He stepped back to look at her. If they were never to see each other again, then he wanted to remember her as she was right now, with the moonlight pouring over her skin and her eyes smiling up at him.
He loved her eyes—bright luminous orbs. So intelligent and kind. So radiant with mischief. Of all the changes in her appearance that had taken place during their journey—the leaning of her limbs, the bronzing of her skin, the darkening of her lips—it was her eyes that had changed the most. Their hooded sadness had slowly disappeared, replaced with a lusty, wide-eyed glow.
Her whole being seemed to glow, in truth. It was as if somewhere along the trail she had switched her diet—as if now, instead of poppy tears, she drank the moonlight itself. Had grown luminous on it.
He settled a strand of hair behind her ear. Even in the moonlight, he could still discern its auburn hue. It was his new favourite colour.
He tried to burn her expression into his mind. His own excitement and yearning seemed reflected in it, as if she were a mirror in which he could see his own true wants. Not anger, but humour. Not resentment, but yearning. Not revenge, but love. She moved her hand to cover her nose.
‘Do not even dare it,’ he admonished. He gently returned her hand to her side. ‘I beg you not to do that ever again. Your nose is strong and unique. It blesses your face with a regal intelligence. Do you not see how very beautiful you are?’
Though beautiful was not the word for her. Beautiful described women who powdered their faces and kohled their eyes and painted their lips with the dregs of wine. It was the word applied to ladies who walked graciously through the corridors in diaphanous robes, who lounged in tricliniums growing round on grapes.
Atia was not beautiful, for she had long ago transcended that particular word.
She was sublime. Magnificent. She was a woman who had crossed the sweltering wilds of the Arabian highlands in the middle of August. A survivor who had successfully fought off heat and hunger and wicked men. She was a warrior who had done battle with the desert inside herself and somehow emerged victorious.
Beautiful woman? No, she was a goddess to be worshipped for the rest of her days.
And yet they had just this one single night.
* * *
Beautiful? Atia? The two words had never belonged together. They were like two truths so different that placed together they became a lie. And yet coming from his lips she finally dared to believe them. All right, then, I am beautiful, she told herself, testing the statement inside her mind. I am beautiful enough for this strong, noble, magnificent man to want me.
And he did want her. She had felt the proof of it inside her very hand. And now he was bending to kiss her. She could feel his hot breath, see his large, soft lips descending to meet hers.
And then their lips locked and all the desire that she had kept bottled up inside her came pouring forth, and she feared she might topple him with it. ‘Mmm,’ he said instead and met her yearning with his own as their lips tumbled over each other and their mouths fell into a hungry rhythm.
It was as if they were dancing—a fast, swirling dance fuelled by longing. His tongue swept inside her mouth, possessing it, caressing it. His lips were telling her things they could not take back. There was an urgency to his movements, as if he were making up for lost time. His hot breaths were like tiny confessions of yearning.
His hands. They ranged across her body like thieves, plundering every exposed surface. Take what you like, she told them, leaning into their gentle pressure. He kneaded her hips, then caressed slowly downwards. When he finally reached the twin mounds of her buttocks, he moaned.
His kiss grew deeper, lustier. His tongue dipped and plunged, as if he were in the act of consuming her. She gripped the twin flanks of muscle that ran down from his arms, trying to keep up, though her effort was futile. It was all she could do simply to hold on.
‘I want you so badly, Atia,’ he said. This time, she would not even begin to doubt it. Not with his kisses as urgent as they were, his hands as greedy, his hot column of flesh as relentless as it seemed tapping against her stomach beneath the water.
This was real desire and, incredibly, it was for her.
She knew where this was going. Soon his body would demand release. Then he would turn her around and bend her over and spill his seed inside her. What she could not account for was that she craved this moment. Her desire for it seemed to be growing in direct proportion to the passion of his kisses.
She pressed her body against his and began to move. She wanted him, she realised. She wanted to feel him inside of her, getting his pleasure. Not only that, she wanted to see him doing it. It was the first time she had ever wanted such a thing in her life. The notion filled her with wonder.
She cast her eyes around the pool. She had a strategic mind, or so she had been told once. She figured she might as well use it.
‘Just one moment,’ she said and floated to the edge of the pool where she had spied a perfectly sized boulder. She gently tipped the large flat rock into the pool, then nudged it with her foot to where she had stood. She stepped up on to its flat surface.
* * *
Suddenly, everything had changed. She had made herself almost as tall as he was. Her delicious, succulent lips presented themselves at a much more convenient angle and as he began to kiss them he was able to appreciate more fully their lush abundance.
Her buttocks—bless them—were also much more conveniently placed. He slid his arms around her waist and was able to easily caress their entirety.
‘Atia, you are a genius,’ he said, marvelling at her successful experiment.
But the experiment had apparently only just begun. She moved closer, stood on her toes, then gently pressed her womanhood against the tip of his desire.
Did she understand the consequences of such an action? Clearly not, because she continued to kiss him as if nothing had changed. His mind split with the awareness of how close he was to joining with her.
Just one night, he told himself. Make it last. But his body was no longer obeying his commands. It was doing only what it wanted. He moved himself beneath her folds and pressed against her soft, warm skin. He found her entrance with the tip of himself. Sensation sparked through him, disintegrating quickly into arrow-sharp angst. He felt wild and unfulfilled. He wanted her so badly.
‘Does that feel good?’ she asked in innocence.
She was like Artemis landing her first arrow and asking if it hurt. Clearly she had no notion of the power she wielded.
‘It feels too good, my love.’ Too cursedly good. It was not just the storm of sensation she conjured, not merely the mind-bending combination of lips and hips and skin. It was the way she was moving against him. The slow, subtle purpose. It was the confidence she seemed to be acquiring with each passing moment. She took his lower lip into her mouth and sucked it.
By all the gods in all the heavens, he wanted her. He could not wait any longer. He pushed himself into her and heard her gasp.
* * *
Bliss. Sweet, otherworldly bliss. Sensations that she had only ever dreamed of rollicked through her body.
He gripped her back and pushed into her again. Another onslaught of feeling. An invasion of ecstasy that she made no effort to fight. She had never surrendered herself in this way to a man and in doing it the whole weight of her existence seemed to lift.
‘You are mine,’ he whispered, thrusting into her again. She felt his breath along the curve over her neck. His nose traced a slow path upwards and she sensed him breathing her in.
Her skin seemed to catch fire and her bones felt as if they were melting beneath his grip. She felt his lips behind her ear. Kissing. Sucking. Biting. Pain that was also pleasure. What a wonder it was. Her head fell backwards and she moaned as he moved his mouth over her ear and took her earlobe in his teeth.
He pushed into her as he did this, conj
uring a perfect storm of pleasure inside her. She was caught in its howling winds, its pounding sands, its exquisite chaos of desire. ‘Yes, Rab,’ she gasped.
This was unlike any joining she had ever known. In place of numbness, she felt sensation. In place of dread, she felt yearning. In place of a desire for it to end, she wanted it to last for ever.
She dug her fingers into his back. ‘Yes!’ she called and heard him groan in response. They had reached the storm’s eye. They were falling through it together, weightless, their bodies joined, their eyes staring up at the starry sky.
The pure, mind-bending pleasure. Their bodies pulsed together with a closeness that seemed to transcend the flesh. He collapsed on to her shoulder and emitted a long sigh.
She closed her eyes and basked in his closeness. When he lifted himself off her she did what she had never allowed herself to do: she laid her head on his chest.
It was as if she had been drugged—as if instead of poppy tears she had drunk a dozen drops of him. But in place of numbness, she felt its opposite. Awareness. Ecstasy. Love. She had never felt more alive in all her life.
She supposed that she could die now. If this was to be her last night in the world, then it had been worth it, after all. ‘Rab, I love you,’ she said.
* * *
How could he ever have guessed that in his disgrace he would find glory, in all the wrong he had witnessed and caused, that he would somehow learn what was right? That in his enemy he would discover the love of his life?
‘Atia, I love you, too,’ he said. He squeezed her tightly in his arms. ‘And I will love you for the rest of my days.’
It did not matter that that these were their last moments together, that after tomorrow, he would likely live out the rest of his life with only the memory of her. There would never be a woman whom he admired more, who had inspired him more, whom he loved more. There would never be anyone but Atia.
‘Rab, you are crying,’ she said.
‘Am I?’ he said, smiling. ‘It must be the moonlight.’
‘It hurts your eyes?’
‘No, it illuminates your beauty. It moves me to tears.’
She smiled and shook her head. ‘Flatterer.’
‘Wrap your legs around my waist.’
She flashed a mischievous grin and did his bidding. For a moment he felt as if he was rising inside her again already. ‘You are an enchantress,’ he said, carrying her to the bank. He laid her down atop his own robe and gazed at her naked form.
‘You are like Venus lying there,’ he said.
She grinned playfully. ‘You mean the Nabataean Venus, I hope. What is her name?’
‘Uzza. But I am afraid you will have to remain Venus, for Nabataean gods do not have a physical form.’
‘Is that true?’
‘I speak only the truth to the woman I love.’
‘Then tell me the truth. How can we see each other again?’ she asked.
He felt a wave of despair. ‘If you are to be married, then I cannot stand in the way.’
Could he? Would he really just sit back and do nothing as she was sent to her next loveless marriage? Would he really be content never to see her again?
He watched her gaze at the stars, though she did not seem to be seeing them. There was pain in the lines around her mouth and the glow had drained from her cheeks. It seemed as though he was already losing her—the woman who had conquered his mind and annexed his soul. The goddess who had swept into his life and showed him the real meaning of it: not glory or revenge, but love.
He pulled his ghutrah from the shore and retrieved her scarf from beneath her tunic. ‘Atia, can I ask you a question?’
Chapter Twenty-One
When she awoke the next morning, she was lying on her bed mat, staring up at the clear blue sky, a mysterious question echoing in her mind.
She laboured to gather her wits, wondering if she had expired, after all. Sandstone cliffs surrounded her and she could feel a layer of fine dust settled on her cheeks. If this was the realm of departed souls, then it was remarkably similar to the wilds of Arabia.
She breathed in the air with suspicion. It smelled sweeter than usual and the sky’s blue was more vivid somehow, as if the gods themselves had added another coat of paint. She perceived a soft buzzing of a bee somewhere close. It seemed as if she could feel the very wind created by its wings.
She adjusted her position on the bed mat, heedless of the hard ground. Most mornings she woke up groaning, her hips bruised, her limbs crushed. Now it was as if she were floating above the mat entirely. Her body did not ache—it purred—and a strange happiness wrapped around her heart.
Beads of hot sweat tickled her skin. She reached to wipe her brow, only to discover a cloth wrapped around her hand.
Beneath it, she felt the dull throb of a wound. She closed her eyes and visions of the night before flooded back in. His words—so thoughtful and tender. A question uttered with heart-melting sincerity. His love offered to her on a silver tray.
‘Yes,’ she had answered.
Then—a dagger. He had yanked it from its sheath. ‘A Nabataean tradition,’ he had explained and sliced a single stroke across her hand. He had scored his own hand quickly after and they had pressed the wounds together in a silent bond.
‘Atia, I am yours,’ he had said. ‘Forever.’
She could still hear the soft ripping noise of his ghutrah as he split it in two, could still imagine his gentle movements as he bandaged her wound with the resulting strip.
She had reached for her shawl and had done the same to his wound, splitting the garment in two and tying one of the resulting strips around his hand.
She gazed at her bandaged hand now. No, she was not dead. She was married.
A leather slipper stepped into her view. Her heart leapt. ‘Rab?’
‘Good morning, my love.’ He squatted low. ‘You can call me Husband if you like.’ She sat up and gazed into his eyes and felt a rush of love so powerful it nearly sent her back on to her bed mat.
‘Good morning, Husband,’ she said, trying out the word. It felt something like singing a song. ‘Is this a dream?’
‘It is my dream,’ he said, offering her his hand.
Then it is mine, too, she thought, and took it, letting him pull her to her feet.
Nearby, Gamilath and Livius were preparing breakfast. Just beyond them, Yamlik was adjusting the saddle of his camel.
‘But how did we get back to camp?’ she asked.
‘I carried you, of course,’ he said. ‘You were fast asleep.’
‘But it was so far, Rab!’ She pictured him walking for what must have been hours, her heavy body limp in his arms. ‘Rab, yesterday...I was supposed to die. It was written in the stars.’
‘No wonder you looked so alarmed when I pulled out my dagger!’
She smiled scoldingly. ‘It is no jest. I felt certain that yesterday was to be the last day of my life.’
Perhaps it had been, in a sense. Of her old life.
He placed a strand of her hair behind her ear. ‘You have no idea how happy I am that it was not.’
She gazed at him with new eyes. This strong, brave, wondrous man was now her husband? How could it be? She had never expected this, had never even dared to dream it. It seemed that she had not died, but instead had somehow been reborn.
‘What now, Rab?’ she asked. ‘If I am betrothed to the Legate—’
‘We will find a way,’ said Rab. He cradled her hand in his. ‘I can be patient.’
‘The Legate will jail you if he discovers it.’ She did not even want to voice the other possibility.
‘Then we will find a way out of jail.’
‘And in the meantime I will bring you tea and honey cakes?’
‘Precisely—you can hand them through the bars. Only you must promise not to dr
ug me without my consent.’
‘I promise,’ said Atia. She tried to laugh, but instead unexpected tears pooled in her eyes. ‘And now that I am alive, you must promise to stay that way also.’
Gamilath called everyone to breakfast and was handing Atia a round of bread when she caught sight of Atia’s hand wrap. She froze, then glanced at Rab’s hand in turn. Atia could see her expression change as she recognised the signs of the Nabataean marriage ritual.
‘You are married?’ Gamilath asked. Atia gave a shy grin. ‘Congratulations!’ Gamilath exclaimed, embracing Atia.
Livius nodded knowingly. ‘Did I not say I have a nose for such matters?’ He embraced Atia in turn and then the three were joined by Yamlik, who bowed to Atia, then Rab. ‘Fortuna favours you, Brother.’
‘I know, Brother,’ said Rab. ‘I know.’
* * *
Atia’s grin lasted all morning. Neither the burning sun, nor the treacherous hills, nor her growing anxiety could vanquish it. It was not until they descended into the Wadi of Moses that the grin became a grimace. ‘What is that horrible smell?’ she asked Gamilath.
But she only needed to look more closely for the answer. It was camels. Thousands of them. They languished within a massive courtyard surrounded by rooms. ‘It is the caravanserai outside Rekem,’ said Gamilath. ‘The sixtieth caravan lodge on the route. There are five more between Rekem and the sea.’
Atia could not stop staring. So many camels! Some stood naked and unburdened, their tall humps mimicking the nearby hills. But many still bore the heavy squarish loads that they had ferried across the Arabian desert.
‘Frankincense,’ Atia uttered. Bags and bags of it. More frankincense than could have been burned in all the sacred temples from Thebes to Londinium. Not surprisingly, armed men patrolled the area. They walked softly among the camels, their bronze sheaths swinging.
Seduced by Her Rebel Warrior Page 19