DESIRE OF OUR HEARTS : CHAPTER ONE

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   Alma, high priest of King Noah, was expecting to have a dull evening.

   This was certainly not the first feast that the king had organized to find his next wife or concubine, the choice of the woman's status depending entirely on the king's mood. Alma was the youngest of the king's priests and despite having only been in service for the last eight months, he had seen more than his fair share of the king's debauchery.

   He had enjoyed it at first. What young man wouldn't? The constant influx of the land's most beautiful young women parading around the throne room for the king and his priests, the maguey wine that flowed without stopping, the revelry that lasted into the early hours of the morning.

   But eventually one feast seemed to bleed into the next. The festivities made him feel old, tired. He always had a vague sensation of a huge weight pressing against his chest the morning after. And a sickening, bitter taste in his mouth that he couldn't get rid of.

   And then the king had asked Alma to bring his fourteen-year-old sister to a feast. The weight on his chest grew into a mountain. Alma knew what these men would do to his sister, what horrors the king himself could inflict on her.

   He used his status as the king's favorite priest to avoid the request, to flatter and turn the king's thoughts away from his sister. But it had changed how Alma looked at the women gathered in the room in front of him. They were not merely playthings for the king. They were someone's daughter, someone's cousin, someone's niece, someone's granddaughter.

   Someone's sister.

   Alma slowly chewed the piece of chicle gum in his mouth, surveying the scene. The king had ordered, as he always did, that the choicest maidens in the lands of Lehi-Nephi and Shilom be rounded up and brought to the palace for his selection of a new companion, sometimes against their will. However, many of the women in the room seemed happy to be there, trying to catch the king's eye as they laughed and twirled in flashes of color. Their gaiety seemed forced to Alma because of the oppressiveness of the increasingly stuffy room. The air hung heavy with the scent of smoke and sweat.

   The light from candles and fires highlighted the opulence of the room, the intricately carved lintels that supported the roof overhead, the precious metals that seemed to flash from every corner, inlaid in every wall. At the center of it all, King Noah lounged on his throne, a masterful work of fine wood, silver, gold, and jade with a jaguar pelt laid across the seat. The stuffed head of the jaguar peeked out from underneath the king's backside. Alma had to choke back a laugh at the image.

   Fortunately, no one noticed Alma's amusement at his ruler's expense. His fellow priests were too busy picking through the women that King Noah had not shown an interest in. From watching them, Alma knew why he had been chosen to be the king's priest. Alma was a descendant of Nephi, of a noble family. He was young, fit, handsome, and intelligent. Just as most of the other priests were. Just as the king used to be and apparently still believed himself to be.

   Alma shook his head at the disloyal thoughts that filled his mind. He had been selected to serve King Noah, to teach the people the truths of the king's church—not to make judgments about his ruler. Certainly not to disagree with the king either. Men who failed to see things the king's way had a tendency of winding up dead.

   Stifling a yawn, Alma stood up from his gilded gold chair on the priests' dais. He wondered if he could sneak out without being noticed. He walked parallel to the length of the breastwork until he reached the end of the dais. He looked about, trying to make certain that no one of importance would see him leave.

   The sensation of a cool breeze blowing across the soft hairs on the back of his neck made Alma stop. With a tingling awareness, Alma knew that something was about to happen.

   He turned, scanning the room again. Then he saw . . . her.

   And promptly fell off the dais.

   Alma heard rumbling chuckles and dainty feminine trills of laughter at his expense. "Too drunk to stand," someone nearby said. Although he had not touched any wine, Alma did feel drunk. Off balance. Not himself. Alma lumbered back to his feet to find her again.

   There. There she was.

   His wife.

   The thought popped into his head unbidden but, Alma found strangely enough, not unwelcome. He smiled as he considered what the woman would think of him if he crossed the room to propose marriage.

   For now it was enough to just look at her. Alma would not have been able to explain the feeling he had watching her, something like recognition. Like he had somehow split into two parts and had finally found that missing piece of himself.

   Alma loved her, and he didn't even know her name.

   It was not just her beauty, though she was certainly beautiful enough. Her obsidian black hair picked up the candlelight, shining like a halo around her face. Her cheeks flushed with color, but from the expression on her face, he knew it wasn't from excitement. She looked angry, unhappy to be there. Her delicate pink lips were compressed into a thin line, giving Alma a determination to make her laugh, to see what a smile would do to her lovely features. He wished he could see the color of her eyes.

   His attraction didn't come from her shining personality. If she had one. It was difficult to tell as she lurked in the shadows, scowling at everyone she saw. He was not captivated by her intelligence either. He had no way of telling if she could put two words together. For all Alma knew, she might be some simpering maiden with all the sense of a rock. He had not heard her laugh, had not smelled her scent, had not kissed her—things that might make a man feel this way.

   Aside from beauty, she had absolutely nothing in that moment to recommend herself, but Alma loved her nonetheless.

   An urgency pressed upon him, a need to be closer to her. He had to hear her speak. Had to see her smile sweetly at him. Had to get her father's name to seek permission.

   Had to learn her name.

   He spit his chicle out on the floor, not caring that it landed on an expensive woven rug. "Excuse me," Alma said as he pushed through the throng, never taking his eyes off his beloved.

   "Alma! I have the reports on the tower for you!"

   Helam, Alma's scribe and aide, stood in front of Alma, blocking his path. As the newest high priest, Alma had been assigned the newest scribe. But Helam was so full of eagerness that Alma had a hard time being stern with him. He forgave things in Helam he would not have forgiven in other men. And Helam did an excellent job. He had the ability to focus on details that few possessed, although it made Helam oblivious to the rest of the world. Like now, when Helam seemed totally unaware that he stood in the midst of a wild, raucous party.

   Summoning up his last measure of patience, Alma gently pushed Helam's parchment aside. "Tomorrow. We will go over these tomorrow."

   "But . . . but . . . I . . . you . . ." Helam sputtered as he waved the parchment in the air. "You said you wanted to see these right away."

   "I know I did. But not tonight. I have to—" Alma stopped. He had let Helam's bureaucratic zeal distract him. He could no longer see her. Where had she gone? Alma's head whipped back and forth. She couldn't have left. He hadn't even had the chance to talk to her.

   Alma's throat constricted when he saw her being dragged away by Amulon, a fellow high priest. Alma pushed past Helam, sprinting to intercept Amulon.

   He caught up with them in a long hall that bordered an inner courtyard. Alma saw that she hammered at Amulon with her fists and heard her saying over and over, "Not you. Not you. Anyone but you."

   "Amulon, I'm glad I found you." Alma put on his best political smile, a warm, inviting expression that didn't quite reach his eyes, meant to lure others into listening and believing. The woman stopped struggling and looked at Alma with an expression of hope.

   Alma resisted every impulse in his body that screamed for him to pummel Amulon into the ground. He clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from going around Amulon's throat. "King Noah is looking for you," Alma lied, saying the first thing that came to his mind.

   A corner of Amulon's mouth smirked upwards. "Nonsense. The king has already retired for the night with his new concubine. That's why I selected one of the women he passed over for myself."

   "You will let her go," Alma said, the false smile sliding off his face.

   "Will I?"

   "Yes." Alma took a step closer to Amulon. "Or I will make things very . . . difficult for you." The menace Alma felt toward Amulon laced the edges of his threat.

   A flash of fear danced across Amulon's face. After a few moments that felt like an eternity to Alma, Amulon released his grip on the woman. Amulon began to walk away, stopped, and turned back toward Alma.

   "The king is fickle. His favorites come and go. Your time is waning," Amulon hissed at Alma. "You will not always have his ear. I will see to that."

   Alma did not respond to Amulon's challenge. He didn't fear Amulon. Alma knew Amulon's weakness—his darkest fear—knew how to prey upon it. Amulon had no such hold over him. Alma had the higher ground, and he could see that Amulon realized it.

   Glaring but saying nothing more, Amulon left. Alma shifted his attention back to the woman. Then he noticed the cuts on her face, bleeding slightly. "You're hurt," Alma pointed at her face. "Here."

   Alma reached out to assess the wounds and found her cheek even softer than he could have imagined. "How did this happen?" he asked.

   "Amulon hit me when I resisted," the woman replied, trembling slightly under his touch. "He seems to like wearing rings."

   White-hot fury lanced through him and he again had to restrain himself from finding Amulon and beating him.

   "He . . . he was going to . . ." the woman started to sob. Acting on instinct, Alma pulled her to him. He held her shaking frame close, saying soothing words. He knew he should feel strange holding a woman he had never met before. But holding her felt right. Like she belonged there. Belonged to him and no other.

   When her cries had subsided, she began to back out of his embrace. Alma didn't want to let her go. He released her but felt a pang of loss.

   "I am sorry," the woman said, her gaze directed down. "I'm not one for weeping usually. It's just been a horrible day."

   "I saw," Alma replied. The feeling of caring for her, worrying over her, felt so foreign to him. Her misery cut through him. Despite wanting to prolong his time with her, he had a stronger desire to get her home so she could end this day. It felt somewhat ironic that what was quickly becoming one of the best nights of his life had been one of her worst. Perhaps he could change that. But first she had to be cleaned up. "There is a small kitchen down this hall. May I take you there and wash your cuts?"

   She looked up at him and nodded. Alma guided her to the darkened room. He found a jug of water. Alma then located a bowl and filled it with the water. A pile of rags lay folded atop a container, and Alma took one to dip in the water. After he had wrung out the excess, he gently dabbed at the cuts on her cheek. "My name is Alma, by the way," he said.

   "I'm Sam."

   "Sam?" Alma pulled back to look at her with a bemused grin. "You have a man's name?"

   A ghost of a smile played on her lips. "I'm told that my father tired of waiting for a son to pass his name to and decided to give it to me."

   Sam. Somehow, it suited her. His heart flipped over in a strange joy that he now knew the name of his wife. Or, more correctly, soonto- be wife. The formalities would have to be dealt with first.

   "There." Alma put the rag down into the bowl of water. "It looks better now."

   Sam put her hand up to her face and held it against the scratches. "Thank you."

   "It's late. I'm sure your family is worried about you. Do you live here in the city?"

   "Yes."

   "May I accompany you home?"

   She looked flustered. "I can find my way home."

   "I am not questioning your sense of direction," Alma said with a teasing grin. "Considering what time of night it is, I think you would be safer if you had someone with you."

   Sam appeared to be contemplating Alma's offer. Then she said softly, "All right."

   Alma directed her through the corridors and interconnected rooms until they had passed safely out of the palace. The night was as beautiful as any he could have asked for. A blanket of stars hung suspended in the sky above them, and the full moon lit their path. Alma began to ask Sam questions. His mind raged with curiosity about her. It reminded him of the time he had found an ancient book in the king's library, a book he had never seen before. Alma had stayed up all night to read it. He wanted to know everything about the book, just as now he wanted to know everything about Sam.

   Sam answered each of Alma's questions, and in a short time he discovered her age, that she was the middle child in a family of five girls, that her favorite dish was her mother's turkey and vegetable stew, that she hated fetching water in the morning, that her favorite color was yellow. He sensed her reservation, heard that halting, hesitating breath she took before each of her replies. She did not ask Alma any questions in return; he didn't give her the chance. Each answer led him to another question, and another.

   He had become so wrapped up in their conversation that Alma didn't notice that they had moved away from the more expensive homes and buildings surrounding the temple and had entered a poorer section of the city. When Sam stopped walking and announced, "This is where I live," Alma had to blink several times.

   Her house, if it could be called that, was a poorly constructed hut that Alma wouldn't have even put his peccaries in. Alma touched the fraying ropes loosely holding the sticks that comprised the walls and could only shake his head at the misshapen thatched roof. "You live here?"

   Alma realized his mistake too late. He saw her face fall, saw the anger harden her features, saw her stiffen and move away from him.

   "There is nothing wrong with where I live."

   "No, I apologize. It's just that I—" Alma said in a rushed tone, trying to right the situation, but not knowing what to say about his reaction. How could he explain to her that he imagined such a goddess would live in a palatial mansion? Not a shabby hovel like this one. Sam deserved better. He would give her better.

   "I wanted more for you." He hadn't meant to say it aloud, but the words escaped his lips before he could stop them.

   "What right is it of yours to want more for me?"

   For the first time that night, her shell of perfection cracked for him. Alma had never seen such impertinence from a woman. A woman should not talk this way. Especially if she was going to be his wife.

   "Perhaps this is something I should talk to your father about first."

   Sam's eyes widened. "Why would you need to talk to him unless . . ." Her words trailed off, and although she did not say it, Alma could see that she understood his intentions.

   Her expression was not the joyous rapture he had hoped for. She looked ill.

   "I can give you a better life. I think I could make you happy," Alma told her, ignoring the sickening thud of his heart. He had to fix this situation, but these surging, unfamiliar emotions hobbled his usual quick thinking. "I'm a high priest and I . . ."

   The words died in his mouth at her expression. She no longer looked just pained. She looked horrified.

   "You're one of them?" Sam said in a voice full of disgust. "I thought you were just a . . . you're one of them."

   "I want to marry you." Alma blurted the words out. Now Sam looked like she would vomit. He had lost total control of his ability to say the right thing as he was accustomed to always doing. Sam had made a mess of him in the space of a few minutes. He had to convince her, to show her that marrying him would be the best possible idea. Alma tried to collect his thoughts, tried to think of how to save the situation.

   Before he could say a word, Sam spoke. "In a thousand lifetimes, I would never marry you. I despise everything you believe, everything you represent, what your extravagant life costs people like us. Believe me when I say my father will not give his consent. I will not let you speak to him."

   "You can't mean that." His voice sounded incredulous, and only he knew that it was tinged with the faintest hint of respect. Alma found he liked that she stood her ground, that she didn't relent. Sam was magnificent in her anger. She was fierce. Rather than deter him, her strength made Alma want her as his own even more. "I don't think anyone has ever dared speak to me like that."

   "Come near me again and it won't be the last time it happens." Sam spun on her heel and knelt down to unhook the bottom corner of the curtain that hung in the doorway.

   "This is not over," Alma told her as she straightened up.

   She gave him one last scathing, hate-filled glare and said, "Yes, it is."

   Sam stepped inside her home, but Alma didn't try to detain her. He had somehow ruined everything. Alma stood there for some time before he finally turned to walk back to his own home. With each step he became more resolute, his thoughts fixed on ideas on how to win Sam over. He would marry her. King Noah had once remarked that when Alma set himself to any task, the king had no worries that it would be accomplished. Alma always pursued his goal relentlessly. He would not let anything, or anyone, turn him from his course.

   Not even Sam.