In Her Name

by Esther Mitchell

  He didn't want to hear about duty. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he preferred to think she cared for him because she wanted to, not because she had to. His attention shifted to the table and flashes of his vision returned. Time for a subject change. "Do you mind if I ask what you were studying?"

  Her smile blossomed. "Of course not."

  Rising, she moved back to the low table, scooped up the clay slab and returned to his side. "These are medical texts."

  "These are medical texts?" He took the slab she held out, studying the series of wedge-shaped characters on it. Cuneiform. His mother taught him the basics of the ancient written language; a skill he revealed to no one. He identified with the language in ways he could barely admit to himself. Like a missing part of his soul. Now, aware of Manara's regard, he dredged up a lopsided smile. "And I thought Latin was bad!"

  She laughed and then sobered as her hand gently touched the clay tablet. "These are very special texts. Very few like this survive today."

  He nodded, impressed, but unable to say how much so. He knew just how rare real cuneiform tablets were; only a select few museums had artifacts like these. Joyanne Raleigh was an antiquities professor and taught her son to appreciate history's rare and precious treasures. However, the lifetime of suffering that came after her death taught him to play his cards close, especially when he wasn't sure who he could trust. "I've seen something like this before. Cuneiform, right?"

  Manara's hand traced a ligature of characters and Matt's throat went dry. Her innate sensuality floored him.

  "That is what archeologists call it, yes," she answered him quietly, and suddenly he felt guilty for lying to her. What about this woman made him want to tell her everything, even when he suspected she was up to her neck in the events that brought him here? Good thing she was oblivious to his suspicions, or guilt, as she continued, "It is Sumerian, an ancient language, virtually lost today. Only my people still speak it, passed from mother to child."

  He perked up, intrigued. According to his mother, Sumerian was a dead language, unspoken in millennia. "Can you teach me?"

  She shook her head. "We do not teach our language to outsiders. Our laws forbid us to speak the ancient language to any but each other. If I taught you, you would be unable to leave. Ever."

  Her solemn eyes and beautiful face arrested Matt's attention, even as déjà vu tugged at him again. He couldn't help thinking how being near her everyday didn't feel like a sacrifice. Gently, he reached out to smooth her silky skin with his fingers, cupping one hand against her cheek. "To be near you? It would be worth it, Manara."

  Matthew's words tumbled through Manara like heady wine and she held her breath against feelings she did not understand. The squeeze of her heart and the dizzying race of her pulse were sensations she was quite certain were forbidden to her. She wasn't sure she could resist. Her limbs were weak and her skin felt like it was about to come apart all around her.

  She tried to draw a full breath, to fight the pull of his words and the power of his eyes as he silently awaited her response, but her lungs would not cooperate. With shallow breaths she hesitantly lifted her gaze, and nearly drowned in the roiling, muddy depths of his eyes. Those eyes were like the mighty Tigris, drawing her in and carrying her away. Manara's chest rose and fell swiftly as she fought for breath. She could not allow this. Matthew did not know what he agreed to. She could not let him make such an empty bargain.

  "It would be an empty trade, Matthew," she whispered hoarsely as she finally tore her gaze away, struggling to make him understand. "One you would quickly grow to resent. You are of the outside world, a part of upheaval and changing alliances, while I was raised within closed walls, unaware anything existed beyond them. I have duties which forbid me what you know intimately, in both love and violence." The pain of stark truth was nearly unbearable. Though not nearly so much as trapping a man in a prison he would only grow to hate was. "You would gain nothing and would grow to hate me, Matthew. I cannot allow that."

  She started to rise, to get as far from her confusion as she could. Manara froze with a gasp as a strong, warm hand closed around her upper arm, halting her. She could have broken his hold easily, but she couldn't think straight. Her breath bated, and she couldn't help the dread she knew must show in her eyes, even as the fire in his consumed her.

  "I already have nothing, Manara. I'm a dead man walking."

  With those murmured words, he angled his head and captured her mouth in a kiss she was not strong enough to stop. The first touch of his lips was magic, catapulting her beyond the stars and out of reality. She froze, uncertain how to respond. Her body and soul were a pool of confusion, molten and frozen at the same time. She had a vague impression they'd kissed before, but she was unsure what to do. Her body was alive with a fire she couldn't contain, but her mind kept her frozen in place, aware how forbidden -- and dangerous -- this was.

  His mouth moved over hers, undemanding, and his gentleness pierced the ice around her heart and thawed her panic. With a soft sigh, she melted against him as the kiss deepened, drawing her further under.

  The cosmos shuddered behind her closed eyelids as worlds collided within her and wiped away the last of her doubts. Whoever else Matthew Raleigh was, one thing she knew in her deepest soul. This man was her destiny -- and her destiny did not involve sex.

  Yanked from the warmth enveloping her, Manara gasped as she broke away from his embrace. She retreated in a flash, putting the space of the tent between them, afraid she might give in to the heat pulsing through her.

  "Matthew, we cannot..."

  His gaze followed her and her anxiety grew. She recalled her mother's warnings to never lead a man on unless she was prepared to follow through. She bit her lip, aware she was responsible for the tension between her and this man. She might not have seduced him, but she was a full participant. She could admit that much to herself. His patience with her constant retreats must be wearing thin, by now. She held her breath as fear pulsed through her. Not fear of Matthew; she did not think it was possible to fear him, the more she came to know him. Instead, she was afraid of herself. She was terrified she was not strong enough to resist him if he pressed the issue.

  He sat back with a sigh, before a wry smile curved up one corner of his lips. "All right, Manara. For now."

  Manara's chest felt constricted and her gaze stayed on him for a long moment, searching for any sign of artifice. Her heart tripped into her throat when she found none. Surprised, she breathed, "You are sure?"

  Matthew winced as he leaned forward. She imagined his abdominal wound would pain him, scrunched up like that. However, the earnest light in his eyes twisted her heart, and tears burned her eyes at his reassuring smile.

  "Look, I'm in no shape for that kind of workout at the moment, and you're clearly not ready. I'm not about to try something neither one of us is ready for."

  Warmth that had nothing to do with the sensual heat of a moment ago, flowed through Manara and she found herself smiling back at him, more drawn to his gentle understanding than she would have been to the most blatant sexual innuendo. Matthew Raleigh was not like the men of whom her mother spoke so often. Instead, he was patient and kind. He would wait for her. Only, she knew his wait would likely be forever.

  She looked up, and the heat of his gaze captured her as it raked over her, filling her insides with delicious torment. He may be willing to wait, but she was uncertain she had his kind of willpower, no matter her duty.

  "But mark my words, Manara." His quiet voice shivered through her as he spoke again, and her heart went into instant overdrive at the sound. She fell into the depths of his gaze, her breath hitching as he finished, "One day, I'm going to find out what it takes to break through that wall of yours."

  Those words sank over Manara like an uneasy cloak and she knew his was the voice of prophecy. Matthew Raleigh was the only man alive with the power to breach her defenses and she was far from ready for the assault. She was, she decided with a tremble, m
ore terrified by that quiet statement than she would have been by any violent threat to her life.

  Chapter Eight

  There's a thin line between reason and insanity, and he was skating the edge. Bad enough he faced the grim fact he was dead to the entire world if he didn't find a way to communicate with Prometheus' Mission Control, soon. Worse, day after day, he looked at the same tent walls, still too wiped out from his wounds to make it further than the tent's billowing entrance under his own steam. Worst of all, night after night, he lay awake listening to the soft sounds of Manara sleeping, feeling her warmth against his side, and faced even more dangerous demons.

  How was he supposed to walk away? Manara fascinated him. As wary as he was of her motives in picking up a mortally wounded stranger and carting him home to nurse, Matt couldn't help but be intrigued by her gentle nature, or turned on by her unconscious beauty. Still, beautiful or not, she was little more than his jailor, and this tent remained his prison as long as he was injured. Matt stirred restlessly, chaffing at his own limitations. He wasn't used to inactivity, and he detested injury. It reminded him of prison, and he had a severe aversion to that particular memory.

  Looking over at Manara -- calmly reading one of her clay tablets -- he scowled. He envied her serenity, and how comfortable she looked with stillness. He hadn't been able to sit still long enough to read more than a few pages in years. Ever since Somalia.

  "What's your secret?"

  Manara's head shot up, and she wasn't quite quick enough to hide the flash of panic beneath her carefully schooled expression. "What secret?"

  He forced a disarming smile to his lips even as his brain worked overtime convincing himself he hadn't seen panic in her gray eyes. "How can you sit still like that? I don't think I've ever seen anyone sit quite that still before."

  A sad smile flitted across her face. "It took a long time, and a lot of pain to learn. I was once very restless. In fact, I once ran away from home because I was bored and angry with my life." Her eyes fell, then. "That was only the first of many mistakes."

  Her grief and pain were almost palpable and Matt cleared his throat against the sudden tightness of emotion in his chest. He shifted, uncertain why her words affected him so deeply, but anxious to take away her anguish. Awkwardly, he changed the subject.

  "More ancient medical texts?"

  Her gaze rose, bemused, before following his to the clay tablets. Grateful relief flashed across her face before she smiled and shook her head.

  "No. These are legends which my mother..." The flash of sorrow returned, before she swiftly and deliberately swept it away. "She passed these on to me. They are ancient tales; some of the greatest to ever be written." She lifted one -- obviously only the bottom half of a tablet, considering the jagged and broken upper edge. "This is one of the legends of Sargon."

  He offered her a wry smile and a lifted eyebrow. "Looks incomplete."

  She nodded. "The first half of the legend of Sargon's Adoption was taken away by archaeologists who sought only treasures, and had no idea what they held. Fortunately, they are not aware this half still exists."

  The shaft of desire that stabbed through him as he watched her hands moving lovingly over the clay tablet disconcerted Matt. He found himself wishing she'd touch him that way. Suppressing the inappropriate urge he asked, "So, who was Sargon?"

  Her gaze lingered on the tablet, though Matt suspected she knew the tale by heart.

  "Sargon was the first True King of Mesopotamia. As a young man, he lost all that he held dear. He wandered, lost, in the open desert for nearly a moon's phase. Eventually, he stumbled into Ishtar's sacred gardens. Sargon was a man easy to look upon and soon captured the attention of Ishtar with both his beauty and his courage. She took upon Herself his tutelage in all things concerning battle and law, and in time became so taken with him, She adopted him as Her own beloved son."

  The open adoration in Manara's eyes and voice as she recounted the scrap of mythology filled Matt with restless frustration. If only she would look at him that way, speak to him in that tone of voice... Instead, she treated him to her fear and denial, while the name of a centuries-dead corpse -- if this Sargon guy ever even existed -- gained pure, devoted love from her.

  "Sounds like a real prince of a guy," he muttered bitterly, turning his head away and effectively ending the conversation. He heard Manara's confused murmur and was glad he couldn't hear the words.

  Eyes closed, Matt struggled against the unfamiliar beast of jealousy. What was happening to him? He'd never been jealous a day in his life. None of his liaisons ever gave him a moment's bother -- not even Christiana, who flaunted her infidelity during their year and a half relationship. Most people would have expected him to be pissed about that, but he wasn't. He couldn't have cared less, completely unconcerned where she spent her time or with whom. Yet this complicated, mysterious virgin -- the antithesis of everything he ever sought in a woman -- turned him inside out in just a few short days, leaving him aching and possessive when he had no right to either feeling. Maybe, he mused inwardly, Sharla was right. Maybe he did only want what he knew he couldn't have. If that was true, then he was in very big trouble. If this past week taught him anything, it was that Manara was a woman who could not be possessed. Even if she eventually gave in to her physical desires, he knew with a sinking feeling, on a level he didn't even understand, Manara was far beyond the reach of the likes of Matthew Raleigh.

  *****

  The Black Widow leaned one shoulder against the window frame and watched Ra'id in the street below direct his men how to handle the clay tablets for transport to the antiquities expert he claimed would confirm that the tablets were authentic. Her ruby-tinted lips twisted downward in anger. She still couldn't believe he dared question her. No one questioned the Black Widow. Still... "He took the bait."

  "I still say you play a very dangerous game, Rachel."

  She turned her head to meet the dark gaze of Dimitri Lapinov, leader and legend among the Brotherhood's Tarantula Brigade. With nearly thirty years, and a hundred successful assassinations to his name before he joined them, Dimitri earned his place at the head of the deadly, elite assassin's guild decades ago. She refused to be impressed by his ruthlessness. He was still a servant of the Widows and she called him here for a purpose.

  "I didn't bring you here to assess my strategy, Lapinov."

  He rested his hip against the room's table, muscular arms crossed over a massive chest, his handsome but scarred face blandly unconcerned by her ire. Great gods of old, but he was a cold son of a bitch.

  "I gathered as much," he responded to her attack without so much as a flinch. "Still, you are playing with fire."

  She snorted in disdain. "I can handle him. He is nothing."

  One dark brow lifted and he pushed off from the table to join her. His frown deepened as he looked out the window, his gaze fixed on Ra'id. "Be careful. He is one of Ishtar's Children."

  "Which is precisely why I need him. He will find the temple and distract the demon while I search for the sword."

  "And what if he has a change of heart?" He glared down at the man in question. "He is weak. Nearly as weak as those sheep who follow him. It would not take much to convince him to betray the Brotherhood."

  A sinister smile curved her lips. Little did the Brotherhood know, her plans didn't involve them. She planned to collect the artifacts and find the Temple of the Stars herself. However, as long as she still needed pawns, they would do as well as any.

  "Ra'id al-Mawsil believes he does the will of Allah, not Ishtar, and certainly not that of Sargon's demon. He's already murdered his mother and dozens of the sacred priestesses of Ishtar. He's already damned. Find me a man better suited for our purposes than that."

  His lips twitched as understanding lit his eyes. She had to admit his shrewd mind appealed to her. Maybe she would keep him around after she released Onuris. After all, Onuris wouldn't deny her minions. Not after everything she did for him.

  "S
o you will use him to feed the demon and gain control of it." His words pulled her back, and she nodded.

  "And how will you find the sword? Legend says only the man who buried it can uncover it."

  Triumph bubbled through Black Widow as she returned her gaze to Ra'id, in the street below. Ra'id would serve his purpose, but he was no more than a pawn in her game. The Brotherhood didn't know she had control of the man who housed Sargon's soul. They thought she was still just tracking him. They had no idea she'd known his every move since he was a child.

  "Have a little faith, Dimitri." She turned to look at him again. "He's not your concern anyway. I have another job for you."

  His brow lifted again, this time in curiosity. "And that would be?"

  "One of the mercenaries with Sargon's vessel. He's a danger to us."

  Dimitri looked skeptical. "How can a simple mercenary be dangerous?"

  "He's not just any mercenary. He has rightful claim to the Spear of Lugh. He cannot be allowed to retain that claim."

  Lapinov's expression never wavered. No wonder the Brigade called him the Iceman. "You want me to kill him."

  She shook her head. "Not directly. If you kill him now, the spirits protecting the Spear's resting place will know and we'll never find the Cairn."

  "I am an assassin, Rachel. What would you have me do?"

  Her lips quirked. "Rumor has it you know more ways to kill a man than just physically. Is this true?"

  He inclined his head. "I do."

  "This man believes he is already cursed. All you have to do is make his belief, reality. If he dies insane and plagued by demons, it will suit our purpose. Even better, if he takes his own life or succumbs to a demon's lure."

  The flicker in his eyes told her they understood each other perfectly. Aside from being an expert sniper and master assassin, Dimitri Lapinov came from a long line of Romany known for alliances with dark powers. He could call forth the demons who slumbered in this desert with ease. He would not fail her.