“Lie down beside him, Sir, and I will gather the necessary instruments,” Tarik answered.
“Do you have something to ease his pain?” Sitara asked.
Tarik struck his forehead with the heel of his palm. “Aye, Your Grace, I do.”
“Then I suggest you give it to him,” she suggested.
Rummaging around inside his kit, Tarik found a bottle of tenerse and showed it to Sitara. At her nod, he handed a tin cup to Halim and asked him for a cup of rainwater with which to mix the potent drug.
“I told you no. I don’t want any drugs,” Ardalan complained.
“You would prefer to die?” Sitara asked. “My people would rejoice at the news of your death, but I doubt either your men or your people would.”
“Would you care?”
Sitara flinched. “Do not ask such a thing of me, Jaleem,” she insisted. She looked at Tarik. “Mix your potion. He will drink it.”
“I…” Ardalan began then sighed. “I will do so but under protest.”
“So noted,” Sitara quipped.
Tarik mixed the tenerse and rainwater together, swirling the contents in the tin cup with his finger then coming to his prince’s side and squatting down. “Here you go, Your Grace,” he asked.
Ardalan allowed the corpsman to lift his head and help him to drink the liquid that tasted of sour cherries. He grimaced at the aftertaste that spread through his mouth.
“Not a pleasant mouthful, eh?” Halim queried. He was lying beside Ardalan, the sleeve of his robe pushed up above his elbow.
“Tastes like dog dung,” Ardalan complained, smacking his lips.
“You’ve had experience of that, have you?” Halim joked.
The prince’s pupils had dilated and he was staring up at the torch Halim had stuck into the rafters of the lean-to. “Is the roof on fire?” he asked in a strange voice. “That can’t be good.”
“He’s starting to meander,” Halim said with a chuckle.
“While you begin the transfusion, I will see to his wounds,” Sitara said, trying not to laugh. She closed her eyes and stretched her hands out over the prince’s prone body. As she knelt there on her knees, she began to croon softly to herself, swaying slightly as the flow of energy came to her.
Ardalan had switched his gaze to her, though he was having trouble staying conscious. The burns on his flesh were an evil throbbing and tearing into his muscles with steel-tipped talons, but he seemed to be floating just above the ground. “I like women,” he said.
Both Tarik and Halim smiled as Tarik inserted a needle and tubing into the captain’s arm.
Sitara heard him but she was focusing on bringing the healing energy to her hands.
“But women don’t like me.”
Opening her eyes, Sitara looked down at him. “And why is that?” she asked, feeling waves of energy gathering in her fingertips.
Ardalan cocked one shoulder. “They think I’m a mean son of a bitch.”
“Are you?” she inquired.
He turned his head to see what Tarik was doing. He barely flinched as a needle was slid into the crook of his arm, but he warned the corpsman to stop hurting him.
“Are you a mean son of a bitch?” Sitara asked again, attempting to get his mind from the transfusion.
“I can be,” he replied to Sitara.
“Then perhaps you should try to be less so,” Sitara told him. She closed her eyes again and moved her hands over him, a few inches above his flesh.
“I could be less so with you,” he said.
Her eyes popped open and she stared down at him. He was smiling gently and she thought he was perhaps the most handsome man she had ever seen from among the Pale Ones who had invaded her lands. She shook her head to rid herself of her mutinous thoughts and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Don’t do that,” Ardalan said, reaching out to take hold of her wrist. “It causes wrinkles.”
Sitara jumped, feeling the heat of his hand on her arm all the way to the pit of her belly where her womb did another funny little twist inside her. She tugged on her arm and he released her.
“Lie still so I can heal you,” she said in a gruff voice.
“Heal away, pretty one,” Ardalan said on a long sigh. “I’m not going anywhere, but…”
Halim nudged Tarik. “He is out again.”
“He should sleep a good long while this time with that much tenerse in him,” Tarik said. His eyebrows shot up as he watched the wounds on his prince’s chest begin to disappear. “By Alel!” he gasped.
Halim lifted his head so he could see what had shocked Tarik and he too saw the wounds vanishing on the burned flesh of Ardalan Jaleem. He glanced up at Sitara. “You really are a shamaness,” he said.
“I never said otherwise,” she replied, and sat back on her heels. She ran a hand over the side of her face. Such healing was draining and there were still two deeper wounds that needed to be tackled.
“Why didn’t you just do that to begin with rather than torture him as you did with the cautery?” Halim demanded.
“There are limits to what I can do,” she replied. “I can seal wounds that are already there from the inside out with my powers, but I can not mend torn flesh that is gaping open. Besides, it was necessary to kill the germs and stop the bleeding, and the cautery is best for such things. Had I attempted to close his flesh without disinfecting it, the wound would have festered and been more of a problem later.”
“There are many men in the caves in need of your help,” Halim said. “The cautery iron is bound to get quite a workout.”
Sitara knew what was being asked of her. From the moment the Asaraban troops had captured her, she’d known why. Aiding the enemy was a treasonous affair, but she had taken an oath long ago to heal those in need of her gift no matter who they were. Yet she knew if she aided the Asarabans, her father would be furious. It might be an unforgivable thing to her people and she could pay with her life for any help she gave the enemy.
“How many?” she questioned tiredly.
“Five dozen, perhaps less by now,” Halim answered.
She looked down at Ardalan and once more felt the tug of desire rippling in her belly. “I must finish his healing first then I will do what I can for your men.”
Halim breathed a sigh of relief that the woman would not balk at helping the men. “Have you eaten?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nor do I wish anything to eat until I have done what needs to be undertaken.”
“Water perhaps?” Tarik inquired.
“I would appreciate that,” she answered.
Tarik got up and went to the edge of the overhang, washing out the tin cup from which he had administered Ardalan’s medications. He rinsed it and filled it with cool rainwater.
“Thank you,” Sitara said when he came back to offer her the cup. She took a drink then shifted her attention to Halim. “You should get him into the caves. I can help to heal him quicker where it is dry. The damp is not good for the infection.”
Halim’s forehead puckered. “Neither is getting drenched, Your Grace.”
Sitara took some more water then asked if they had a tarpaulin.
“Aye,” Halim agreed.
“Then get four of your tallest men and have them hold it over that jackal called Sabir as he carries his prince to the caves,” she recommended. “You should not exert yourself to do so and your corpsman does not look strong enough for such a feat.”
Tarik grinned. “I’m stronger than I look, Your Grace, but at the moment, I am weaker than my pride will allow me to admit.”
Sitara smiled for the first time and both men drew in a breath for the beauty of her face, the bright whiteness of her teeth was stunning to behold. “A man who admits to having pride. That is something I never thought to hear in my lifetime.”
Blushing, Tarik ducked his head. “I’ll go inform Major Asif Masood to gather the tarp and the men.” His face still red, he ventured out into the rain.
“He would no
t normally speak to you in such a way,” Halim said quietly.
Sitara thought the captain meant the corpsman but then realized he was speaking of his prince. She arched one fine, black brow. “He really doesn’t like women?” she asked.
Halim chuckled. “Oh he likes them, all right. Perhaps a little too much at times, but to speak to you in such a way—”
“You mean to a darkling,” Sitara cut in, her voice sharp.
“To any woman,” Halim clarified. “He would be most embarrassed to learn he had been so forward.”
She threw out a hand. “Then don’t tell him. I certainly won’t.”
Halim relaxed. “That would be best.”
The crunch of men splashing through the water halted their conversation. Sabir came in first, followed by Tarik. He flashed an angry glance over the woman then looked down at his prince. “He is unconscious?”
“We thought it best to sedate him,” Halim said as Tarik began removing the tubing from his arm. He looked past Sabir where the four men who had accompanied him were holding a tarpaulin by its corners.
“Aye, well the wounds…” Sabir began, and stopped, squinting as he inspected the flesh of his leader. His lips slowly parted. “What happened here?” he asked.
“Her Grace healed him,” Tarik answered for Halim.
Sabir’s gaze slowly shifted to the woman. “She really is a shamaness?”
“It appears so,” Halim replied. “Now do you feel like the jackass you look?”
A red stain spread over Sabir’s cheeks but he made no reply to the taunt. He was staring at the woman. The look did not hold the respect it should have.
“Lift him carefully, Major,” Tarik directed.
Sabir tore his stare from the Kishnu woman and bent down to scoop Ardalan up in his arms. He shifted the limp weight against him then walked out under the spread tarpaulin.
“Be careful, Sabir,” Halim ordered as he sat up. His head was swimming from the loss of blood so he made no attempt to get to his feet. “Don’t you dare drop him!”
Sabir snarled something under his breath neither Halim nor Tarik thought courteous as he began splashing back through the mud with his burden.
“That man has an attitude that needs an adjustment,” Sitara pointed out.
“Aye, he does,” Halim agreed. “That’s what comes of him being too close to the prince.”
“They are friends?”
“Since childhood.”
“Ah,” Sitara said. She finished her water then stood. She shook out her soaking skirt and plucked at the fabric of her tunic that was plastered to her chest. “Take me to the caves, Corpsman,” she commanded. “The captain can join us when he feels steadier on his feet.”
Tarik groaned. “Your Grace, we should have sent you with Major Asif Masood beneath the tarpaulin. Where are our minds?”
“Do not dwell on it, Corpsman. The cool water will help to revive me and I cannot get any wetter than I already am.”
“Have Hadi find a pair of pants and a kameez for Her Grace,” Halim told Tarik. “She needs to get out of those wet clothes before she catches cold.”
“That would greatly be appreciated,” Sitara told him.
“I ask your pardon that we do not have female attire for you to put on,” Halim said, “but at Prince Ardalan’s command, we have no camp followers with us.”
Sitara lifted her chin. “I would not wear their clothing if you did,” she stated with a sniff.
Halim inclined his head in understanding. “Go with Alel, Your Grace.”
Tarik walked quickly from the lean-to—Sitara at his side—and led her to the portion of the caves where their men were encamped. Around them as they went, the muddy waters washed over their feet and lightning lent a strobe-like effect to the dark night.
Those men who could stand, came to their feet as the Kishnu princess entered the caves. Word had spread quickly among them that she had healed their prince’s wounds and they were showing her the respect they thought was due her even though she was their enemy.
“He is through there,” one man said, pointing off to the right.
Sitara looked at the wounded men and immediately knew who could be helped, who might be borderline and who would die before the night was over. The auras of the dying hovered over them in varying shades of white—some more intensely bright than others—signifying the imminent death of the man. She made note of those whom she could help, and as she and Tarik went in search of Ardalan, she told him to move those men to another section of the cave.
“Make the others as comfortable as possible,” she said softly. “Their time is nigh.” She stopped, putting a hand on the young man’s arm. “What is your name, Corpsman?”
“Kiyan Tarik, Your Grace,” he answered, his eyes down. “There are many of our men here with that first name so I am called Tarik.”
“I prefer Kiyan,” she announced, settling the matter.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” he replied.
* * * * *
Ardalan snuggled down onto the comfort of the pallet upon which Sabir had gently placed him. He was sweating profusely but locked under the numbing weight of the drug invading his system. He did not feel Sabir’s hands on him, relieving him of his remaining clothing, but the cool air washing over his flesh made him smile in his sleep.
Sabir had ordered one of the men to bring a basin of warm water and a fleece rag so he could bathe the prince. When the things were brought, he made quick work of washing Ardalan’s sweaty flesh, being careful to ease the dried blood from around the wounds.
Shaking his head at the damage that had been done to his friend without Sabir knowing, the young major cursed beneath his breath. Such wounds could have been mortal had not Tarik—and Sabir had to grudgingly add the shamaness’ help—acted so quickly.
“How do you get yourself into these things, Ardy?” Sabir asked quietly. He smoothed the damp hair back from his childhood friend’s forehead and frowned deeply at the heat from the high fever riding the prince.
Lightly covering Ardalan’s naked body with a cotton blanket—more from modesty’s sake than anything else—he quietly left his prince sleeping soundly.
Lost in the gentle folds of the drug, Ardalan was dreaming.
He was in a cool place with a soft wind wafting over him. His shirt billowed around his chest as he walked barefoot through a lush meadow of red-topped clover. Swirling around him was the sensual scent of jasmine and he inhaled deeply as he paused beneath a stand of spreading shade trees. Resting the palm of his hand on the rough bark, he looked out across verdant green rolling hills that stretched to a pristine azure blue horizon. Beside him, a meandering stream bubbled over sparkling rocks to lend the scene a pleasing, comforting atmosphere.
Sitting down cross-legged on the thick grass that grew beneath the trees, he was content to gaze off into the distance as somewhere far away his body began to heal.
“Do you prefer solitude, my Prince, or may I join you?”
The voice was as sweet and flowing as honey and he looked up into a beautiful face that smiled gently at him. He held out his hand to the curvaceous woman in a flowing pale green gauzy gown.
“I want your company more than anything, sweeting,” he told her.
She sank gracefully to the ground beside him, her soft hand in his and leaned her head against his shoulder. “You are feeling better?”
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “Aye, now that you are with me.”
Through the wispy material of her gown, he could see dusky nipples that pressed invitingly against the gossamer silk. He ached to draw them into his mouth to taste them. His body clenched as he looked at the warm butterscotch tint of her breasts revealed in the deep V of the bodice. Heat undulated through his loins as he sat there and his cock pushed against the restriction of his loose white pants.
She turned to him and the warmth of her dark eyes seemed to wash over, making him squirm beneath her attention.
“Do you want me, my Prince?” she asked, long, spiky lashes lowering to hide the seduction of her stygian gaze.
Ardalan placed her hand over his heart. “Feel the beat of my love for you, milady?” he asked.
“I do,” she replied.
He dragged her hand down his chest, over his belly and onto the hard erection that awaited her. “Feel the throb of my passion for you?” His voice echoed his need.
Her small hand cupped him through the cotton of his pants, molding itself to the pulsing shaft that leapt with joy at her sweet touch.
“Aye, my Prince. Your need seems as great as my own.”
“I am burning with need,” he said huskily.
With a tempting look upon her beautiful face, she lay down upon the grass, stretching out her long, shapely limbs. One knee was crooked, one arm arched above her head, the other gently touching his thigh. As she lay there her breasts jutted against the diaphanous sheen of her gown beckoning his lips.
Ardalan eased down beside her, his head propped upon his closed fist, one long leg pressing against hers, the other drawn up so he could touch her core with his knee.
She drew in a slow breath at the intimate contact, her gaze smoldering as she stared up into his face. The sweet flesh at the hollow of her neck was pulsing an invitation for him to taste.
Leaning over her, he placed his lips to that sweet concavity, dragged his tongue over and around it, and then rained slow, soft kisses up her throat, across her chin, upon her nose, each cheek, each beautiful eye, until his mouth gently touched hers. His kiss was like a butterfly landing upon her lips, but when he closed his teeth upon her lower lip and tugged—bidding her open her mouth to him—there was nothing fleeting about the kiss that descended upon her. He slanted his mouth over hers and claimed her in a fiery brand that took her breath away.
His right hand settled tenderly upon her left breast, his thumb easing over the distended nipple, dragging the sheer fabric as it caught on his calluses.
She broke their kiss for she was breathing quickly, shallowly. “I am a novice to the art of love, my Prince,” she whispered to him. “Never has a man dared to touch me as you are doing. My breasts are aching. There is a strange moistness between my legs, a need throbbing there that is driving me mad.”
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