Silk and Secrets

by Mary Jo Putney

  Ross had not realized that the winner would receive a prize. He glanced down to find that he was holding an ancient gold coin that an Oxford professor of antiquities would kill to possess. From the looks of the Grecian profile on the face, the coin might date back to the days of Alexander the Great.

  His scholarly instincts were aroused, but now was not the time to examine his prize. He spoke flowery thanks and slipped the coin into pocket.

  Now that the match was officially over, people began streaming onto the field to offer congratulations to the bozkashi players. Someone offered Ross a brass ewer of water, which he accepted gratefully. He tilted his head back and poured half the contents into his mouth, then splashed handfuls of water on his face and neck to rinse away the yellow dust.

  It had been a hard-fought match and there was plenty of praise to go around, but Ross was the hero of the hour and everyone wanted to shake his hand and offer some comment.

  Not quite everyone. As he shook still another hand, Ross realized that it wasn't just his sanity that had returned, but the British rules of sportsmanship that had been drilled into him when he was a child, rules that had found fertile ground in his natural temperament. He looked for his primary opponent.

  Dil Assa was only a short distance away, surrounded by his own circle of admirers and commiserators. Moving Rabat slowly so that no one would be injured, Ross worked his way over to the Turkoman.

  Dil Assa scowled at him with undiminished vigor. "You were lucky, ferengi."

  "I was," Ross agreed promptly. "If it were not for this splendid horse"—he stroked Rabat's sweat-foamed neck—"or for the chance that made the front leg of the boz weaker than the rear, I would never have won."

  "But still you have come to gloat."

  "Not at all." Ross offered his hand. "In my country, it is traditional after a heated contest to shake hands with one's honored opponent."

  Startled and uncertain, the Turkoman looked at the proffered hand. "Am I your honored opponent, ferengi?"

  "Aye." His hand still extended, Ross added, "I have a name, you know. It's Khilburn. And you, Dil Assa, have the distinction of having made me lose my temper more completely than I have ever done in my life."

  The Turkoman gave a sudden crack of laughter. "Then I have achieved a small victory today, though I would have been wiser to leave you to your lethargy."

  He took Ross's hand and shook it hard. "You ride well for a ferengi, Khilburn."

  Ross laughed, feeling as buoyant, in a different way, as when he had thrown the goat into the circle. "To say that a Turkoman rides well is as unnecessary as to say that the summer sun burns or that water is God's gift to his children."

  He released his opponent's hand. "But I will say that it was by watching you that I learned how the game should be played—with fierceness and joy."

  Dil Assa smiled and leaned over to pull off Ross's turban. Then he removed his own wolf-edged cap and plopped it down on his opponent's blond head. "If ever you return in the cool season, Khilburn, we will play again. And if, God willing, that happens, you will ride as a chopendoz, a bozkashi master."

  As honors went, Ross decided as he returned the smile, the sweaty, bedraggled cap surpassed anything that Queen Victoria might bestow on him.

  Chapter 13

  For Juliet, watching the bozkashi match was a very mixed experience. Though she did not wholly share it, she was able to understand the enthusiasm of the other onlookers, for the game was intense and dramatic.

  At the same time, she was glad that Ross did not throw himself wholeheartedly into the match. While bozkashi seemed more likely to produce injuries than fatalities, there was a very real chance that players might fall and break their necks or be trampled to death. There was also the possibility that Dil Assa would take advantage of the tumult to dispatch the hated ferengi.

  Then Ross and Dil Assa clashed and her husband became a different man. She had always known that he was a superb horseman and had effortless physical mastery at everything he tried; even so, she had trouble believing what was happening before her very eyes.

  Ross was like an ancient Norse berserker, glittering with danger as he stopped at nothing to achieve victory. When he jumped his horse into the middle of the pack, she forgot to breathe until she saw that he had come through safely. Later, when he and Dil Assa engaged in that insane struggle over the goat while galloping at lethal speed, her heart pounded so loudly that it drowned out the roar of the crowd.

  Then Ross threw the boz into the circle of justice and Juliet went wild herself, jumping and shouting as hysterically as any of the men around her. It was not only the excitement of the game that moved her, but a deep, primitive pride in her man, for in spite of all that separated them, he was still her husband, and she exulted in his accomplishment. If she had been close enough, she might have hurled herself into his arms in joyous celebration.

  Then he looked across the crowd and their gazes met with an impact that coursed through her body like a physical blow. Ross seemed wild and menacing, not at all the civilized man she had loved and married. Certainly he was not the considerate, coolly detached companion of these last weeks of travel.

  But it was not just the fact that he seemed a stranger that jarred Juliet. There was something intensely, dangerously sexual in Ross's eyes, and it aroused a matching response in her.

  She bit her lower lip as she observed his lithe, sweat- saturated body. He was pure masculine animal, so powerfully male that she felt herself dissolving inside with involuntary female response. If they were alone, she would be ripping his clothing off, as wild as any jungle creature yearning for her mate.

  Their gazes held for only an instant before Juliet turned away, but it was an instant that left her shaken. Throat dry, she made some inane comment to Saleh. A jubilant Murad was already pushing his way through the crowd to his master, but Juliet stayed with Saleh and the camels. The last thing she needed was to be closer to Ross.

  Doggedly she tried to analyze the reasons for her reaction, in the hope that understanding would dissipate her unruly desire. Ever since their paths had crossed back in Persia, she had been continually aware of how attractive Ross was. But today was different, she realized, because the warrior wildness she had seen in his face was closely akin to the passion he had shown in the intimacy of their marriage bed. Seeing that intensity again, of course she had responded with matching desire.

  Unfortunately, understanding her reaction did not dissipate the effect.

  Juliet tensed when she saw Ross ride over to Dil Assa. She had no faith that the khalifa's command would keep the Turkoman in check, and Dil Assa had just suffered a very public defeat. Then the two men laughed and shook hands. She smiled behind the safety of her veil.

  Leave it to Ross to make a friend out of an enemy. No doubt such behavior was good for the benefit of his soul. Better yet, under these conditions such maturity was also very practical.

  Soon the crowd began to thin as people headed for their homes, though they would be talking about this bozkashi match for years to come. Ross dismounted and handed the stallion's reins to Dil Assa. Then, after saying his farewells, he and Murad walked over to join Juliet and Saleh.

  "Well played, Khilburn," Saleh said, rising to his feet. "You will become one of the legends of Turkestan: the ferengi who became a bozkashi master."

  Ross laughed. "I must admit that I rather enjoyed the match. Bozkashi has the excitement of English fox hunting, with the advantage that the animal is already dead. I never quite saw the point of dozens of hounds and horses chasing one little fox."

  The wildness had gone from Ross's expression, but he still looked like the romantic conception of a pirate. His damp white shirt was open halfway down his chest, exposing tawny curling hair, and the wolf-trimmed cap on his golden head was quite dashing, in a barbaric way. Though a dark bruise was forming on his left cheekbone, Juliet was glad to see that none of the whiplashes had seriously damaged his face. Scarring there would be like defacing
a work of art.

  Having her husband within touching distance was making Juliet weak-kneed and soft-headed, so she turned away before she disgraced herself. He must be hungry after expending so much energy in the match. Silently she handed him a piece of flat bread and a chunk of goat cheese.

  "Thank you." In a soft voice that Murad could not hear, Ross added, "Sorry I forgot my resolution to behave with proper British restraint. I hope you didn't find the match exciting to a fault."

  When Juliet tried to reply, she found that her voice did not want to work. After clearing her throat, she murmured, "I wouldn't have minded more boredom, but at least you survived more or less intact." Then her gaze fell to his hands. They were scraped and bruised, with several bloody lacerations. "Perhaps not intact enough."

  He flexed his fingers and grimaced. "Messy and uncomfortable, but nothing broken."

  Juliet had brought clean scraps of cloth in case bandages were needed, so she dug out a square of cotton and moistened it. Then she took his right hand in hers and cleaned away the blood and dust. Falling into the role of nurse steadied her and made it possible to touch him dispassionately, though she was acutely aware of the warmth of his fingers where they lay across hers.

  When she finished with Ross's right hand and released him, somehow his fingertips slowly stroked across her palm with such sensual effect that she almost jumped from her skin. So much for being dispassionate.

  She gave her husband a suspicious glance, but he was conversing with Saleh and Murad and paying no attention to her ministrations. That erotic caress must have been an accident—but she took care that it didn't happen again when she was cleaning his left hand.

  Juliet frowned at what she found under the dust and dried blood, for several of the deeper cuts were still bleeding and needed further treatment. She glanced at Murad, who was about to extinguish the small fire they had used to make tea during the match. "Leave the fire."

  Burnt hair was a classic and effective treatment for small cuts. Juliet would have been happy to use her own, but whipping her coppery tresses out from under the tagelmoust would do her disguise no good, so she took her knife and trimmed a handful of the long black hair that curled beneath her camel's long neck.

  She laid the hair on one of the fire rocks and placed a coal on top so that the strands flared into brief, pungent flame. After the burned hair had cooled into delicate ash, she scooped it up, then crossed to Ross, who was watching her curiously.

  Juliet crumbled some of the ashes and sprinkled them across the deepest laceration. Immediately the blood coagulated.

  "Interesting," he commented. "Is this a Persian remedy?"

  "Afghan," she said as she treated the next gash. "Burned hair is suitable only for small cuts, but it stops the bleeding and reduces the chance of infection. Any sort of hair will do."

  "So much more civilized than cauterization. Speaking of which, how is your arm?"

  "Fine. I've almost forgotten about it," she said truthfully as she finished treating Ross's hands. Though now that she was reminded of the injury she had sustained just a few days before, she realized that her arm was throbbing. In the excitement of the bozkashi match, she hadn't noticed.

  The ride back to Merv was much more relaxed than the journey out had been. Occasionally some locals would pass by and call out an admiring remark about the match, which seemed to have been witnessed by every man in this part of the Kara Kum. The process of Ross becoming a legend was well under way.

  The road followed the river of Merv for the last stretch. Narrow and rush-lined, the channel wound through the desert in lazy curves, its banks incongruously green against the barren sandscape. When they came to a place where the river pooled by some willow trees, Ross reined in Julietta, regarding the water longingly.

  "You can go on to the caravansary without me," he said to his companions. "I'll be back later."

  After dismounting, he divested himself of boots, shirt, and bozkashi hat and dropped them in a mound on the sandy bank. Then, with a whoop of pleasure, he dived into the river.

  The sight of Ross's half-naked body immediately unraveled all of the progress Juliet had made in controlling her inconvenient lust. The day was already blisteringly hot, but now a wave of heat swept over her so intensely that she felt faint.

  Ignoring Ross's suggestion that the others continue without him, Murad said enthusiastically, "A splendid idea, Khilburn. We shall join you." He guided the camel he and Saleh shared over to the riverbank. Then he couched the beast, scrambled out of his pannier, and began peeling off his clothing.

  Saleh also climbed out of his pannier, then removed his sandals. Glancing at Juliet, whose camel had followed the others to the river, he suggested, "If you do not swim, wade with me in the shallows."

  More slowly than the others, Juliet dismounted. She was feverish, on the verge of burning up, and the water beckoned like paradise, but joining her husband in the river was unthinkable.

  Ross glanced over and tossed a teasing handful of water in her direction. "Yes, Jalal. At least get your feet wet."

  Wordlessly she shook her head. It would have been best to return to the caravansary alone, but at the moment the effort was beyond her. Spinning on her heel, Juliet strode along the riverbank until she was out of sight of her companions.

  Her breathing harsh and irregular, she kept on until she found a small secluded pool veiled by willows and high rushes. No longer able to maintain even the faintest semblance of control, she folded down on her knees in the sandy soil at the edge of the water and dragged off her tagelmoust with trembling hands.

  Since leaving Serevan, she had been swathed in layers of fabric day and night. Iin her present fevered state she felt as if she would suffocate if she wore the veil any longer.

  She dropped the tagelmoust beside her, then used her cupped hands to splash water onto her face and throat. The blessed coolness was soothing to both mind and body.

  She had thought that over time, being around Ross would become easier. Instead, every day was harder than the one before. Today her sexual awareness of him had sizzled to a dangerous new level. If she continued like this much longer, she would incinerate.

  No, she would not. She would do whatever was necessary, no matter how hard it was. It was Juliet who had insisted on accompanying her husband on this trip, and having done so, she must abide by the consequences.

  In another ten days they would reach the city of Bokhara and she would not be constantly in Ross's company. Surely matters would improve then.

  Unfortunately that thought was of no help at the moment, so with deliberate brutality Juliet reminded herself how hopeless the situation was. Yes, she desired Ross to the point of distraction, but desire was only part of a deeper yearning.

  Far more than passion, she craved the love and acceptance she had found only in his arms, and that she would never know again, for his love was long gone, destroyed by Juliet's own actions. Even if Ross was willing to bed her, which was by no means certain, all she would find would be a fleeting sexual satisfaction that would be paid for by utter emotional devastation. The knowledge sobered her as nothing else could.

  Juliet had fled to this private spot because she needed to be alone, but when she regained her control, she realized that she would be a fool to waste this opportunity to bathe. Swiftly she removed the clothing she had worn day and night for the last two weeks.

  Releasing her hair from its long braid, she stepped into the water. It was pleasantly cool and felt wonderful, caressing her skin like liquid silk. She waded out to shoulder depth and ducked under the surface to wet her hair, then began scrubbing her scalp with her fingertips.

  She could have happily spent the rest of the day in the river, but if she was gone too long, one of the men would come looking for her, so she washed as quickly as possible. After climbing back onto the bank, she used her mantle to roughly dry her skin and hair, then dressed again. A pity she didn't have fresh garments to wear.

  After donning he
r robe, she sat down on crossed legs and began combing her fingers through her wet hair. Working the snarls out was a time-consuming business. It would have been more practical to cut her hair for this trip, but she had been unable to bring herself to do that. Ross had always liked her hair long, and leaving it uncut was like a secret gift to him, one he would never know or care about.

  As Juliet began rebraiding her hair, she wondered what her husband really thought about her. Though he was always considerate, even kind in an impersonal way, she suspected that he viewed her as a regrettable piece of ancient history, a nuisance for whom he still felt a reluctant sense of responsibility. Apart from that experimental kiss at Serevan, he had shown no signs that he still found her attractive.

  His disinterest was fortunate, for she doubted that her willpower would last long if he were to make a serious attempt to bed her. That, as she told herself—repeatedly—would be disastrous.

  She was so absorbed in her thoughts that at first she missed the sounds of footsteps behind her. At the last moment she heard the soft rustling and steeled herself to face Ross, though if she was lucky it would be Saleh.

  It was neither Ross nor Saleh. Instead, Murad called out, "Jalal, where are you? We are leaving now."

  She whipped her head around just in time to see the young Persian emerge from the tall rushes. Murad's mouth dropped open as he stared at her face and copper-bright hair. His gaze shifted to her familiar black robe, then back to her face. Incredulously he asked, "Jalal?"

  Juliet scrambled to her feet, mentally cursing in every language she knew. Her brief carelessness had negated all their attempts to keep her identity from Murad; she might not look like any woman he had ever met, but the lad was not a fool.

  There was no help for it. She must enlist him in the conspiracy, since the alternative was to drown him in the river. Murad was very loyal to Ross, and she was reasonably sure that he could be trusted.