by Jane Feather
Finally the sirdar abruptly called a halt to the music. The girl who was dancing came to a panting, quivering standstill, salaamed, and vanished from the chamber, the musicians at her heels. Akbar Khan turned to his guest. “I hope you are not in too much of a hurry to leave us, Ralston, huzoor. I would show you another of our customs in the morning, which you might find entertaining. We are to have a game of buzkashi. Do you perhaps know of it?”
Christopher shook his head. “I do not.”
“Then, my friend, you have much to learn. It is our game of life, and will tell you much of the Afghan character.” He patted Kit’s arm in avuncular fashion. “You will amuse yourself, I trust. And you must not hesitate to tell me in the morning if Ayesha fails to please you in any way at all.”
A tremor ran through the slender body at Kit’s side, but she remained silent, merely touching her hands to her forehead before gesturing that he should follow her. She moved ahead of him unerringly through the corridors, across a courtyard, and paused at the door of the chamber that had been allotted to him. Here she stood to one side, waiting for him to precede her.
He did so, and the door closed behind her. “In what way may I please you, Ralston, huzoor?” she asked in wooden accents.
“Don’t talk such nonsense!” he whispered fiercely. “What was I supposed to do? If I had refused, they would have slit my throat on the spot.”
Instead of responding, she moved swiftly to the window, drawing the shutters together tightly. Then she went to the door, gently, soundlessly, shooting the bolt across. “There are guards everywhere, and they have large ears.”
He stood looking at her. The soft yellow light of an oil lamp touched the high cheekbones with a golden glow, caught the luster in the burnished copper of her hair. He felt the most heady sense of unreality. She had been given to him … and that appalling, barbaric gift excited him shamefully. He fought down the excitement. “What is behind this? Do you know?”
“Akbar Khan is a man of powerful passions,” she said slowly. “And strange caprices. He loathes the British, with a loathing so deep it should strike terror in the heart of every one of you in this country.” She began to pace restlessly around the chamber, straightening a cushion, peering into a jug to check its contents, fiddling with the cakes and fruit laid out upon the table. “Do not ever be deceived by his geniality, Christopher Ralston.”
“My name is Kit,” he heard himself saying. “Can you not be still for a minute?”
She came to a stop. “Whatever you command, Ralston, huzoor.”
A flash of anger prickled his spine. “Let down your hair.”
Surprise flared in her eyes. Then very deliberately she did as he said, unplaiting the rich mass, loosening it with her fingers. It was long enough for her to sit on, he noted dreamily.
“I still wish to know more of what is behind this,” he said, trying to sound calm and businesslike. “Why would Akbar Khan give you to me? You, who are guarded so closely, and treated with such care. Why would he do it?”
“To humiliate you,” she said simply. “He would strike at the base of your pride by forcing you to acknowledge the power of an Afghan over one of your own race … and over you. You had no choice but to pick up the cards he laid down.” She shrugged. “He is a man of many paradoxes, as I said. But hatred of your race and all you stand for is the most powerful force in his life.”
“It is your race too,” he reminded her.
She shook her head, saying with a hint of mockery, “No longer, Ralston, huzoor.”
“It is!” He strode toward her, taking her shoulders, feeling the fragility of the collarbone, the soft curve of her upper arms. She looked up at him, and gave him that taunting little smile.
“I do not bear your labels or live by your rules, feringhee,” she said as she had done once before.
It infuriated him, but it was as if she were insulting herself as much as him and everything he represented. And deep down, he knew his anger came from misgiving … from the incredible idea that she might not respond to the possibility of rescue. His fingers tightened; his gray eyes hardened. “So why would Akbar Khan do this to you, Ayesha? He would humiliate me by offering me an Englishwoman, as my bed slave. Is he not also humiliating the Englishwoman in you?”
“I am being reminded that I must not make a habit of taking too much upon myself,” she said with another shrug of indifference. “I overreached myself in bringing you here. He is unsure why I did so, but if it had anything to do with my feeling any interest in you … as a man … as an Englishman, perhaps … then he has demonstrated that I may feel what I wish, but I know where and to whom I belong.”
“And do you feel any interest?” he asked without volition, the question whispering in the soft, lamplit night. He moved a hand to cup the curve of her cheek, to trail a finger over her cheekbone, to trace the firm line of her jaw. And he felt her tremble. “I should feel shame,” he whispered, “but I do not. Any more than I feel humiliated by Akbar Khan’s gift. I want to take this that has been given to me. I want it more than anything I have ever wanted. You have filled my every thought, waking and sleeping, since I saw you in the lake.”
“The gift is yours to take,” she said, but there was a catch in her voice. “It is an Afghan’s gift of an Afghan woman. You need feel no shame in the taking.”
“It is you I want,” he said with sudden savagery. “Neither Afghan nor English … you.”
“But I am not to be given or taken,” she replied, her eyes steady, although he could feel the heat of her skin beneath the tunic, the tremors that quivered through her. “Not where I am unwilling. This—” Her hands drifted down her body. “This can be given and taken, but I cannot.”
Slowly he brought his mouth to hers.
To what lofty concept had she been paying lip service? Ayesha could summon no resistance to the insistent pressure of this kiss. Her head fell back, exposing the soft vulnerability of her throat, and as if in acceptance of the invitation his mouth moved down to press in heated adhesion against the wildly beating pulse.
She did want this … had wanted it in some recess of her self since he had told her, surrounded by threatening tribesmen, that he had come in search of her. Such a foolhardy quest … yet it had sent shivers of excitement and a far from unpleasant apprehension firing her blood and setting her nerve endings aquiver. She had lived so long in her shrouded, guarded seclusion, her experiences limited to and by one man. Now she inhaled greedily of the clean-washed scent of this man, felt the smoothness of his cheek against her own, the distinct hard pliancy of his lips when he brought his mouth back to hers. His hands spanned her back, molded her waist, slipped to hold her buttocks, drawing her against him so that the hard shaft of his wanting throbbed against her thigh.
His voice, guttural, whispered the words of desire, words in this language she had never heard before. She leaned into him, yielding to the passion she knew so well how to feel and to inspire, ceasing to question her motives, or the basis for this vibrant, thrilling longing that gripped them both. It was sufficient unto itself.
He drew back from her, his eyes heavy with desire. “I must see you again … as you were by the lake.”
She drew the tunic over her head, tossed it to the floor. The bright copper mass fell forward over her breasts, glowing against the whiteness of her skin. Her hands moved to her hips, unclasped the band of the loose, flowing trousers. They slipped to her ankles and she stepped away from the puddled cream-colored satin, standing in the lamplight, offering her bared beauty to his hungry gaze.
He was wandering in a spellbound country, only dimly recognizing that some illicit quality to this encounter heightened his passion beyond any previous experience. It was illicit by any rule he knew—the situation of which he was so shamelessly taking advantage, barbarous—yet, by some other rules, ones that did not normally apply to himself, it was entirely permissible. He did not know whether Ayesha was obeying those other rules, or whether she, too, felt the
wonderful, awful sense of moving beyond experience. Was she Afghan or English? Was she herself? That was the only question that mattered, and he knew the absolute imperative of discovering the answer, of knowing that the woman he was loving would be responding from her self to his self.
He raised one hand, gestured with the tips of his fingers, and she stepped toward him. Slowly, he touched her forehead, drew his fingertips over her face, tenderly tracing the curve of her mouth, brushing the slender length of her neck, slipping sideways to follow the curve of her ears. With breathless wonder, he allowed his hands to drift over her shoulders, to part the luxuriant strands of hair, to reveal the tight pink crowns of her breasts. He heard her swift, indrawn breath and he smiled in soft satisfaction as the nipples hardened beneath teasing fingertips. He held the rich, warm swell of her breasts in his palms, felt the jarring thud of her heart, dropped slowly to his knees, laving the firm roundness in his hands with hot damp strokes of his tongue, catching the erect crowns between his lips, heard her low groan of pleasure.
The softness of her belly invited his kisses, and his tongue dipped into the tight whorl of her navel. Her skin rippled against his mouth, the muscles of her belly contracting involuntarily as his thumbs pressed hard against the sharp points of her hipbones. His hands slipped around to clasp her bottom, and she leaned away from him, her weight resting in his grasp as a deep quiver of anticipation ripped through her.
He moved to press apart her thighs, to caress her with long strokes, to taste the inimitable essence of her, to feel her shudder with joy at the crest, to fall limp against him, languid and formless in the aftermath of the joy he had given her.
Only then did she whisper his name. She spoke his name, “Christopher,” lingering over the syllables, as she knelt with him. Her fingers busied themselves with the shiny buttons of his tunic, her mouth danced against his, tasting herself, teasing him to new heights of arousal. She drew off his tunic, kissed his nipples, trailed fire down his chest as she unfastened his britches, sliding them off his hips, her lips searing the flesh as she uncovered it. He was aching with longing, beyond the possibility of greater stimulation, but she pushed him down onto the rich carpet, lay alongside him, exploring, teasing, pleasuring as he had done for her, and he discovered that all limits could be extended.
She moved away from him for one yearning minute, kneeling up to lift the lid of a marquetry box resting on a low table. His face revealed his surprise as he looked at the little slip of lambskin she held in the palm of her hand, and she smiled softly, touching his lips with hers. “Akbar Khan’s guest rooms are equipped for any eventuality. If I were not here, some other woman would have been offered to you, and she would have been no more anxious to conceive than I; pregnancy is for wives.”
For a minute he did not know how to respond to this shockingly matter-of-fact statement. A little glimmer of uncertainty lurked in her eyes. “You do not mind, do you?”
He was not unfamiliar with the simple prophylactic, but he was not accustomed to its being proffered by a woman. But this was no ordinary woman, in no ordinary place or time. Accepting it as simply another manifestation of this forbidden landscape over which he was wandering with such uninhibited joy, Kit shook his head, reaching up to stroke the curve of her mouth. “How should I?”
Delicately, her fingers a caress, she slipped the sheath onto him, making of the act a further loving arousal, so that he closed his eyes on an exhalation of delight.
Drawing her beneath him, he held himself above her, looking down on her face. Her eyes smiled up at him. A pearly blush mantled her cheeks, her mouth curved with the pleasure of giving and receiving.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
“Annabel,” she said.
He bent to kiss her eyelids, thrust deep within her, felt her body convulse in glory, and was lost himself.
For long moments they lay, still locked together, in the utter silence of the lamplit room, then slowly Kit hitched himself on his elbows, looking down at her with a rueful smile in his eyes. “Oh, dear,” he said softly. “I was as precipitate as a virgin lad. But I have never been so inflamed, beyond all possibility of control.”
Her head moved in languorous denial on the rug. “It was the same for me.” She reached up to touch his face. “We have all night, Kit. There’ll be time enough to take our time.”
He turned his mouth into her palm, tasting the salt-sweet dampness of her skin. “Annabel,” he murmured, lingering over the sound. “Annabel.” Gently, he disengaged, rolling away from her and sitting up. “Now, will you tell me about yourself, Annabel?”
“I have not heard that name spoken for eight years,” she said, rising gracefully to her feet. She went over to the table where the jug and basin stood, pouring water on a towel and coming back to him. Kneeling beside him, she ran the soothing cloth over his body, encouraging him to lie down again as she cleansed and freshened his skin.
He lay back, enjoying attentions to which he was quite unaccustomed. The women he had known hitherto were more inclined to receive than to give. But then Ayesha had been taught in a different school. He was no longer lost in the wild and thoughtless realms of passion, and this time the reality jarred. He sat up abruptly. “That is enough.”
She looked startled. “Does that not please you?”
“It reminded me of a fact I would prefer to forget,” he said frankly. “Give me the towel.” She handed it to him without a word, and he went himself to the basin, dampened the cloth and came over to where she still knelt on the floor. “Stand up.” He held his hand down to her, pulling her upright. Globing the soft mound of one breast, he gently sponged the translucent, glistening skin. “Let me do it for you, now, while you tell me, Annabel, how you come to be in this place, with these people.”
Annabel shook her head and shivered suddenly, her arms wrapping around her body in some reflexive gesture of defense. “It’s just a story … not important.”
“Not important! How could you possibly say such a thing?” He took her hands and held them away from her, saying in sudden wonder, “You are frightened.”
She was, she realized. The prospect of digging up those early memories of the petrified child, memories she had buried so deep they had ceased to bother her, brought a cold shiver of remembered terror prickling her flesh. She tried to pull away from his hold, turning her head aside from the steady gaze. “I do not wish to talk of it.”
Kit experienced what was for him a most unusual reaction. He wanted to care for this woman in her pain, wanted to soothe and comfort and reassure her. He could not recall ever being stirred in quite this way before, ever wanting to be bothered in quite this way before. He released her, picked up a blanket from the divan, and wrapped it securely around her. “There is no need to be frightened,” he said softly, taking her in his arms, lifting her onto his knee as he sat on the divan, cradling her tightly. “Tell me about it, Annabel.”
“My name is Ayesha,” she said, but the statement lacked conviction.
“Tell me,” he pressed, stroking her hair as if she were a child in need of reassurance.
She sat silent for long minutes, allowing him to hold her, all the confidence and certainty with which she had faced him in the past quite evaporated. “We were on our way back to Peshawar, through the Khyber pass,” she began in a strange, tight voice.
He listened, saw through her words the violent deaths of her parents, heard the dreadful screaming, the wild tribal yells, felt the appalling terror of the abducted child. “Then what?” he prompted when it seemed she would not continue. “Was it Akbar Khan who took you?”
“No.” She shook her head. “It was many dreadful weeks before I came to Akbar Khan.” She stared into the abyss of memory, then sat upright. “Let me up.”
“May I not hold you?” he asked, amazed at the wash of tenderness he felt.
“I am not accustomed to being held in this way,” she said with perfect truth. “Such gentleness is not the Afghan way.”
“I did not realize it was mine, to be honest,” Kit said.
She smiled suddenly and slipped back into his embrace. “The Ghazi who took me kept me for many weeks. I did not know then that he was waiting for Akbar Khan to come to his fortress at Madella. I was to be given to the sirdar as tribute that the Ghazi owed his leader. He decided that I would be a suitable tithe, more interesting than goods or cattle … and cheaper, too,” she added, finding the story grow easier with the telling.
“I did not know this, of course, so assumed I was doomed to live forever with the man’s family in a mud hovel.”
“How were you treated?” asked Kit, feeling another tremor run through the slender body he held.
“Cruelly,” she said baldly. “By the women, not by the men. I suppose they did not know what to make of me. I could not speak their language, did not understand anything. They ill-treated me, I think, because they were so accustomed to ill-treatment themselves. Victim became persecutor … it’s a seductive role.”
Kit thought of the women he had seen that morning, struggling beasts of burden, toiling up the mountain. He tried to picture a twelve-year-old English girl, gently nurtured, grown in love, subjected to the torments of such an existence, and a powerful rage surged through him.
Annabel felt it in the broad frame at her back, in the sudden tightening of the arms around her. “You cannot judge them by your standards, feringhee,” she said with that hint of mockery he had heard before. “They have much to endure.”
“Don’t call me that again,” he said, and there was no mistaking the warning in his tone.
She twisted in his hold to look at him, a speculative gleam in the jade eyes. Then she shrugged. “But you are, and like the rest of your kind make no attempt to understand the Afghan. If those in command in Kabul had made the slightest attempt, you wouldn’t be in this mess now.”