“You said that it was your choice to come here.” He held one of goblets up for her. “You enjoy the company of thieves?”
“You’re more than a thief,” she replied, accepting the wine. “I’ve listened to stories about you for years. It always sounded impossible, the things you did…the chances you took. They should have killed you a dozen times, but you survive.”
“And you admire that.”
“It is not easy to survive.”
He sipped from his glass, his gaze holding hers.
“Perhaps you think I’m foolish,” she murmured.
“No,” he said. “But you may have overlooked a few of my vices.”
“I know what you are,” she countered. “At least your famous seductions involve only willing participants.”
“An odd rationalization.”
“You wouldn’t think so, if you had ever been a servant.”
A flicker of understanding surfaced in his eyes. “Ah.”
“In this kingdom, a servant may be put to death on a whim. She may be stripped of her clothes and stoned by people in the streets, or bound in a sack and thrown into the ocean, sent to everlasting torment in the afterlife. Once she is given, not even her soul is her own.”
He stared at her, the goblet in his hand apparently forgotten. “And your soul belongs to His Majesty, I take it.”
“I was his favorite, once.”
“Once.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re a prize to be given away, is that it? Sent to please a thief he happens to admire, a gift intended to honor me.”
“I told you, it was my choice—”
“This, or the sack, yes, good choice.” He cast a searching look along the walls before moving closer, focusing his attention on her. She stared up at him, catching the hint of concern in his eyes as he considered her.
He was too close now, and at ease with his own nakedness, his strength proudly displayed in muscular shoulders and tanned skin, the light swirl of hair on his chest glistening with water. No man had been this close to her in years, and even then, never like this.
Osman had been almost exactly her height, his arms as thin as a boy’s, his body lanky and awkward without the heavy plumage of robes, collars, sashes and jewels. He disrobed only in the dark, always reaching for her in disgusted haste, without kindness or enjoyment, sickened by her, or by his desire for her. She never understood which.
This man stood in the light—in a towel—as if he were born in the only armor he’d ever need. It didn’t seem like vanity, as much as a complete lack of modesty, someone who held no illusions about human bodies, or any other truths that social restrictions might try to disguise.
“And, of course, it wouldn’t bother a reprobate like Robert Letoures,” he said, his tone softer now. “To accept such a gift.”
“Gift,” Nadira whispered, unable to find her voice. No. I came here to talk, to tell you the truth—
He leaned close, his chest warm against her shoulder, his mouth finding the curve of her ear. “No matter who’s watching us, or what they sent you to do, you’re safe with me in this room.”
She shook her head. “That is not—no one is watching us.”
“You really believe that?”
“I came through the only passage. I was alone.”
“How do you know?”
“I—” She glanced at the walls, suddenly realizing that he was right. She had taken pains to secure the Sultan’s dressing rooms and private quarters, but modifications to the full labyrinth of the lower floors had been impractical. The Grand Vizier and his spies might well have found a passage, or a viewing hole, that she knew nothing of. Certainly, if they had, they would be watching now, trying to hear every word.
“A mistake,” she whispered, the words burning in her throat. “I should never have come.”
“You haven’t disappointed them yet,” he reminded her, the words soft under his breath. “You’ve been sent by the Sultan and I haven’t turned you away. That’s all anyone could have seen.”
“I told you my name…told you who I am.”
“Nadira of the Harem, once the favorite of the Sultan, now commanded to please his guest, the criminal Robert Letoures,” he said, his breath warm against her ear. “Isn’t that who you are?”
She tilted her gaze toward the ceiling in frustration. “Yes.”
“Then no one has witnessed anything unusual.”
“Except that I am rarely seen, even by members of the Harem.”
“He keeps you locked away, his once favorite?”
“You don’t understand.”
“No,” he said. “But cruelty does not surprise me.”
He moved behind her, slipping the goblet from her hand and placing it on the table next to his own. His fingers traced a warm line across her shoulders, sliding under her hair to caress the nape of her neck. “Have you ever thought about me this way?”
She closed her eyes, caught in a slow fall toward panic. “I don’t know.”
“What does that mean?”
“You were never this real. You were always a dream.”
“What kind of a dream?”
“A foreigner, like me, lost here, trapped here. But they couldn’t force you. They couldn’t capture or kill you. And no matter what they did, they could never change you.”
He stood at her back, his fingers tracing along her neck, infinitely gentle as he stroked a path down her shoulder. “And that’s the only way you thought of me?”
“I thought you would understand. I prayed that you would.”
“And if I did, if I understood, what would I do then?”
“You would help me.”
“Help you,” he murmured, kissing her hair, her neck. His large hands slid around her waist, pulling her up against him. The moment slowed to something infinite, the slip of skin on silk almost deafening, the soft catch of her breath echoing in the stillness. She heard her heart beating, its pace now dizzying and frantic, racing toward an upended horizon.
“Mr. Letoures—” She struggled to say something, anything, whispering the truth by accident. “I do not think I could please you.”
“You’re not my servant.”
“But this…”
He shook his head, a hint of darkness in his voice. “No matter what happens, you’re safe with me. I promise you that.”
He was a solid wall behind her, his hold keeping her stretched almost to her toes against him, leaning back like a dancer in his arms. She felt his fingers caress warmth over her throat, deftly cradling her chin and guiding it higher, angling her face toward his.
“I…” She wet her lips. “Everyone knows that Robert Letoures has seduced hundreds and—”
He kissed her, stifling a sentence that had nothing more to offer. Softly, gently, he urged her lips open for the warm taste of wine on his tongue. His hand stroked over her face, the threaded bands around his wrist brushing her cheek, still moist with water. It was a feverish dream, frightening…too frightening. She clasped onto his arm, drowning in the soft play of his tongue, the fluid warmth of his embrace.
A different man. A different touch. A different meaning.
Still, she shivered, her fingers digging into his skin.
The thief made no move to grasp her, or take her further, but she could feel the towel loosen at his waist as she slid against it, a thick and insistent nudging forming under the fabric.
Images came, drawn from a dozen stories of the women he’d corrupted over the years, most of whom—it was said—were discovered by their cries of pleasure in the night. He’d surely kissed them this way, stroked them until they grew careless. He must have also whispered promises of safety, ever so sweetly, before parting their legs and settling the solid weight of his hips between them, pushing the full length of his cock inside their bodies, until their voices rang out, until they…
She broke the kiss, struggling for breath.
He held her steady, his gaze seeking
hers, his breathing just as uneven. “Tell me what you need from me,” he whispered. “What kind of help did you come here for?”
“There is nowhere else to hide.”
“Hide? You need to escape?”
“Escape would be impossible.” She hesitated, her reply so soft, she barely heard it herself. “But there is a machine, a war machine. It would change Ruman forever. We need your help…to complete it.”
He narrowed his gaze, suddenly colder, his expression strikingly resolute. “A war machine,” he replied, a soft tone of regret in his voice. Reaching for the oil lamp on the table, he turned its brass knob, extinguishing the wick.
Jacob heard her quiet panic, her breathing turned quick and shallow beside him. He stroked his hand down her shoulder to reassure her, though she had more reasons to be afraid than she knew. A long abandoned harem girl, who happens to know the Sultan’s current plans—the infamous reshaping of Ruman— and can verify the existence of the war machine…not even the real Letoures would fall for such a blatant contradiction.
“Wait for me,” he whispered.
Leaving her standing alone, he crossed the room, turning down the oil lamps until the room went completely dark. He counted his steps, navigating by memory until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Focusing past the black outline of low tables and wooden columns, he found her standing in a pool of moonlight under the windows, her dress glittering faintly in the glow.
If she heard him approach, she gave no sign of it, her gaze fixed on the distant glint of stars, her hand pressed against her lips. He paused for a moment, catching the bewildered stroke of her fingers, as if she were rediscovering the places he’d kissed her.
He watched her in silence, remembering her sharp intake of breath at the first touch, the tremble under his hands. Whoever she was, she’d been made to suffer in her role. That was, he assumed, the most truthful thing he knew about her, perhaps the only thing he knew.
She turned her face toward him, as if he’d made a sound, though he knew he hadn’t. He stood in the darkness, beyond the silver veil of moonlight that surrounded her, a figure she couldn’t possibly see.
Her lips parted, her expression almost otherworldly, with thin, dark brows that tapered to points and almond colored eyes lined in black kohl, their depths heated by determination, by pain.
He grimaced, knowing there was no part of him left untouched by that look, and what a complete fool he was for that. He moved out of the shadows, hating himself for the part he was about to play. “Nadira.”
She didn’t resist as he drew her close, his hands sliding around her beaded waist, urging her forward until she moved with him, lovers swaying out of the light and into the darkness. Lowering his mouth, he whispered against her ear. “Where is the machine?”
“Secured, in the Star Tower of Abu Quardan, in the Red Desert.”
The Red Desert. He narrowed his eyes, as if he could see it in the distance. It was a day’s ride from the city, but tantalizingly close to his primary mission extraction point, which meant there was a Sinclair Airship already on its way there.
Nadira shifted in his arms, trying to read him in the dark. “The royal retinue is being organized as we speak, so that we may take the diamond in the morning. You will be paid well if you—”
“The Sultan is going to deliver the stone personally?”
“Of course, but you don’t understand—”
“Then tell His Majesty that I would be honored to join him.”
She stopped short at that, struggling to recover what she had intended to say. “You agree?”
“How could I refuse such a rare opportunity?”
“I—I am grateful.”
He gave a half-shake of his head. “You shouldn’t be.”
“You will be well paid.”
“His Majesty is too generous with his wealth. You must tell him that I found you beautiful, and that you pleased me.”
She hesitated, her attention drawn to the shadows around them. “The lamps. You put them out so that you could hide us from those who could be watching, give the appearance of a servant pleasing the guest of the Sultan.”
“Or a man pleasing a woman,” he corrected swiftly. “An easy deception in the dark.”
“I thought you intended to make the deception real.”
“My seductions only involve ‘willing participants’, remember? And now that you have my agreement on the matter of the machine…”
A moment passed in silence. Then he felt the cool touch of her fingertips along his jaw, studying his chin, the small lines at the corners of his mouth, as if seeing someone new. She stroked her fingers over his lips, a soft touch he felt spear straight through him. His mouth opened to her without thought, longing to taste her skin.
He shut his eyes, if only because in that moment, he could do nothing else. She was warm against his chest, the anxious flutter of her breathing too much for a man who’d been without comfort for so long.
“Nadira,” he warned.
“In truth, I have thought about you this way,” she admitted. “Though it is difficult, I…but of course, you knew. You’re not really a criminal at all, are you?”
No, he thought. I’m far worse …the wrath of the most powerful king in the known world.
“Go,” he murmured. “And tell your master that I look forward to meeting him again tomorrow.”
She stepped back and slipped away into the darkness. He counted her steps, gauging the change in their direction, the moment of pause before he heard the rumbling of the wall passage. A façade moving on oiled tracks, he guessed, maneuvered with pulleys and cable.
Jacob rubbed his hand over his jaw, then the back of his neck, tired in ways he hadn’t expected. And still dressed in a towel. Swearing under his breath, he walked back through the salon, crossing the fountain room to find the moonlit bedchamber beyond it.
A cotton shirt and a long black entari tunic had been laid out on the coverlet, its flat collar and cuffs richly embroidered with silver thread. He pulled the garments on, along with the loose fitting şalvar trousers and a sash belt, but opted for his own desert boots, leaving them unlaced as he made his way back to the salon.
Reaching up to retrieve his throwing knives from the window casing, he handled each poisoned blade gingerly, sliding them into the hidden inner sheaths of his boots. He took the length of metal cord and wrapped it loosely around his ankle.
A small click sounded from the door.
He paused, his breathing turned shallow as he caught the muffled sounds of movement in the hallway. Faint whispers…fabric hissing softly over marble…then nothing.
Rising from his crouch along the floor, he crossed the room, placing his ear to the gilded doorframe. He heard no voices, no rustling, no evidence that someone stood on the other side. Carefully, he turned the knob. It was unlocked. The door creaked open to an empty corridor, the glow of oil lamps set low, providing convenient shadows.
No attendants. No guards. Jacob closed the door and sunk back into the darkness of the room, knowing exactly what that meant.
The Sultan, it seemed, had enemies in his own court.
Nadira drew a harsh breath, drowning in the stillness of her own dressing chamber. The tools of her exalted reign lay on the table before her, shining jars of colored oils and powders, ash clay and tubes of kohl, all waiting to be reapplied with miniature brushes while the night still offered some protection from curious eyes.
She put her fingers to her lips, as if she could preserve the warmth of the thief’s kiss on her skin. He was everything she’d imagined, everything and more, and she’d stood like a fool before him, startled and unable to tell him the most important of all things.
I didn’t kill Osman. I didn’t kill him, but I waited for him to die, knowing that I would not allow his fate to determine my own, would not allow myself to be imprisoned, used or killed by the next sultan, that I would slip the signet ring from his finger and survive.
She tilted her gaze to
ward the ceiling, its arches glittering with gold-flecked lapis and gilded scrollwork, its crowns painted with swirling stars. For a thousand years, the great bloodline of Ruman had been unbroken, its treasures filling room after room, coffer after coffer, its campaigns and cruelties etched into every desert landmark. So noble a house, so bold, yet it took a slave girl, furious and insane, to finance the railroad with royal gold, to lower taxes out of spite, to open the trade routes to foreigners. It had taken a woman no one knew, no one cared about, to bring some small measure of stability to the people the great sultans never seemed to see.
Once the machine protected them, she would change even more, until the world that held her prisoner was wiped away. The people would choose their own ministers. It had been done this way before, many times in other places, and it could be done here, but only by a woman hiding behind a Sultan’s robe, a woman with nothing to lose.
An abomination, a concubine, a slave…
She dropped her gaze, her teeth clenched. There had been no derision in the thief’s whisper against her ear, no acknowledgement of lesser status. If anything, there had been greater concern, a gentler touch.
My seductions only involve ‘willing participants’, remember?
Impossible to forget.
All the nights she could have lost her nerve, surrendered to panic, his image had been there, a foreigner that defied all odds, a man who taunted guards before disappearing from window ledges and balconies, a man who knew the deep desert as if he was born to it, and was rumored to live in a hidden crusader fortress filled with treasure.
Her lips parted, her breath warming her fingertips. No longer a dream, no longer a shadowy construct of legends and legal complaints, a furtive whisper from the dark…Letoures had assumed color before her eyes, the hold of his arms filling her up, a night breeze billowing a patchwork sail.
What emotion is this? How does the freedom of the mind take the heart captive, mend its jigsaw pieces, draw the truth from its silence?
The Champion Page 3