Sibylla tried to smooth her windblown strands of hair only to have the wind tousle them again. He noted with delight that she blushed and tried to hide her bare feet in the sand.
He had found her looks remarkable more than three years ago when she had stood before the sultan in Marrakesh. Tall and slender, light haired and light skinned, she stood out in this country like a rainbow over the desert. Yet it was her face that captivated him. It was only at first glance that Sibylla looked like a delicate English rose. If one looked more closely, as he did, one noticed the headstrong line around her mouth and her keen, intelligent eyes. This woman took an interest in everything happening around her and always wanted to get to the heart of the matter.
He’d understood immediately why they compared her to a lioness—it was not only because of the color of her hair, but because of her determined personality. What heavily pregnant woman would undertake the arduous journey from Mogador to Marrakesh? His friend Udad bin Aziki, sheikh of the Chiadma Berbers, had tried to warn him. “If you find a great treasure, beware of the fearsome snake that is hiding.” The reminder that Sibylla was a married woman and a mother had not dimmed André’s fascination.
And now this absurd joy at seeing her again.
“Bonjour, Madame Hopkins.” He extended his right hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But it seemed to me that these charming boys could use a little help.” He winked at Tom, who was sheepishly wiping away his tears.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Sibylla said. “Benjamin built this kite for the children, but it simply won’t fly.”
John came toddling over on his little legs to investigate. André leaned toward the children. “You two are Tom and John, no? I will show you how to make your kite fly.”
The brothers nodded happily.
“Bon alors, gar?ons,” said André. “Now listen to me. John, you go and get the kite. Tom and I are going to cut off a piece of the line and you, little rascals over there,” he said, switching languages as he turned to speak to the Arab boys, “go and get me an armful of halfa grass over there by the fortress wall.”
The boys scampered off, Johnny ran to fetch the kite, and Tom helped cut a piece of the line with André’s sharp knife.
Sibylla had put her shoes back on and was trying to put her hair in some kind of order. She listened as Rouston showed the children how to make a tail for the kite using tufts of halfa grass by knotting them at regular intervals on a piece of line. With his black jacket, shirt belted at the waist, and wide pants tucked into his leather boots, he reminded her a little of an Ottoman officer she had met at the Willshires’.
“A kite needs a tail to prevent it from spinning on its axis and crashing,” André was explaining to the children. He turned the kite over so that the cross that Benjamin had built from thin wooden sticks was on top, and slightly shortened the line that was attached to it.
“Now all we have to do is knot the tail onto the kite and then you’ll see how wonderfully it flies. Bon!” He got up. “Promise not to fight and to take turns holding the line?”
The boys nodded earnestly. André handed the line to Tom, beckoned one of the Arab boys to come closer, and gave him the kite. “What’s your name, son?”
“Sabri bin Abdul bin Ibrahim bin Ridwan bin Nurredin al Mogadori,” the little boy proudly answered. “But you can call me Sabri.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sabri. This boy here is called Tom Hopkins. You two are going to make this kite fly. You are going to take it and run as fast as you can while Tom holds the line. When I give you the signal, you’ll throw the kite as high as you can, oui?”
The boy nodded seriously, then ran down the beach, kicking up sand behind him.
“Now!” shouted André, as the line grew taut in Tom’s fist and the colorful kite rose into the blue sky, accompanied by the joyful cries of the children.
“Be careful not to let it fall into the water,” he warned.
Then he turned to Sibylla, who had been shouting encouragements to the boys as well, placed his hand on his heart, and bowed with exaggerated gallantry. “Now we’ll have some time to chat.”
“Why not?” she replied.
The wind tore at Rouston’s short black hair and Sibylla found herself wanting to touch it. She blushed again and reminded herself that this was madness. It would only end up making her unhappy.
And yet she could not stop her heart from pounding in her chest. She felt powerfully drawn to this Frenchman with his suntanned skin, laugh lines around his dark eyes, and wavy hair.
They had crossed paths several times since his heroics in the desert. She had seen him at New Year’s receptions at the European consulates and now and again at the souk, where he would be selling the Chiadma’s orange crop in spring and summer, the date crop in fall, and saffron and olives in winter. They had never been alone together and, still, every single one of their encounters was burned into her memory.
She had told no one about her disturbing feelings, but at night, when she heard Firyal tiptoe into Benjamin’s room, she would find herself thinking about Rouston and wonder if he had a Chiadma wife, perhaps even children, or if he preferred a life without attachments.
The strong wind carried them snatches of the muezzin’s call to asr, the afternoon prayer. André took off his jacket and laid it on the sand. “Please.” He smiled at Sibylla. “Do have a seat.” He sat down on the ground next to her and held out a paper bag. “Do you like roasted pistachios?”
“I do!” She reached into the bag. “I love Moroccan cuisine. We just don’t have all of these delectable tidbits in England.”
Rouston looked at her and a smile crossed his face. He too had felt an invisible bond from the first moment they met, and it made him happy in a way he had never known. He longed to tell Sibylla that he found her body, which her pregnancies had made fuller and more feminine, beguiling, and that the warmth radiating from her face made her the most beautiful woman in the world. But that was impossible. André had often wondered how fussy Hopkins, whose undiplomatic and grandiose demeanor had made him so unpopular with the Moroccans, could have been blessed with such an extraordinary woman as his wife.
“Monsieur Rouston?”
He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, dear madame. What was it you said?”
“I asked you what brought you to Mogador. Do you have business in the souk? I’m there myself quite a bit. It’s a wonderful place, isn’t it? All the aromas and sounds! One alleyway smells of soap and perfume, the next has Persian carpets and Indian silks, and the next camel heads and freshly skinned sheep. How marvelous!”
André tore himself away from her glistening blue eyes and answered, “You are correct, I was at the souk to sell the saffron harvested in November. The merchants were expecting it. But, of course, I had to deliver some to the sultan’s private chef before anyone else.”