With that, she rose smoothly from her seat, erasing the space between them as she pressed against him in blatant sexual invitation. Smiling seductively, she ran her hands over his chest. "And aren't I so much more appealing than a dead man?"
Chapter Five
Mukarramma Manara Binte Alzena frowned as she ducked out of her tent and turned her face up to the night sky where bright stars winked down at her. Shivering, she rubbed her bare arms to ward away the night's chill and glanced back at the tent. She turned back to the stars with a dejected sigh as confusion speared her.
"This man... troubles me, Inanna," she admitted in a fervent whisper. "He sees no middle ground, no place between reality and belief. I cannot even be certain he would not mock us both, if he knew. Why have You chosen one such as this? What good can come of it?"
A surge of warmth formed of love and joy spread through her blood, filling her with tingling awareness as a voice deep within her whispered, Love cannot exist without War, Daughter. Only when Our Sargon walks the temple halls are the two truly united to one cause. Serve Us without question in this and your service shall be richly rewarded.
Manara's head bowed in acquiescence, though her lips remained pursed in doubt.
"I hear and obey, Inanna." No one said she had to be happy about it, Manara reminded herself as the rebellion she thought she'd overcome burbled at the edge of her awareness. She once demanded of her mother to know why only she could not experience the joys of life. Her friends and age mates joined the ranks of the ishtaristu -- Ishtar's sacred prostitutes -- as they came of age. They enjoyed the fruits of Ishtar's blessing, populating the temple with masses of adorable children. She, however, remained strictly confined to the lore of medicines and herbs, and the study of noble ways and literature. Until her sixteenth year, she never even came within speaking distance of a man. That she was expected to wait out the best years of her youth, purity intact, for some Warrior-King who was little more than an ancient legend had been unbearable. To be the Poet-Priestess and unify the power of Ishtar with the Warrior-King seemed a preposterous explanation. Her mother's assertion it was the way of things, and how it had always been done, reeked of stagnation and tedium to a younger, more restless Manara. Foolish child that she was back then, she ran away, only to realize her life was not her own, had never been her own. Even free of the temple, she could not break the stringent laws to which she was raised. Those laws were the core of her beliefs and her being. She found she had no desire to break them. Until now.
Manara gnawed the inside of her cheek. Those same beliefs could now harm her. Here was this man, this leader among warriors who bore the sacred mark of Ishtar upon his shoulder, and Manara was afraid. His gruff manner and snarled accusations stung her to the quick, while his soft eyes, like a clear riverbed, hinted at a man far removed from the hardened soldier of fortune she studied so diligently in the months prior to his arrival. That contradiction was one time would solve. However, his muttered words, in the throes of pain-induced delirium, terrified her. This was a man of stubborn, unbending views and his view did not extend beyond what he could see. He would never understand her world or her mission.
Manara swallowed hard as she moved toward the large temple tent at the camp's center. Whatever else happened, Matthew Raleigh must never learn of her part in the terrible actions that initiated this meeting between them. He would never forgive her.
With a heavy sigh, Manara came to a stop, glancing anxiously back at her tent. She'd spent so much time near Matthew these past two months, a strange hollowness enveloped her whenever her duties took her away from him. As if she left half of her soul behind.
"You look like a lass with a problem." The deep, accented voice caused Manara to whip about in surprise. She found herself face-to-face with a mercenary.
He lounged against one of the low, mud brick walls that formed the only remnants of the abandoned village where they'd set up camp. His dark hair gleamed like crow's wings under the starlight, his gray eyes shadowed by both the night and questions.
"You should not be here," she admonished quietly. "You were told the rules. No men about after dark."
Those gray eyes narrowed as he straightened. "And if you people would give me a bloody straight answer, I wouldn't be out here."
She took a wary step back, her breath sticking in her lungs. This man was very different from the one asleep in her tent. Matthew Raleigh was a tormented man with only half of a soul. That, she could handle, even if she didn't quite understand its source. However, this giant before her now was a man who denied his soul. He embraced the world of the unseen Matthew fled, yet this man considered himself already dead and damned. He was both dangerous, and perhaps her strongest ally in reaching Matthew's heart and healing his soul.
"What is your name, mercenary?"
His scowl abated slightly. "Peter Talladay."
Recognition dawned in Manara. This Irishman was Matthew's right hand. Small wonder, then, that Peter Talladay knew no fear. "And what is it that you wish to be told?"
He drew a deep breath and she watched his tension mount. "When we were brought here, there were three of us. Now, there're only two of us in that hospital of yours, so I figure you've stashed Matt elsewhere. Just tell me he's alive."
Manara smiled as she saw the genuine concern in Peter Talladay's eyes. Matthew's destiny might be to seek out and destroy evil, but Peter's was to protect and preserve life. Two sides of the same destiny.
"Matthew Raleigh is alive and healing rapidly. As soon as he is healed enough to walk on his own, I will bring him to you so you may see his health for yourself, Mr. Talladay."
A smile crossed Talladay's face, and the radiant light she sensed about him grew blinding. "You do that, lass."
Before she could caution him to not return to the hospice unescorted, he was gone. Swallowing hard, she realized the truth of why he took the risk of seeking her out after sunset. To Peter Talladay, the night held no risks, no dangers. He believed himself a dead man, and the dead have no fear of dying.
*****
Blood dripped from the woman's hands and words as ancient as the stars filled the air, drawing her into her power trance.
"Maradon Athan, Urasat abd Ereshkigal. Cletuo shatrevat, demomaur helid Husamperos. Immortal Lord of the Underworld, bestow upon me the power to destroy your ancient enemy and visit your wrath upon the world."
Energy, like a live current of electricity, filled the room and charged the air. The woman flung her head back laughing as she absorbed the humming power. Eyes closed, she stretched out the fingers of her mind and slowly closed an iron fist around a soul that would never be safe from her.
*****
Fire ripped through him, white-hot shards of pain dotted his skin, catapulting him backward until the world plunged into a jumbled mess of light and shadow. Terrifying faces danced in and out of his hazy vision, taunting and screeching like the minions of Hell as they tore at his flesh and beat against his body until he was certain he would expire from the agony. He tasted blood and death, as a language he didn't understand droned in his ears. He smelled the stench of decaying flesh, rotting jungle matter and his own frightened sweat as he lay curled in the hollow of a dead tree. Cold rain beat against his fevered skin and he knew what it was like to crave death all over again.
She was there. Like a spectral presence haunting his delirious thoughts, she hovered over him. Her glee-filled, greedy stare bore into him, and he screamed in agony as she sucked blood from his skin. Her lips burned his flesh with a pain borne of betrayal, while ghoulish faces floated in and out of the darkness. He choked on his own vomit, aware there was no escape. Because of her, he failed them all. The bodies lay strewn at his feet -- men, women, and children -- torn apart by the savage beast haunting him, and he fell to the ground, retching...
Matt compacted into a protective ball as he vomited the meager contents of his stomach into the basin some thoughtful soul -- probably his nurse -- placed beside his bed.
He groaned again. He must have a fever. That detached thought brought a weak sound halfway between a moan and a chuckle, as fleeting images of his nightmares returned and restlessness stirred him.
He couldn't take much more of this confinement. It was starting to bring back memories he didn't want. Groggy, he sat up and glanced around in search of escape. Something shifted beside him. A warm softness brushed his thigh. His body sprang alert and Matt fervently wished he'd stayed in his nightmares. They, at least, no longer posed a danger to him. His present predicament was another matter entirely.
Hesitant, his heart pounding like a man uncovering his own doom, Matt eased away the thick woolen blanket and his breath stalled in his lungs as the fever moved from his skin inward until his belly was on fire.
A vision made to tempt even the most driven of men greeted his eyes. She was exquisite, her face bathed in the soft moonlight streaming through the shifting walls of the tent. His gut twisted with an emotion he couldn't name -- a blend of desire and protective awareness that confounded him.
He couldn't stop himself from touching her. Gently, he skimmed his fingers over her dark hair, bound up in a lush braid down her back. It was soft and smooth, like warm silk, beneath his fingertips. The scent that wafted up to him was spicy and exotic, and so uniquely her it imprinted every sensation in his mind.
A few wisps of hair escaped her braid, trailing over her body in a caress his hands itched to follow. He stroked the tendril laying over her shoulder and twined the silky strand around his finger. The electric jolt sent his mind spiraling through time.
Her body moved like poetry in motion as she twined and shifted with the flickering firelight, dancing to the pulse of unseen drums. Her dark hair swirled over him as she came close enough for him to breathe in her enticing scent and see her body outlined beneath her sheer skirt.
A shimmy placed her bare belly right before his face and he could no longer resist her. He reached out, grasped her hips, and pulled her forward as energy shifted all around them. He knew this night would be different from every other night she danced for him. Tonight, he would claim her.
Matt blinked and found his hands on her hips, even as she shifted in his grasp, squirming closer. Her abaya of filmy material left little to the imagination already where it clung to her breasts and luscious hips. As she moved, the thin garment twisted around her, riding up to expose a generous portion of calf and thigh.
He gulped in another lungful of her subtle, spicy scent. His grip tightened as his entire body went up in flames.
She made a small noise, a cross of gasp and moan, and plastered her curves against his side. Lightning danced over his skin. A murmur -- or was that a whimper? -- from her doused the flames as concern ripped through him, his gaze sharpened on her. Her fretful motion settled after a moment and her eyes fluttered in the depths of REM sleep. Whatever she dreamed obviously disturbed her, even if Matt's presence in her bed didn't seem to.
"Ummahât!" The Arabic word emerged in a quiet, agonized plea and her head tossed slightly, small lines wrinkling her forehead. Matt's heart constricted at the bleak loss in that single word. Mother. Suddenly, she was no longer his captor and her mystery was no longer one of suspicion. She was a victim of loss. His arms moved around her waist and he hugged her securely to him as he soothed her.
"Shh," he whispered against the soft hair at her temple, breathing in her drugging scent and wondering if he had truly lost his mind at last. "It's all right, sweetheart. It will be all right."
Her whimpers died away and she snuggled closer in her sleep. Matt groaned inwardly, cursing himself. He was definitely certifiable. He didn't know this woman. He didn't even know her name or whether she meant him harm. Yet, he was drawn to her as powerfully as if he had loved her for a lifetime. He couldn't explain it. All he knew as her lips gently nuzzled his collarbone and her hand came to rest on the hard planes of his stomach, was that every fiber of his being responded to her with desperate, groveling need. He wanted her more than he ever needed or wanted anything in his life.
Matt grimaced in disgust and clamped down on his runaway libido. Hadn't he left a long enough string of broken hearts and promises? He left Sharla literally standing at the altar, for Christ's sake! If any woman ever deserved his love and commitment, it was sweet, undemanding Sharla Granger. He wasn't able to bring himself to live a lie then and he certainly wasn't going to repeat that mistake now. He was pretty sure he couldn't love. Since Rachel, the only thing he gave a damn about was his job. He loved the thrill of the hunt, the swift, decisive blow of a silent war. It always made him feel as if he was actually in control of his own fate.
The woman beside him sighed. Her hand drifted up his chest as her lips moved down his shoulder. He groaned inwardly, keenly aware of her thigh resting across his groin and her soft breast pressed against his arm as flashes of his fantasy returned. Whoever she was, this woman was a master of the art of seduction. He replayed the visions and a shiver of heat passed through him. The events since he first awakened washed over him and everything made a strange kind of sense. Her unabashed observances of his body, her immodesty for a Muslim woman, even her refusal to talk about herself. She had to be a whore!
He heard scuttlebutt, back when he served with the SEALs, of small moving brothels in the Middle East. They didn't stay in one place long since Muslim law denounced them, which would account for the tent and her admittance that the camp was made entirely of women and children. With a sigh of relief, he relaxed, no longer worried about imposing himself on this fiery young woman. She would think nothing of a brief, no-strings liaison, as long as she received payment in the end. That thought in mind, Matt let his control evaporate, capturing the woman to himself as he fused his mouth over hers in a kiss meant to exorcise all his lustful demons.
Her lips were the sweetest wine, and he drank deeply from them, aware he would pay dearly for his transgression. The very laws by which he gained rule of this land forbade him this woman's love. Inanna meant Her servant to be only his guide and advisor. He was not permitted to touch her. Still, with her lips warm and willing against his and her skin so hot and soft beneath his hands, he could not make himself care.
Mukarramma sank against him, her supple body soft against his skin as she twined herself with him. He thought not a moment more of transgressions or oaths. He could think of nothing beyond this woman -- her softness, her intoxicating scent that enthralled him. His tongue savored the sweetness of her mouth, even as his hands sought fresh conquest along the curves of her naked body.
He cupped breasts that pressed eagerly against him and tasted her moan of pleasure as she eased back enough for him to explore. Gently, he skimmed a thumb over her nipple and felt the texture change from soft to pebbled as she gasped against his onslaught.
He broke their kiss to watch her, her smooth body like poetry as she moved beneath his touch. Eyes closed, her breathing came in panting gasps as she whispered his name like a prayer of power. He twined his hands in her glorious hair, capturing the silky falls as he brought her mouth back to his.
A groan rumbled up from his chest as he skimmed his hands down her bare back and settled her on him, naked flesh to naked flesh. His hands cupped her bare buttocks, pressing her against him, and he caught her moan with his mouth as she squirmed in his arms. He circled her full, rising breasts as he drew her up along his body. He transferred his mouth from her lips to her breast, and drew a low moan of pleasure from her as his fingers probed the soft delta of her thighs.
A startled gasp broke the night air. Matt blinked to awareness at that sound, most certainly
not one of pleasure, as the woman in his arms fairly leapt away from him, clutching her ridiculously thin abaya in an effort to cover herself. A single word issued from her lips like an imperial edict and plunged Matt into total confusion.
"No."
"No?" He didn't understand what she meant. He was still reeling from the powerful sensations that wouldn't let go. He'd heard of déjà vu before, but never experienced it until he came here. If he didn't know better he'd believe it was real, this connection to her. She was telling him no... To what? "Why not?"
Her eyes shifted away and then back, her lower lip caught between her teeth as if she struggled with the truth. "It is forbidden."
Those words jolted through him and the déjà vu was back. Emotions and sensations poured over him. He couldn't be sure what was real and what were remnants of a dream. He wasn't allowed to touch her. Still...
This woman was the link between what he knew and what he didn't understand. He edged closer to her. "I don't understand."
Her body tensed with more than the cold night air currently raising gooseflesh along her skin. She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other and the pillow bed beneath Matt shifted. "It is... difficult to explain, Matthew."
The soft, hesitant way she said his name -- as if she wasn't quite sure how he'd react -- struck a chord deep inside Matt and a band closed within his chest. With sudden clarity, h decided he didn't like this distance, or her stiff, distrustful posture.
Slowly, he edged toward her, careful to keep his gaze locked on hers. He approached her like he would a skittish animal. With their gazes locked, he was aware of her on levels he'd never been aware of another human being. He swore he could feel her beneath his skin, and it turned him on more than any sexual experience in his life. He could feel every breath she drew, every prickle of cold and heat across her skin as if it was his own. He hungered for more.
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