The Sheik Retold(63)

He stopped to light a fresh cigarette, and then the covering of the doorway flung open to reveal Gaston himself in the entrance. My earlier relief upon seeing the servant recovered from his sickbed had been enormous, but I now understood that a word against me from Gaston would weigh heavily in my prejudice.

"M-monseigneur has n-need of me?" he stammered. A stream of Arabic followed during which Gaston's gaze roved around the tent to rest on me. In his eyes I saw no resentment, but only anxiety. His hesitating reply was made with his two hands outstretched, palm uppermost in an appealing gesture.

Ahmed cut him short. "Madam is quite safe…for the moment," he added dryly.

He then pushed Gaston gently toward the door with a few more words in rapid Arabic. He stood there for some time, looking out into the night and then lingered unusually over closing the flap. "As before, Gaston is still your willing slave. You are very fortunate that he bears you no malice. Nevertheless, you must be punished." He shook his head. "My men demand recompense, and as their chief, I cannot deny them. I waited for Raoul to depart because he could never understand, but now he is gone." He spun back to me with a glower. "I can postpone this no longer."

My throat was like the Sahara. "Wh-what do you mean by recompense?"

He had exacted a terrible revenge on his enemy. I wondered in growing terror if he would kill me also and how. Was that the reason for his detachment? Had he been planning my execution all this time? Would his long brown fingers with their steely strength choke the life out of me as they had Ibraheim Omair? Unconsciously, I raised my hands to my throat.

"No, ma chère," he spoke almost gently. "I will not strangle you."

He moved over to the writing table, where he tore the wrapping off a box of cartridges to refill the magazine of his revolver, an operation that seemed to take centuries. He did not look up, nor did he speak. I started at each separate click as he loaded the gun, clenching my hands and passing my tongue over parched lips. He dropped the last cartridge into place, examined the revolver, and then laid it down on the desk. Did he plan to shoot me instead? At least that would be quick and merciful. I watched his every deft movement with bated breath until he spoke again.

"You defied my authority in the most blatant manner. A blood feud has erupted because of you. If not for Raoul, I might also be dead. Had I perished, a swift and severe sentence would have already been carried out—death by execution."

I heard his words but could barely comprehend them. I was blind, dizzy, and reeling on my feet. I clutched the divan for support.

"Fortunately for you, I am still the chief, and my word is still law. Nevertheless, I cannot let this matter pass."

"What will you do?"

“Were you an Arab woman, there would be no question of your penalty—you would suffer a painful and public scourging."

"But I am not an Arab," I whispered.

"No, you are not. Thus, I have meditated this matter at great length. You have accused me many times of tyranny and despotism, but Western notions of mercy are regarded as weakness here. My people only understand absolutism. They must be governed with a strong hand. It is only by their fear and respect of my strength and authority that this tribe stays together."

He spoke the hard truth. I had lived amongst them long enough to know the harsh reality. He ruled with an iron fist. It was what they expected, and they worshiped him for it. He would not shirk his responsibility, but I could see how heavily the burden weighed on him. He once again wore the trademark scowl on his brow.

"There can be no pardon for you. My tribe must know that I have carried out my duty to them." He waited for my response, for my acknowledgement, but my throat was too dry to speak. I nodded dumbly instead.

He continued, "Our custom dictates that blood must always be repaid in blood. If I ignore this, there will be anarchy. You must pay in kind. Do you comprehend?"

"Blood for blood? How do you mean?" I closed my eyes, my fingers spasmodically clenching and unclenching on the armrest.

"You will suffer twelve lashes—one for every death."

I stifled a gasp. "You intend to whip me? This is your barbaric expression of justice?"

"On the contrary, my dove. Only death would be justice. This is my barbaric expression of mercy." He continued with a mocking twist of his mouth, "And since I am such a compassionate chief, I have decided that your unique…status…allows for a special dispensation." He paused. "I shall allow a proxy to take the flogging in your stead."

"A proxy? I echoed incoherently. "Do you mean a whipping boy?"

He shrugged. "As you will. I had first thought of Zilah, but there are some who believe they might incur my favor by taking this punishment in your stead." Ahmed gave a small smile. "Yusef understands my reluctance to mar your perfect white flesh and has volunteered for the honor. It is why he came to me this evening."

I was speechless.

"You will, of course, be required to watch."

"No!" I cried. "I will not have it!"

His expression darkened. "Perhaps you do not understand? I shall give you the benefit of one night to reconsider. Please think very carefully before you refuse my singular act of mercy, my dove."





CHAPTER FOURTEEN