It was even harder to fathom coming as she and Tair had from the Spartan conditions of the desert camp. The encampment had been eerily desolate, deprived of women, softness, comfort of any sort. There were the men, the animals—goats, horses, the one scrawny dog that followed Tair everywhere—but no families, no children, no cry of babies or murmur of elders talking.
“Your men,” she said, comparing the encampment to this stunning city cut from the cliffs, “this is their real home, isn’t it?”
Tair turned, looked at her. For a moment he didn’t speak, then just when she thought he wouldn’t answer, he said, “My men choose to live apart from their families part of each year to better protect them. It’s a choice they make. I’ve never insisted or dictated. They do it because they know they must.”
“You rotate the men?”
“Regularly. It is hard on them—on the wives and children, too—when they are gone. But this is life on the border.
“Thirsty?” he asked.
Tally nodded. “Very.”
“We’ll have tea in my orange garden,” he said, gesturing up one gently curving staircase carved from the peach colored stone of the mountain. “There’s a private room and bath off the garden. Your attending girl will be waiting for you there.”
A private room? A bath? A garden? Tally felt like she’d died and gone to heaven. She nearly clapped her hands. “This is wonderful here. Really lovely. Now if I could only have my camera back with the film,” she concluded wistfully.
“You can,” Tair said. “I’ll have both brought to you later tonight.”
Tally spun to face him. “Are you serious? You’re giving me my camera and all the pictures back?”
“Yes.”
“I can take pictures again…pictures here?”
He nodded gravely. “Yes.”
Tally nearly hugged him. “That’s fantastic, absolutely fantastic. You don’t know how happy you’ve made me. Thank you.” She beamed, impulsively touched his arm. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
She rocked back on her heels. “So you believe me now. You know I’m a photographer, and trustworthy.”
“Tally—”
“I’d love to take pictures here. But if you don’t want me to photograph the children, I understand. And even if you don’t want me to photograph the children, I’ll still send you copies of the photos I take when I’m home—”
“Tally.”
His curt tone cut through her bubble of happiness. She broke off, looked at him, saw the shadows in his eyes and the fierce lines in his face. He looked like the old Tair, the one who was more monster than man. “What?”
“This is home now.”
She stared at him not understanding. She tried to hang on to her smile but it wobbled, disappeared. “You said that about the camp, Tair.”
He didn’t answer.
Tally’s mouth dried. She swallowed quickly. “You said you trusted me. You said you knew I was a photographer, and you liked my photos. You said they were good.”
“They are.”
“Then what do you mean this is home. Tell me what you mean by that.”
“I mean, this is where you’ll live now. This is your home now, here at Bur Juman, with me.”
“No. You can’t mean it. You can’t.” The words burst from Tally in an impassioned frenzy. “You might say you’re a brutal, vengeful, violent man, but I don’t see it. Your men adore you—”
“Please don’t say my men and adore in the same sentence. It makes me extremely uncomfortable.”
“The point is, you know your men care about you.”
“You’re confusing affection and respect. My men don’t care about me. They fear me. Two significantly different things.”
“And why would they fear you?”
“They know the facts.”
Tair sighed inwardly as he saw Tally’s expression harden. He was familiar with women’s emotional tendencies, understood they valued connection and relationships over logic and accomplishment, but this one, this woman, defied logic altogether.
He’d kidnapped her from the medina. He’d dragged her across the desert. He was holding her against her will and fully intended to keep her here. What about those actions symbolized tenderness or kindness? Where was the empathy? The compassion?
“Do not think you can change me,” he said tersely, irritated to even be having this conversation. He was not a conversational man. Tally should know that by now. She should know him by now. “Do not imagine you can somehow shape me into a better, kinder version of me. It will not happen.”