The Sheikh's Disobedient Bride

“Yes,” she answered at the same moment Tair spoke.

“No,” Tair said.

The Mullah looked up from his paperwork, his reading glasses low on his nose.

“Yes,” Tally repeated.

“Sheikh el-Tayer?” The Mullah asked Tair for clarification.

“No,” Tair answered. “She said no, she’s not.”

“No,” Tally said, frustration growing. “I didn’t say no—”

“So it’s no?” the Mullah said, looking at Tally now.

“Yes, it’s no—” she broke off, shook her head. “What are you asking?”

“Do you wish to marry Sheikh Zein el-Tayer? Or are you being coerced?”

Color stormed her cheeks. “Yes.”

“Yes, you want to marry him.”

“Yes, I’m being coerced.”

“Good. You wish to marry him. Yes.” The Mullah nodded, shuffled his paperwork. “Let it be done.”

And that was that. It was done. Tally had become Sheikh Tair’s wife.

There was a huge celebratory party afterward, a banquet of gigantic proportions but Tally didn’t have the heart—much less stomach—to eat, especially not after Tair told her they’d sit in separate sections during the banquet and celebrations.

Sit in separate sections? He still didn’t get who she was, still didn’t understand that he’d swept her into something so alien from her world that she still felt dizzy. Not just dizzy, but scared.

How could she live here, like this? Yes, she loved him but she didn’t understand him or his culture. She wanted the hearth and home she knew growing up. Not exclusion. Not seclusion.

As the crowd surged around them after the ceremony, the men pulling Tair one way and the women pulling her another, Tally managed to slip away, leaving the banquet to run up the stairs for the sanctuary of her own room.

Fighting tears, she hiked up her long dress, tucking it into the waistband of her skirt and paced. Trapped, that’s what she was. Trapped.

There was nowhere for her to go. No one to help her. She was truly alone.

And standing on her terrace, tears in her eyes, she heard the music rise from below, the one-string rababa violin mixing with the dalouka, or big drums.

Soon there would be singing and dancing. Tair had said his men, armed with swords and whips, would perform the war dance called the Al Ardha.

Tears falling, Tally looked out over the desert with its sand and more sand. How could she feel so much and none of it be easy? How could she love and still be unhappy? Where was the comfort? Where was the peace?

“What have you done to your gown?” Tair’s quiet voice sounded behind her.

Tally dashed away the tears, lifted her shoulders in a shrug.

“Your legs are bare,” he said.

She heard the disapproval in his voice and his censure just made the hurt worse, the wound deeper, the need for freedom more fierce.

Tally leaned forward to smell one of the miniature orange trees in one of the patio’s glazed pots. “You said I could dress as I liked in private.”

“Yes, in private, but this isn’t private. It’s a garden where many in my household could see you.”

“Your household is all downstairs celebrating.”

“Pull your gown down,” he said sharply, losing patience.

Tally turned from the small tree. It galled her that this was her wedding day and she met his gaze directly without flinching. “No.” And she forced a small competitive smile. “Thank you.”

He showed his white teeth. “Please.”

“I like my gown this way. I feel freer. Lighter.”

“More exposed.”

Tally felt a glimmer of a smile in her eyes. “Exactly.”

“It’s not proper.”

“I don’t really care about proper.”

“You are my wife.”

“Under protest.”

“But nonetheless, my wife.”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep repeating yourself.”

“And I wish you’d do as you’re told.”

Fire and fury in her heart, Tally looked at him, held his gaze, and as he watched, she deliberately yanked her skirts ever higher. Her right eyebrow arched as if to say, what now?

A small muscle pulled in his cheek. “Do you really want to fight?”

“I want you to accept that I’m not, nor ever will be, the kind of woman you want as a wife.”

“It’s too late to get out of the marriage. It’s done. We’re husband and wife. And as my wife, you must please me.”