door opened and they were ushered inside.
Candles and sconces on the wall illuminated the interior. The whitewashed walls were simple and unadorned. Dark beams covered the ceiling in the entry, but the beams had been painted cream and pale gold in the living room.
As Mikael and Jemma were taken to a low table in the living room, Jemma spotted more children peeking from behind a curtain before being drawn away.
“Sit here,” Mikael instructed, pointing to a pillow on the floor in front of the low square table. “To my right. Sheikh Azizzi will sit across from me, and speak to me, but this way he can see you easily.”
Jemma sank onto the pillow, curling her legs under her. “He’s not going to ask me anything?”
“No. Over tea I will give him the facts. He will consider the facts and then make his decision.”
“Is this how you handle all tribal crimes?”
“If it’s not a violent crime, why should the sentencing be chaotic and violent?”
She smoothed the soft thin cotton fabric over her knees. “But your country has a long history of aggression. Tribal warring, kidnapped brides, forced marriages.” She quickly glanced at him. “I’m not trying to be sarcastic. I ask the question sincerely. How does one balance your ideal of civility in sentencing, with what we Westerners would view as barbaric tribal customs?”
“You mean, kidnapped brides?”
Her eyes widened. “No. I was referring to arranged marriages.”
He said nothing. She stared at him aghast. The seconds ticked by.
Jemma pressed her hands to her stomach, trying to calm the wild butterflies. “Do you really kidnap your brides?”
“If you are a member of one of the royal families, yes.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “It’s how one protects the tribe, by forging new ties through forced marriage with other tribes.”
“It’s barbaric.”
“It settles a score.”
“You sound so cavalier about a very violent act.”
“The marriage might be forced, but the sex is generally consensual.” His dark gaze held hers. “One takes a bride to settle a debt, but the captive bride becomes a royal wife. The marriage must be satisfying for both.”
“I sincerely doubt a forced marriage can ever be satisfying!”
“A forced marriage isn’t that different from an arranged marriage, and that is also foreign to your Western way of thinking, so perhaps it’s better if you do not judge.”
A shadow filled the doorway and an older, robed man entered the living room.
Mikael rose, and hugged the older man. They clasped each other’s arm and spoke in Arabic. After a moment both Mikael and Sheikh Azizzi sat down at the table, still deep in conversation.
Sheikh Azizzi hadn’t even looked at her yet. Mikael didn’t glance her way either.
Their conversation was grave. No laughter, no joking. They took turns speaking, first one, and then the other. The mood in the room was somber. Intense.
They were interrupted after fifteen minutes or so by a male servant carrying a tea tray. Sheikh Azizzi and Mikael ignored the man with the tray but Jemma was grateful to see the tea and biscuits and dried fruit arrive. She was hungry, and thirsty. She eyed the teacup placed in front of her and the plate of biscuits and fruit but didn’t touch either one, waiting for a signal from Mikael, or Sheikh Azizzi. But neither glanced her way.
She longed for a sip but waited instead.
They talked for at least another fifteen minutes after the tea tray was brought in. The servant came back, carried away the now cold tea on the tray, and returned five minutes later with a fresh steaming pot.
Jemma’s stomach growled. She wanted to nibble on one of the biscuits. She didn’t even care what the tea tasted like. She just wanted a cup.
But she sat still, and practiced breathing as if she were in her yoga class in London. Instead of getting upset, she’d meditate.
Jemma closed her eyes, and focused on clearing her mind, and her breathing. She wouldn’t think about anything, wouldn’t worry...
“Drink your tea, Jemma,” Mikael said abruptly.
She opened her eyes, looked at him, startled to hear him use her first name, and somewhat uneasy with his tone. It hadn’t been a request. It’d been a command.
He expected her to obey.
Nervous, she reached for her tea, and sipped from the cup. The tea was lukewarm. It tasted bitter. But it wet her throat and she sipped the drink slowly, as the men continued talking.
Sheikh Azizzi was speaking now. His voice was deep and low. His delivery was measured, the pace of his words deliberate.
He’s sentencing me, she thought, stomach cramping. He’s giving the judgment now. She looked quickly at Mikael, trying to gauge his reaction.
But Mikael’s expression was blank. He sipped his tea, and then again. After what felt like an endless silence, he answered. His answer wasn’t very long. It didn’t sound very complicated, but it did sound terse. He wasn’t happy.
Jemma didn’t know how she knew. She just knew.
Both men were silent. Sheikh Azizzi ate a dried apricot. They sipped more tea. There wasn’t any conversation at this point.
Mikael placed his cup on the table and spoke at last. His voice was quiet, and even, but there was a firmness in his tone that hadn’t been there earlier. Sheikh Azizzi replied to Mikael. A very short reply.
A small muscle pulled in Mikael Karim’s jaw. His lips thinned. He spoke. It sound like a one syllable reply. A fierce one syllable reply.
She glanced from Azizzi to Mikael and back. The two men stared at each other, neither face revealing any expression. After a moment, Sheikh Azizzi murmured something and rose, exiting the room and leaving Mikael and Jemma alone.
CHAPTER FOUR
THAT DID NOT go well.
Aware that Jemma was looking at him, aware that she’d been waiting patiently, exceptionally patiently for the past hour to know her fate, Mikael finally glanced at her.
Shadows danced on the walls, stretching tall across the tiled floor. He didn’t like her. Didn’t admire her. Didn’t feel anything positive for her.
But even in the dim lighting, he recognized her great beauty.
She wasn’t merely pretty, she was stunning. Her face was all hauntingly beautiful planes and angles with her high regal brow, the prominent cheekbones, a firm chin below full, generous lips.
She was pale with fatigue and fear, and her pallor made her eyes appear even greener, as if brilliant emeralds against the ivory satin of her skin.
Sitting so close to her, he could feel her fatigue. It was clear to him she was stretched thin, perhaps even to breaking.
He told himself he didn’t care, but her beauty moved him. His mother had been a beautiful woman, too, just as Mikael’s father’s second and third wives were both exquisite. A king could have any woman. Why shouldn’t she be a rare jewel?
Jemma was a rare jewel.
But she was also a rare jewel set in a tarnished, defective setting.
He now had a choice. To save the jewel, or to toss it away? It was up to him. Sheikh Azizzi had given Mikael the decision.
“Well?” Jemma whispered, breaking the tense silence. “What did he say?”
Mikael continued to study her, his thoughts random and scattered. He didn’t need her. He didn’t like her. He’d never love her.
But he did desire her.
It wouldn’t be difficult to bed her.
He wondered how she’d respond in bed. He wondered if she’d be sweet and hot or icy and frigid.
His gut told him she’d be hot and sweet. But first, all the Copeland taint would have to be washed away. “I am to decide your punishment for you,” he said finally. “I’ve been given a choice of two sentences and I must pick one.”
