That last proved the fallacy of the tale. Thierry knew himself to recognize that he would never forsake or sacrifice his own ambitions, not for any price.
“You know nothing of this,” Thierry replied, his tone dismissive.
The shaman’s eyes widened. “Do I not?” he mused. “Perhaps you know better than I. Perhaps you can divine the future better than I.” His voice rose with condescension. “Perhaps you have garnered the support of more powerful spirits than I in your short life.” His lip curled as he glanced over Thierry. “Perhaps, but I think not.”
With that, the shaman spun on his heel to walk away. His white cloak swirled out behind him, the colorful strips that hung from it dancing in his wake.
“Perhaps we shall see on the morrow who knows best.” He cast the taunting words over his shoulder and they hung ominously in the night air.
Thierry refused to respond. Nogai shivered openly, but Thierry held his ground as he watched the man go.
He had been threatened before and he would not take this taunt any more seriously than the others. ’Twas a game to disarm him and undermine his confidence.
Victory would be theirs on the morrow and Thierry knew it well. And when ultimately his own success was rewarded, as Thierry had no doubt it would be, the shaman’s error would be clear for all to see.
Thierry let his horse run with the others for the night so that it might graze. For a long moment, he let the harness swing from his hand, his gaze tracing the beast’s path. What had he wrought of his life this day? Nothing but trouble, as far as he could see.
And yet more trouble, of an entirely different nature, awaited him at his own hearth. He turned with a frown and stalked back to his yurt in poor humor. ’Twas humiliating enough for Nogai to joke about who would sift the woman’s leavings, but ’twas doubly unnerving to find himself resenting the other men’s delight in discovering that the woman was not his whore.
Never mind his rising anticipation at the knowledge that she awaited him just steps ahead. He should not have returned to Abaqa’s yurt.
Even if Nogai had insisted on a fortifying shot of qumis after the shaman’s warning.
Thierry would ignore the woman. He had no use, after all, for women or the vulnerability they created. Thierry wondered if he had imagined the glint in the khan’s eye when he had confessed to taking her on their return to the celebration. It had been foul luck indeed that a flushed Nogai had surrendered the story. Thierry had been asked only for affirmation, which he could not decline to give.
Witch. She had already turned his life on end. Was she at the root of this new uncertainty stalking him? Had Abaqa truly changed his mind about Thierry’s loyalty, or did he simply continue to doubt? And if Abaqa had changed his mind, had the witch somehow contrived the change? Did she take retribution for her captivity?
The thought was more than unsettling. Witchcraft or not, her very presence had undermined the security of his position within the tribe, just as he had feared. Women meant weakness in a culture where all pursued their own interests alone. ’Twas as simple as that.
Perhaps ’twas time he gave up this vagabond life. After all, the Mongol strain was but a quarter of what coursed through his veins.
The unexpected thought caught Thierry completely off guard. He actually considered the possibility for the barest moment before discarding it with disgust.
What nonsense was this? He had no other life. The memory of Khanbaliq tempted him, but he resolutely pushed that temptation aside. There was nothing for him in Khanbaliq, even if he chose to ride across the width of Asia to return to that town.
This was his life. This was the path he had chosen. And the labor of his years was destined to bear fruit, sooner or later. Thierry could feel it. Perhaps it had been too soon when the old khan died, but he was young enough to wait out Abaqa’s reign. And continue to consolidate his support while he waited. Leading a tümen on the morrow was but the first step. Casting aside his gains now for what amounted to no more than whimsy would be folly.
Thierry shoved open the tent flap in poor humor. The slice of moonlight was enough to show that the woman was not only awake but watching him warily. What did she expect of him? He trudged into the yurt and squatted down to light the brass lamp. Had she not tried to deceive him? Was she responsible for his woes? When the flame flickered to his satisfaction, Thierry swiveled without standing and silently returned her regard.
Was that relief he had glimpsed in those dark eyes?
It did not help his resolve to leave her untouched that the golden lamplight flattered her soft femininity. Her position showed the ripe curve of her hips to advantage from where he crouched. Her tunic and loose trousers had pulled up almost to her knees, leaving her feet and calves temptingly bare. Her hair was cast loose over the cushions, dark and thick. He easily recalled the smoothness of it between his fingers and shoved to his feet with resolve.
She was not for him.
He bent and untied her ankles with swift gestures, ensuring that he did not touch her flesh. Was it truly as soft as it appeared? His curiosity tempted him but he would not indulge himself.
She immediately straightened her legs, stretching with a wince. Thierry refused to acknowledge a nudge of guilt at the marks on her skin. She would not play on his sympathy so readily, he told himself, knowing without doubt that looser bonds would only ensure that she escaped.
He reminded himself that she was a witch.
He untied her hands and she rubbed her wrists before she rolled and sat up. The motion brought her in such close proximity that Thierry could smell her skin. She smelled of flowers and precious oils, of sunshine and cleanliness. The sweet scent nearly destroyed his resolve to leave her alone. Her hands leaped to the knot in the scarf that gagged her when he did not immediately untie the knot.
She hesitated, her gaze lifting reluctantly to his. Well could a man drown in the fathomless appeal of those dark orbs. And those lashes. Had ever he seen such lavishly thick eyelashes? She was like a forbidden princess and he wondered if she deliberately tempted him.
Thierry nodded and pushed to his feet, having no interest in getting closer to her that he might loosen the knot himself. She sighed with relief when that scarf, too, was discarded. Thierry could not help but covertly watch the rise and fall of her full breasts at the gesture.
How well would she fit beneath his hand? He easily recalled the delicacy of her shoulders under his grip. Everything tightened within him and Thierry realized how long he had been alone.
Because he had no space in his life for vulnerability.
Somehow the reminder carried less conviction as he regarded the woman in the soft light. She watched him warily, as though she was uncertain what to expect from him. Thierry grasped her slender wrist and hauled her to her feet.
She was so much tinier than he. For a heartbeat, Thierry appreciated anew the difference in their relative sizes. He liked the delicacy of her features, the fact that the top of her head did not even reach his shoulder, the fragility of the wrist within his grip.
She tipped her head back to meet his gaze questioningly. Her lips were full and soft. Thierry wondered how she tasted before the flicker of trepidation in her eyes hauled his thoughts back to matters at hand.
’Twas best he ensured that she feared him. Her fear alone could eliminate his desire, and business there was to attend to. The sooner she surrendered the pearl, the sooner Thierry could see temptation out of the way.
The latrine pits were behind the camp and open to the four winds. The emptiness of the plains surrounding them gave Thierry no qualms at letting the woman have some measure of privacy. He turned his back on her and scanned the distant hills with disinterest, forcing himself to breathe evenly. Even if she ran from here, he would catch her before she got far.
And ’twas far simpler for her to search her own leavings.
When he heard her footsteps approaching, he glanced down at her, resolutely holding her gaze as he extended his ha
nd once more between them. She shook her head firmly and he nodded.
A good draught of qumis would set things on their way. And the liquor would ensure she slept soundly this night, as well, which was no small advantage, either. If he rode to battle on the morrow, Thierry certainly had need of his own rest. He had little desire to spend his night awake and worrying about the possibility of his fetching captive’s escape.
Qumis it would be.
Kira shot her captor a suspicious glance when he offered her a battered tin cup. There was some liquid in it, but she did not know what it was. He had poured it from a skin. When she hesitated, he lifted his dark brows once, then drained half of the cup’s contents in one swallow. He offered the remainder to her once more.
Clearly, she was supposed to drink it. Clearly, he was proving to her that it was not poison. Kira accepted the cup, sniffed tentatively and winced at its content’s foul odor. Swill! She glanced at the warrior. He nodded once, firmly, and let his fingertips stray suggestively to the hilt of his knife.
Drink or die. Kira understood. ’Twas not much of a choice, but it seemed likely that this vile substance would not kill her.
But how would she ever force it down? Kira flicked a glance to the warrior, realizing that he meant to watch her unblinkingly until she did as bidden. She would have to drink it. She eyed the evil brew, took a deep breath, then drained the cup in one swallow.
The liquor burned a path to her belly. Kira coughed at its unexpected heat and felt tears rise in her eyes. The warrior swore under his breath. She took a shaky breath when she recovered herself and glared at him reproachfully through her tears.
He might have warned her that it was a concoction to be sipped.
The warrior said nothing, merely refilled the cup. Kira almost rolled her eyes. Surely he did not expect her to drink more?
Although, to her surprise, the fire in her belly had diminished to a rather comforting glow. He hesitated before he handed her the refilled cup, lifting it toward his lips and making a series of sipping gestures.
Did he think her completely witless? That much she had deduced already. Kira knew her lips twisted with disdain before she could stop the expression. She nodded hastily and took the cup, dropping her gaze so she would not have to see his response.
Their fingers brushed inadvertently in the exchange, making Kira aware once more of the quiet intimacy of their surroundings. The drink unfolded a heat in her veins, making her uncomfortably aware of her companion’s allure.
But this warrior had no use for her. Had he wanted her favor, he would already have taken it, when she was bound and unable to fight him.
Unless this liquor was part of a greater scheme. There was an unsettling thought. Kira’s gaze slipped of its own accord to his full chalwar trousers. Her eyes widened at what she spotted and her gaze flicked immediately to his.
The warrior arched a brow.
Kira caught her breath. She was trapped. No one would help her here, even if she screamed. She was suddenly, and perhaps tardily, aware of the precariousness of her position. She inched backward, hoping he might not guess her intent.
His gaze hardened, making her heart skip a beat, then he pointed one finger at her. This was the moment Kira had dreaded, she was certain of it. She swallowed and nodded once in acknowledgement, powerless to look away from him. He quickly flicked his finger at the cushions on the side of the yurt farthest from the flap. Kira frowned and he growled in annoyance, repeating the gestures with the addition of closing his eyes and dropping his cheek to rest on one hand.
He said something to her in Mongol. He pointed to himself and gestured in the direction of the door, then said something else.
Was he telling her that they were sleeping separately? Impossible. Truly she was finding only the meaning she sought in his utterance. It could not be.
Kira carefully put down the cup and repeated his gestures rapidly. “I will sleep here and you will sleep there?” she asked doubtfully. It could not be so. The warrior watched her avidly. He nodded once when she finished and she looked up at him inquiringly.
This was beyond belief. Surely she had misunderstood. Perhaps he meant after...
Kira had to ask the embarrassing question. There was no other way to be certain.
“Do you mean to couple with me?” she asked, feeling the heat of a flush stain her cheeks. The warrior’s expression remained impassive and Kira knew he had not understood. She scowled. How... ?
But of course.
Not having the audacity to look directly to him, Kira made a fist and inserted her other index finger into the space. She pumped the finger up and down in the space, certain there could be no doubting her meaning.
The warrior immediately shook his head quickly in denial.
He said something that Kira did not understand and she did not dare to be relieved too soon. With a grunt of frustration, he held out his hand between them. Kira stared at his outstretched palm for just a moment before she understood.
The pearl! He wanted only the pearl!
“You only desire the pearl?” she demanded, barely able to believe her luck.
The warrior said something and tapped his outspread hand with one fingertip.
Only the pearl. Praise be that her allure was so meager! Kira tucked up her feet and sipped at the contents of her cup with satisfaction, barely noticing how the warrior glowered at her change of mood.
He turned away and when his face was averted, Kira watched him with interest. It could be due to the glow of well-being that had been sparked within her by the drink, but she noted for the first time his rugged appeal. If nothing else, her warrior was well-wrought. Kira smiled to herself, her interest captured when he produced some flat bread and what looked to be cheese.
She was hungry. The warrior crouched down and made easy progress through the food. It seemed he had forgotten Kira’s presence. She cleared her throat pointedly, raising her brows when she caught his eye.
The warrior shook his head firmly.
So she was to be starved! Fine! It seemed she had counted her blessings too soon. Kira drew herself up proudly at his refusal and defiantly took a great draught of the liquor as she held his regard. If nothing else, she would drink!
The woman made it through another cup before she fell asleep. Thierry admired her stamina as he sat motionless and watched the gentle rhythm of her breathing. She had slipped down on the cushions and lay on her back with the confidence in sleep shown only by children and drunkards.
He cautiously moved forward but she did not stir, her breathing unaltered by his approach. Thierry knew she slept in truth. He crouched beside her, fascinated by the way her rosy lips had parted, the dark crescents of her long lashes splayed against her cheeks. He cast a glance down the length of her and wondered if townsfolk truly slept in their clothing.
He most assuredly did not. It took but a moment for the idea to form into Thierry’s thoughts before he leaned over and carefully unfastened her djellaba. She stirred slightly and mumbled something in her sleep beneath his fingers.
Thierry froze, fearing he had awakened her.
But the woman fell silent once more and slumbered on. Thierry returned to his task, anticipation rising in his chest.
It was only the qumis that did this to him, he told himself resolutely. ’Twas the liquor alone that fed his fascination with her. He caught his breath despite his own assertion when he peeled her kurta away, its removal revealing the drape of her trousers. Thierry’s fingers trembled slightly as he divested her of the chalwar.
She was perfectly golden from head to toe, her skin as unblemished as the finest silk. He had little doubt that she would be as soft, but now that opportunity beckoned, Thierry could not bring himself to touch her.
Her breasts were full, the nipples rosily dark, her waist temptingly small, her hips gently flaring. Her skin was so smooth that he almost could not believe it was real, even though the whisper of her breathing filled the tent. Thierry took an unstea
dy breath and reached out one hand tentatively to caress her flesh, just to be sure.
Vulnerability.
The word shot through his mind and brought his hand to a halt. The heat from her skin rose to tease his palm held less than a handspan above her. He swallowed with difficulty and pulled his hand back, knowing she was not his to touch.
But he could not tear his gaze away and he retreated just a short distance. He sat on the cushions, his bread forgotten as he watched her sleep. Thierry found himself memorizing every curve, noting every mole, every dimple, fascinated by the differences between the two of them.
‘Twas impossible that even a woman could be so small and perfectly formed.
She murmured once more and he feared anew that she would discover him watching her. Her incomprehensible words made those full lips stir in the most intriguing way. Then she turned toward him. Thierry’s heart fairly stopped, so certain was he that those dark eyes would fly open and fill with accusation.
But he could not move, watching transfixed as she rolled gracefully onto her stomach. Her hair spilled over her shoulder in a dark cascade that covered her back from shoulders to waist and spread over the cushions. She stretched as she settled into a deeper sleeping, pointing her toes, and he watched hungrily. She sighed as she nuzzled the cushion, the sound drawing his gaze back in time to see her slim fingers stretch to span the embroidered cloth. She murmured and rubbed her cheek on the cushion, sending her hair sliding into a glossy puddle on the carpet.
That bared an angry network of scars on her back to his view.
Thierry frowned and blinked, but the marks remained. Did these townspeople flog witches? What else could have been her crime?
He dared to creep forward to peer at her marred flesh. There were fresh red welts, signs of a recent lashing, for they could be nothing else. Thierry leaned closer, inhaling deeply of her sleepy scent as he noted the healed marks below the new ones. He looked at the woman’s features in repose and his scowl deepened. This had been habitual punishment, unless he missed his guess, and the matter did not sit well with him.
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