Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(200)

“Look at me, Muni,” she demanded. “Look at what your mother did and then tell me I'm not to defend myself.”

“I said shut up. I meant it. Shut. Up.”

“I won't shut up till you look at me.” Her voice rose, changed keys. “I was disrespectful, but what would you have me do when she wants to harm me? Shouldn't I act to protect myself? To safeguard the child that—even at this moment—I might be carrying?”

This reminder of her most treasured capability roused Muhannad to take the action she wanted. He turned. A swift glance in the mirror told her that her cheek was mottled and blood-caked appropriately.

She said, “I made a simple mistake among her tomatoes—an easy enough thing to do in this heat—and she began to beat me. In my condition”—here, she rounded her hands beneath her stomach to encourage him to believe what he would—”am I to do nothing to protect the unborn? Do I let her vent all of her rage and her jealousy until”—

“Jealousy?” he snapped. “My mother is no more jealous of you than—”

“Not of me, Muni. Of you. Of us. And of our children. And our future children. I do what she could never do. And she makes me pay for it by treating me worse than she would a servant.”

He observed her from across the room. Surely, she thought, he could see the truth of what she claimed. He could see the truth of it in her damaged face and upon her body, the body that gave him the sons he desired, quickly and effortlessly and repeatedly. No matter her unappealing looks and a figure best left hidden beneath the draperies that her culture required her to wear, Yumn had the single quality that all men prized in a wife. And Muhannad would want to safeguard it.

“What am I to do?” Yumn asked, casting her eyes downward with humility. “Tell me, Muni. And I promise you: I'll do as you tell me.”

She knew she had won when he came to stand in front of the dressing table's bench. He touched her hair, and she knew that afterwards—when they'd been to each other what they were meant to be—he would go to his mother and inform her that she was never again to make a single demand of the mother of his sons. He wrapped her braid round and round his wrist, and Yumn knew that he would pull her head back and find her mouth and take her even in the terrible heat of this terrible day. And after that—

He jerked her head back brutally.

“Muni!” she cried. “You're hurting me.”

He bent and examined her cheek.

“See what she did to me.” Yumn squirmed under his grip.

He lifted her hand and examined it and examined her nails. He used one of his own to prise out from beneath hers a bit of the blood and the skin from her own face. His lip curled in disgust. He flung her hand to one side and released his grip on her braid so suddenly that she would have fallen backwards from the bench had she not grabbed onto his leg.

He disengaged her hands from him. “You're useless,” he said. “All that's required of you is to live with my family in peace, and you can't manage that much.”

“I?” she demanded. “I can't manage?”

“Go down and apologise to my mother. At once.”

“I will not. She struck me. She struck your wife.”

“My wife”—He sneered when he said the word—“deserved to be struck. You're lucky she hasn't struck you before.”

“What is this? Am I meant to be abused? Am I meant to be humiliated? Treated like a dog?”

“If you expect to be forgiven your duties to my mother because you've produced two children, think again. You'll do as she tells you. You'll do as I tell you. And you'll begin by taking your fat bum downstairs and apologising to her.”

“I will not!”

“And after that you'll go outside and clean up the mess you've made in her garden.”

“I'll leave you!” she said.

“Go ahead.” He laughed abruptly, not a friendly laugh at all. “Why do women always assume that their ability to reproduce should give them rights reserved for others? It takes no brains to put yourself in the club, Yumn. You're expecting to be worshipped for something that takes as much talent as having a crap or a pee. Now get back to work. And don't bother me again.”

He strode to the door. She felt rigid, hot and cold at once. He was her husband. He had no right …She was going to give him yet another son. … Even at this moment, that son might be growing within her. … And he loved her, adored her, worshipped her for the children she bore him and the woman she was and he could not leave her. Not now, not like this. Not in an anger that might make him seek or want or turn to another or even think of …No. She would not allow it. She would not remain the focus of his anger.

The words came in a rush. “I do my duty, to you and to your family. And my reward is the scorn of your parents and sister. They're spiteful and vicious to me. And why? Because I speak my mind. Because I am who I am. Because I don't hide behind a mask of sweetness and obedience. I don't lower my head and hold my tongue and pretend to be your father's perfect little virgin. Virgin? Her?” Yumn hooted. “Well, in a few more weeks she won't be able to hide the truth underneath her gharara. And then we'll see who knows what real duty is and who lives precisely as she wishes.”