Heart of a Desert Warrior

Iris’s borrowed galabia was not only the shade of blue in a peacock feather, but had the birds embroidered on either side of the collar with sequins stitched into the tail feathers. More stitching ran around the collar, down the center of the garment and around the hem.

It was one of the most beautiful things Iris had ever worn.

Nevertheless, she should probably go change. “I’m not a member of your house. I shouldn’t be wearing this.”

“You are our guest.” Which seemed to be Asad’s answer to everything. “It is fine.”

“But—”

“It is your favorite color.” He reached out and tweaked his daughter’s hair. “Nawar is partial to that shade of blue, as well. It is no wonder she chose this dress.”

“I like purple best, though,” Nawar said with a smile for her father.

“I know you do, little jewel.” He met Iris’s gaze then, his own somewhat rueful but unmovable. “It would be an insult to my grandmother to refuse to wear the galabia she offered you.”

Knowing she wasn’t about to win that particular argument, Iris gave in gracefully and smiled at Genevieve. “Peacocks are my favorite bird. It isn’t just the color. Thank you for letting me wear this beautiful garment.”

“No thanks are necessary. You must keep it if you like it,” Genevieve said firmly. “I would have given it to Badra long ago, but she preferred Western dress.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t take it.” Particularly not a dress that was to have been passed down from Genevieve to the woman who had wed her grandson.

“But you must. You will offend my wife if you do not,” the old sheikh said with that all-too-familiar arrogance.

Like grandfather, like grandson. Iris found herself amused instead of annoyed by the overt manipulations. Particularly when she saw the look Asad gave the old sheikh.

For whatever reason, it appeared he felt like he was being maneuvered just as neatly as she was. That couldn’t help but make it easier for her to accept his grandmother’s generosity.

Iris found herself grinning and winked at the old man. “We can’t have that, can we? I would be honored to accept such a lovely gift,” she said to Genevieve.

“Your old college friend is impertinent, Asad. Did you see her wink at this old man?” Hanif asked.

“I saw,” Asad said with one of his infrequent smiles. “Grandmother will have to keep her eyes open at tonight’s feast.”

“Oh, you.” Genevieve slapped her grandson’s arm lightly. “Don’t encourage him. He’ll be flirting with the tourists again.”

“The tourists love me. A desert sheikh of the old ways.” Hanif pointed at himself importantly.

“I’m sure they do,” Iris said with a smile, letting her gaze slide to Asad.

She imagined the tourists loved him as well, especially the women. Did he flirt with them like his grandfather? If Asad did, it wouldn’t be innocent fun like with the old man—of that Iris was certain.

Realizing she really didn’t want to think about Asad flirting with and conducting liaisons with the tourists, or anyone else for that matter, Iris forced all thoughts of the like from her mind.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE feast was far more than a simple dinner, just as Asad had said it would be.

Platter after platter of food came in from the outdoor kitchens—far more than the ones Iris had helped Genevieve and the cook prepare the other night. The other women in the courtyard had all been cooking as well, but Iris hadn’t known it had been for the feast.

They ate in the public receiving area of Asad’s tent, the large room filled with his family and guests who Iris learned were all related to him, if distantly.

Russell, who had been seated at a different table from the immediate family, didn’t seem in the least offended, but appeared to be enjoying himself every bit as much as Iris was.

After everyone had eaten, the men played their instruments and sang traditional songs, some stories of love and romance, other songs Nawar told Iris were for the camels.

“It helps them to be strong and carry heavy burdens,” the small girl explained very seriously.

Iris nodded her understanding, though she found the idea fanciful.

Even Asad joined in the singing, his deep masculine voice making the song of love lost he’d chosen to share unexpectedly poignant. Then he sang a song in a dialect Iris did not understand, but the cadence of the song and tone of his voice made her thighs quiver with unwanted longing.

Her discomfort only increased when several of the guests gave her assessing glances. She tried looking everywhere but at Asad. Only his voice inexorably drew her gaze back to him.

He met her eyes, singing the last stanza in a low, melodic tone that brought moisture to her eyes, which she did her best to blink away.

“You enjoyed my humble efforts?” he asked Iris as he allowed Nawar to climb into his lap and rest against his chest.

The small girl had been allowed to stay up past her bedtime and looked ready to fall asleep right where she was.

Iris caught herself staring at the charming domestic picture they made as she answered, “Just as I’m sure everyone does who hears you. You’re a man of many talents.”

Iris’s desire to be part of that scene was so strong, her chest ached with it. Though she knew there was no hope of that ever happening. She wasn’t Asad’s future.

No doubt there was another perfect princess in store for him, hopefully one with a stronger character than the deceased Badra.

“I am glad to hear you say so.”

“I’m sure you hear it often enough.”

“Perhaps.”

She huffed out a small laugh at his arrogance. “You don’t lack confidence, that’s for sure.”

“And do you think there is a reason why I should?”

“No, Asad, you are everything a desert sheikh should be.”

“My daddy is the bestest sheikh ever,” Nawar said, her tiredness showing in the childish pattern of speech so rarely exhibited by the young girl.

“Even better than Sheikh Hakim?” Iris teased. “After all, he is king over all of Kadar.”

“Daddy is sheikh to the Sha’b Al’najid,” Nawar said around a yawn. “That’s bestest.”

“I suppose it is, sweetheart.”

The little girl’s eyelids drooped.

“So, why is the peacock the symbol for your house when your tribe is called the people of the lion?” Iris asked Asad.

Even he had been named for the large predatory animal.

“The peacock is a symbol for the women of my house.”

“But it’s on the panel that leads to the…” And then Iris understood. “It covers the doorway that leads to what is traditionally considered the women’s chamber.”

“Yes.”

“So, how did a bird become the symbol for the women of your house?”

“Many generations ago, one of the first sheikhs of our line, gave a peacock and peahen pair to his bride as a wedding gift. They were very exotic birds, something none of the Bedouin of their tribe had ever seen though as nomadic people they saw more wonders than the settled dwellers of our part of the world.”

“Where did he get the birds?”

“I do not know, but his wife was so taken with them that she embroidered their likeness on all of her clothing.”

Nawar made a soft little snoring sound and Iris couldn’t help smiling. “And it became tradition to do so in the following generations.”

“It did, though not all adhere to this tradition any longer.”

“Why do you?”

“I did not, for a while, but my grandmother finds the birds beautiful, even the less-flamboyant peahen.”

“Badra was not as impressed with the tradition,” Iris guessed.

Asad’s featured turned stern. “She was a princess of a neighboring country, but she preferred Western ways to anything the desert had to offer.”

“Even you.”

“Even me.?

?? Asad’s clenched his jaw and Iris felt badly for reminding him that his marriage had not turned out anything like he’d anticipated when he’d dumped her to marry the virginal princess.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It is the truth.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“Come with me to put her to bed,” he invited, indicating his sleeping daughter.

Iris nodded before her brain could even finish processing the request. She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t. Keeping her distance from him was the only hope she had of keeping her heart intact this time around.

But keeping her distance from his daughter simply wasn’t an option. After the years of rejection at her parents’ hands, Iris did not have it in her to disappoint the child.

Besides, she liked Nawar.

Iris helped Asad undress Nawar and put a nightgown on the sleeping child like she’d done it a hundred times before. It should feel awkward, but it didn’t. Maybe the old saying was true, some things were just like riding a bicycle. You never really forgot how to do them, no matter how young you were when you learned.

While Iris had no experience with children as an adult, in boarding school she had often taken care of the younger ones.

She tucked the little girl into her bed, soothing her back to sleep with a soft lullaby when Nawar started to wake after her father laid her down.

“You’re good with her,” Asad said as they left the room moments later.

“Thank you. I’ve had some experience.”

“I wasn’t aware you had small children in your life.” He talked like he knew a lot more about her life than he possibly could.

“I don’t.”

“But you’ve had experience?” he prompted.