“So it is the faransawi whom you desire,” she whispered to Sibylla. “A beautiful man, by God. He makes a woman’s heart sing, does he not?”
Sibylla had not noticed André Rouston right away. But now, as he ran toward the scaffold followed by some of the same Arab boys who had played with her sons and their kite, her heart skipped a beat once again.
Stop it, she thought and pressed her fingers against the stone balustrade. Stop indulging in these improper fantasies!
Still, she was unable to avert her eyes as André carefully checked that the riders had loaded their rifles properly. Even the Arab riders showed their respect and bowed their heads when he returned their guns to them.
“Sayyida Sibylla.” She jumped as Wahida gently touched her arm. “If you wish, I can have my slave take a message to the faransawi.”
Sibylla jerked away in alarm. “You are mistaken, Wahida. I am a married woman and a mother!”
She was terrified to learn that her feelings for Rouston were so apparent. Unsure, she looked to Rusa. Fortunately, the qaid’s mother had eyes only for her son, who was trying to keep his horse under control. But Lalla Jasira’s dark eyes met hers and Sibylla felt as if the woman could read her thoughts. Sibylla blushed, and the woman placed her hand reassuringly on Sibylla’s shoulder and nodded discreetly.
All Sibylla could do was nod back and look to the beach again. In anticipation of a great spectacle, the Arab boys had sat down in the sand. Rouston pulled his pistol from its holster and took a step back from the scaffolding. He raised his right hand and held it up for several seconds. When he finally fired, the riders began to charge with their rifles held high. The horses’ hooves tore up the sand and screams filled the air.
Boom!
The animal bladders exploded with dull thuds. Water squirted everywhere, and the smell of gun powder permeated the air. The women around Sibylla exploded into laughter. The children on the roof ran around, gleefully imitating the sound of gunfire. Yet Sibylla felt suddenly alone and dejected. She bade farewell to Rusa, Lalla Jasira, and Wahida, and was escorted out of the harem by a slave.
“The lady with the lion’s hair is a virtuous woman,” Lalla Jasira said reproachfully to Wahida.
“Certainly,” the concubine replied, looking at the beach, where the riders had taken their positions again. “But is the well not dry when it lacks water?”
“Sibylla!”
She spun around. André had suddenly appeared behind her in the narrow street.
“What are you doing here? Why are you not at the beach?”
Instead of replying, he took her by the arm and guided her behind a small bakery. A massive oven stood in the middle of the courtyard. It resembled a large beehive constructed of dried-mud- and-straw tiles. The oven belonged not only to the baker but the local residents as well. Every morning, neighborhood women would bring their freshly kneaded dough on large wooden planks. Now, in the late afternoon, the courtyard was empty. Two cats preening themselves on a pile of wood scurried away as the humans approached. Voices could be heard from several doorways, and the air smelled of the food the baker’s wife was preparing for dinner.
André pulled Sibylla into a dark passageway. “I spotted you on the rooftop—your hair was uncovered. And then you disappeared. I thought you must be on your way home, so I came to find you.” His voice was so tender, and still he held her arm. Sibylla’s knees trembled.
“I apologize for the ambush,” André continued. “I had to see you.”
He was standing very close. She could feel the warmth of his body and smell the masculine scent of his skin.
“Why?” she asked quietly. “What are you planning to do now that you have—ambushed me?” If he was planning to take her into his arms and kiss her, she would not object at all.
“I want us to meet in peace and take the time to speak our hearts truly. Will you meet me at the old Portuguese church, Sibylla? We would be completely undisturbed.”
Sibylla burned to hear the truth of his heart. And yet the idea of meeting this dashing Frenchman in the ruined church troubled her.
“Monsieur Rouston, I am a married woman and cannot slink through the alleyways like a thief to meet with a man! What if we’re seen?”
“I will wait outside your house after evening prayers,” André responded. “No one will see us in the dark. Not even the moon will betray us. The crescent is still very small.”
“Truly, you have thought of everything. But I have not even agreed to meet,” she said sharply. It annoyed her that he had made a plan before consulting her. If this Frenchman thought she could be had so easily, he was mistaken!
André, however, was undeterred. “Please, Sibylla! I know you feel that there is something special between us.”
He gently placed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, making goose bumps rise all over her body. Benjamin might have shared her bed, he might be the father of her children, and yet none of that had created a bond between the two of them. André only needed to touch her lightly and she was ready to forget her marital vows.
“You may be right,” she admitted. “But is that reason enough for clandestine meetings?”
“Is this not all we have?” he asked urgently. “In two, maybe three days, I will be riding back to the Chiadma, and months will pass before we see each other again.”
She looked into his eyes. “If we had met earlier, under different conditions. But that was not to be . . .” She stopped. “It’ll be dark soon. I must go. Au revoir, André.”
Before she could have second thoughts, Sibylla forced herself to cross the courtyard. But André rushed after her.
“I will wait in front of your house, Sibylla,” he whispered emphatically. “Will you come?”
She couldn’t help but smile as she looked into his face. “I do not know. But please do not wait in front of the house. The gatekeeper will see you. Wait by the little gate to the back alley.”
“God is great, God is great. There is no god besides God!” the muezzin intoned.
It was almost midnight. Sibylla wrapped the shawl around her head and shoulders, took her shoes in one hand and a candle in the other, and tiptoed out of her room. She paused for a moment in the corridor, but the house was silent. She heard the distant rolling of the waves and the wind rustling through the leaves of the olive trees. Outside the window, a few stars were twinkling in the sky, and a few gray clouds drifted past the silver crescent moon.
I am twenty-seven years old, she thought, as she padded along the wooden floor. And here I am, in love for the first time. What a wonderful feeling.