Veils of Silk
Page 50
The Targui's sudden stillness implied that he was startled to hear his own language, but with face covered and eyes shadowed, it was impossible to read his expression. After a moment he replied in fluent French, "Your Tamahak is good, monsieur, but I prefer to converse in French, if you know it."
The veiled man spoke scarcely above a whisper, and it was impossible to tell from the light, husky sound if he was young or old. With cool deliberation he reloaded his rifle, a very modern British breechloader, then rested it casually across his saddlebow. Though the weapon was not pointing at Ross, there was a distinct sense that it could be aimed and fired quickly if necessary. "There were two other men with you. Where are they?"
Unable to think of any purpose that would be served by silence, Ross replied, "They continued on when my horse fell."
The Targui made a quick gesture and two of his men turned and cantered off in the direction of Ross's vanished servants. With noticeable dryness he said, "You should choose your men more carefully, monsieur. Their loyalty leaves much to be desired."
"A horse carrying a double load could not have outrun the Turkomans. There is no wisdom in a meaningless sacrifice."
"You are rational to a fault, monsieur." Losing interest in the subject, the Targui dismounted and crossed to Ross's injured horse, which was sprawled on its side, chest heaving and eyes glazed with pain. After a moment's study of the beast's fractured foreleg, he calmly raised his rifle, set it against the horse's skull, and pulled the trigger. As the gun boomed, the horse jerked spasmodically, then lay still.
It took all of Ross's control not to recoil. It was necessary to destroy the injured animal, and Ross would have done so himself if he had had the opportunity, but there was something profoundly chilling about the Targui's dispassionate efficiency.
Swiftly the veiled man reloaded once more, then swung around to face Ross. He was about five-foot-nine, an average height for his people, which made him tall for an Arab, though several inches shorter than Ross. His slight built and lithe movements implied that he was young, but his air of menace was ageless and timeless. "You are bleeding. Are you injured?"
Ross realized that he had been rubbing his aching shoulder and immediately dropped his hand. "Nothing to signify."
"You will come with us to Serevan." It was not a request.
Dryly Ross said, "As your guest or your captive?"
The way the Targui ignored the comment was answer enough. In Persian he gave an order to the smallest of his companions, a boy in his teens.
The boy replied, "Aye, Gul-i Sarahi." After dismounting, he offered the reins of his horse to the ferengi.
Ross nodded thanks, then glanced at the Targui. "Please allow me a moment to collect my saddle and bridle."
After the veiled man gave an impatient nod, Ross stripped the harness from his dead horse. The saddle would probably be useful in the future; more to the point, a substantial amount of gold was concealed inside, which was why Ross preferred to lift it himself. He fastened the saddle to his pack animal, then mounted the loan horse while the boy climbed behind Gul-i Sarahi.
Briefly Ross wondered at his captor's name, which did not seem Tuareg. Then he shrugged; there were so many better things to worry about. It appeared that he was not going to be killed out of hand, but he suspected that regaining his freedom would be expensive. Worse, arranging a ransom would take time, which was a far more precious commodity.
As they rode east toward the frontier, the Persians surrounded Ross, eliminating any possibility of escape. He considered starting a conversation with the nearest men, but decided against it, for there might be some advantage in concealing his knowledge of the Persian language. Besides, when in doubt, he had always found it best to keep his mouth shut.
The journey took about an hour, the track growing narrower and steeper until they were winding single file up a mountain. Near the top, the track swung around a tight turn, and suddenly a sprawling walled fortress loomed above them. Someone behind him announced, "Serevan."
Ross drew his breath in, impressed, for this was no shabby village but an enormous compound reminiscent of a feudal castle. Sophisticated irrigation created lush fields and orchards in every bit of arable soil on the hillside and the valley below, and the laborers working in the spring-green fields looked strong and prosperous, unlike most of the villagers who lived in this hazardous, much-plundered border country.
Like most construction in Central Asia, the massive walls and buildings of the fortress were made of plaster- coated mud bricks, and they glowed pale gold in the afternoon sun. As the party rode through the gate into the compound, Ross noted that the buildings seemed quite old, but they had been repaired within the last few years. There were many abandoned ancient strongholds in this part of the world, and probably Serevan had been one until recently.
Gul-i Sarahi raised a hand and the troop pulled to a halt in front of the palace that was the heart of the compound. As the Targui dismounted, boys skipped over from the stables to collect the horses, and a gray-bearded man came out of the palace. For a moment Gul-i Sarahi conferred with the newcomer, who appeared to be an Uzbek. Then the Targui turned and ordered, "Come."
Ross obeyed, the rest of the riders trailing inside after him. The palace had a feeling of great age but was well- kept, with whitewashed walls and handsome tile floors. Gul-i Sarahi led the group into a large reception room furnished with traditional Eastern simplicity. Cushioned divans lined the white walls, and rich bright carpets lay on the floor.
As the men formed a loose circle around the stranger, the Targui studied Ross. He had brought his riding whip in, and he drew the leather thong through narrow, long- fingered hands. In his husky, whispering voice he said, "The Turkomans are mansellers. Did they wish to make a slave of you?"
"They were divided between that and killing me out of hand. A wasteful lot," Ross drawled in his best cool English style. There was a volatile atmosphere in the room, and being unsure what he was up against, Ross followed the basic rule of not showing fear, much as if his captors were a pack of dogs that would turn vicious if they sensed terror. "I carry letters of introduction from the shah and several honored mullahs, and am worth more alive than dead."
"I should think you would be worth a great deal, monsieur." Gul-i Sarahi began pacing around Ross with catlike grace. Abruptly he said, "Take off your coat and shirt."
There could be several possible reasons for such a request, and all of them made Ross uneasy. He considered refusing, but decided that would be foolish; though he was the largest man in the room, he was outnumbered six to one and his captors would probably be very rough about enforcing their leader's orders.
Feeling like a slave being forced to strip in front of a potential buyer, he peeled off his battered garments and dropped them on the floor. There was a murmur of interest from the watchers as Ross bared his torso. He was unsure whether they were impressed by the pallor of his English skin, the flamboyant bruises and lacerations he had acquired earlier, or the vicious scars left by a bullet that had almost killed him a year and a half earlier. Probably all three.
Gul-i Sarahi stopped in front of Ross, posture intent. Once again Ross cursed the tagelmoust, which made it impossible to interpret his captor's expression.
With delicate precision the Targui used the handle of his riding whip to trace around the ugly, puckered scar left where the bullet exited. That mark and the entrance wound on Ross's back had faded over time, but they were still dramatic. Then Gul-i Sarahi skimmed the handle over the bruised and abraded areas on his captive's chest and arms. There was an odd gentleness about the gesture that Ross found more disquieting than brutality would have been.
Softly the veiled man circled behind Ross and touched the other scar. As the swinging leather thong brushed Ross's ribs, he felt his skin crawl with distaste. Given the strange undercurrents of the situation, he did not know whether to expect a caress or a sudden slash of the whip; either seemed equally possible, and equally distasteful.
Lightly he said, "Sorry about the scars—they might lower my value a bit if you decide to sell me."
Sharply Gul-i Sarahi said, "To the right buyer you would still be worth a pretty penny, ferengi."
Ross went rigid with shock. In his irritation, the Targui had abandoned whispering for a normal speaking level, and the husky voice was hauntingly familiar. Familiar, and more stunning that anything else that had happened today.
Telling himself that what he imagined was impossible, Ross spun around and stared at his captor. The height was about right, as were the light build and supple, gliding movements. He tried to see the shadowed eyes through the slit in the tagelmoust. Were they black, like the eyes of most Tuareg, or a changeable gray that could shift from clear quartz to smoke?
Mockingly Gul-i Sarahi said, "What is wrong, ferengi—have you seen a ghost?"
This time the voice was unmistakable. With a surge of the greatest fury he had known in a dozen years, Ross recklessly stepped forward and seized the edge of the veil, just below the eyes, then ripped downward, exposing Gul-i Sarahi's face.
The impossible was true. His captor was no Targui, but his long-lost betraying wife, Juliet.
MARY JO PUTNEY is a graduate of Syracuse University with degrees in eighteenth-century literature and industrial design. A New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author, she has won numerous awards, including two RITA's from the Romance Writers of America and the Career Achievement Award for Historical Romance from Romantic Times. Though most of her books have been historical, she has also published three contemporary romances. Her growing list of Young Adult novels are published under M J Putney. Ms Putney resides in Maryland with her nearest and dearest, both two- and four-footed.
Visit her website at www.maryjoputney.com