The Sheikh’s Disobedient Bride(56)
The dress wasn’t snug or revealing and yet the sumptuous fabric and ornamentation made it elegant and the color suited Tally’s coloring, turning her eyes a darker shade of green and heightening the cream in her complexion.
Leena wanted to do Tally’s eyes and makeup, and while kohl rimmed eyes and a pale face might be tradition in Ouaha, Tally didn’t want the make up. She wanted to be herself. Needed to be herself. Besides, she didn’t trust her eyes not to tear and the last thing she wanted was streaks of black on her cheeks.
Wrists laden with wide gold bracelets, and a gold headpiece that held a pale ivory silk veil, Tally was led to the formal reception room downstairs in the main building.
She sat while Tair and the Mullah discussed the marriage contract. Finally it was time to begin the actual exchanging of the vows.
The Mullah looked at Tair. “Are you Zein Hassim el-Tayer?”
“I am,” Tair answered.
The Mullah turned now to Tally. “Are you Talitha Elizabeth Devers?” he asked slowly in broken English.
“No.”
“She is, your Honor,” Tair answered, giving Tally a sharp look.
“I’m not, your Honor,” she answered giving Tair an equally disapproving look. “My name isn’t Talitha, it’s Tallis. Tallis Elizabeth Devers.” She looked back at Tair, her eyebrows lifting as if to say,so there.
The Mullah didn’t look pleased with the interruption but continued on with the ceremony. “Are you, Tallis Elizabeth Devers, being coerced into this marriage?” his voice was stern as he fixed Tally with his hard gaze.
“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.”