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.