Kira shook her head in immediate denial. “Nay, I... I am not certain.” She swallowed and held up her head proudly. There was no gracious explanation for her choice and she could see little reason to be evasive. “But I cannot go home.”
The woman sobered then she smiled a fleeting sad smile. “Nay, none of us can,” she said more gently. Much to Kira’s surprise, the woman stretched out one hand. “Come with me,” she invited.
Where would this woman lead her? Would Kira be shared with the Persian woman’s man? The possibility made Kira want to retreat.
But she had nowhere to go.
“What do you want from me in exchange?” she asked.
The woman’s expression turned to surprise. “Nothing.”
Kira’s skepticism must have shown.
The woman took a step closer. “I have been abandoned and turned out of home myself,” she confided in a whisper. “So I know that ’tis easier to face this with others than to do as much alone.”
Kira said nothing, certain her face showed that she had doubts.
“Are you not hungry?” the woman asked.
Kira nodded with reluctance.
“What will you eat? Are you a huntress?” The woman gestured toward the camp. “Smell the meat we eat this night. Are you tired? There are blankets aplenty and felt tents to take shelter within.”
“But at what price?” Kira whispered.
“A price that is easier to pay than you believe now,” the woman said. “Trust me,” she invited.
When Kira still hesitated, the woman laid a hand on the horse. “What choice do you imagine you have?” she whispered.
Kira was forced to face the truth.
“None,” she admitted heavily, hesitating only a moment before she slipped from the horse’s back and put her hand into the other woman’s warm grip.
The woman’s fingers tightened over hers and Kira was surprised to find herself reassured by the gesture. She held fast to the creature’s reins. Her concern settled a little more when the beast she had grown to rely upon showed no reservation in following the Persian woman into the cluster of tents.
When Kira awakened, sunlight was shining brightly through the partially opened flap of the tent and she could smell it heating the wool felt overhead. She frowned, thinking herself in her warrior’s tent once more, and wondered whether the ride to Tiflis and back had been a vivid dream.
She rolled over, fully expecting to find him watching her with that inscrutable expression, but instead she met the steady gaze of the Persian woman. Events of the previous night came back to her in a flash and she dropped her chin to the cushion, unable to deny her disappointment.
“Good morning,” the woman said.
Kira half-heartedly returned the greeting. How many more mornings would she see? How many days until the Mongols rode to battle once more? Kira shivered at the terrifying prospect of walking before a Mongol army to her death.
“You will need to show more enthusiasm should you wish to snare a man,” the woman commented. “Perhaps a smile would be in order, once in a while.”
Kira spared the woman a dark look. “I do not expect to be claimed.” And truly, having seen even some of the Mongol men, death was a more palatable option.
“You are too pretty to become a whore,” the woman observed. She smeared some white cheese across the top of flat bread and offered it to Kira. Kira accepted the offering gratefully, surprised to find it quite flavorful. The stew the night before had been savory, too, but then it was often said that hunger was the best sauce. The woman’s eyes narrowed as she watched Kira eat. “Unless you are not as chaste as you would insist. To be a woman’s first lover is enticing to many a man.”
“I have never known a man.” Kira was secretly amazed to find herself discussing such intimate matters with a relative stranger. But there was something about this camp, something more earthbound and natural than life in Tiflis, that made such conversation seem natural.
And what matter if the woman thought her common? Kira would not live long enough to be troubled by such a judgment.
The woman leaned forward. “Surely you cannot believe yourself destined to walk in front of the armies?”
Kira glanced up from her meal in surprise. “I see no other alternative.”
The woman shook her head with disgust and shoved to her feet. “Fool!” She leaned over to clutch a handful of Kira’s hair and let it run through her fingers. “Have you never seen your own reflection in a bowl of water? Truly you could aspire to being claimed, should you only trouble yourself to make the effort.”
“Do not jest with me,” Kira insisted. “I know my shortcomings well.” Her father had listed them for her, after all, whenever a proposed match for her had not come to fruition.
“Believe what you must,” the woman declared with a wave of her hand. She propped her hands on her hips as she regarded Kira. “But I saw the look in Black Wind’s eye when he brought you to the stream. That man was not aware of whatever shortcomings you imagine yourself to have.”
Kira’s heart leaped but she looked down at the bread.
It felt foolish to hope, but yet...
“He is in the camp, you know,” the woman confided and Kira glanced up in surprise. “Aye, they all are. All of the ba’atur remain.” At Kira’s evident confusion, she grimaced and explained. “The blooded ones, the ‘nobility’ one might call them for lack of a better name. They were drinking and celebrating the retreat of Berke’s army in the khan’s tent all last night. Likely all of this day and night, as well.” She folded her arms across her chest and held Kira’s gaze. “’Tis simple to tempt my man when he stumbles home after one of these celebrations. Would you not tempt Black Wind?”
Kira drew herself up proudly. “I could not become a whore, to be shared by many.”
“’Twas not what I suggested,” the woman countered irritably. “A claimed woman is as close to a wife as one may be here. They have a ceremony, but ’tis neither Zoroastrian nor Moslem, so I do not feel wedded in my match.”
“But they claim to be wed?”
“Aye, in their own terms,” the woman agreed with a world-weary shrug.
“Your man is faithful to you alone?”
The woman laughed. “Aye, to me and his four other women—unless the mood claims him to take yet another.”
Kira shuddered. “I could not do this thing.”
The woman leaned over her and there was no denying the intelligence that sparkled in her eyes. “You would be alive,” she reminded Kira in a low voice. “And you would be protected if you were claimed by a blooded one like Black Wind.”
Kira found herself tempted. “Why is he called that?”
The woman shrugged. “He would not give his name when he rode in, so one was given to him. Few questions are asked of any who would join, especially one who fights as well as he. He claimed to have the great one’s blood in his veins, though none believed him until he began to show the signs.”
“The signs?”
“Luck,” the woman supplied flatly. “’Tis clear the gods and the elements smile upon him. He is a blessed one, despite the stigma of his mark.” Her voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “’Tis said he bears the mark of some dark god on his chest and that it cannot be removed. Those who ride into battle with him say it glows so that it can be seen through his kalat and that the enemies fall back in fear from the sight.”
Kira did not dare to let her skepticism show, but merely held the woman’s gaze with what she hoped might pass for amazement. What superstitious nonsense! ’Twas a birthmark her warrior sported, like many others Kira had seen—only its shape made it distinctive.
“But his name?” she prompted.
The woman shrugged. “He rode in from the north and passed so stealthily that none heard him until he approached the khan’s own tent. They call directions by colors here, and ‘north’ to you and me is ‘black’ to them. ’Tis said he passes as silently and appears as unexpectedly as the north wind itse
lf, hence the name Black Wind.”
And he was about as warm as a north wind. Kira was unable to reconcile herself to the woman’s suggestion despite the quiver of excitement fluttering within her stomach.
“I do not believe he can be tempted,” she protested, then glanced up when the woman laughed again.
“All men can well be tempted,” she assured Kira confidently. “Come and I will show you. A little qumis and a few hours of dancing and you will be ready to show the man your charms.”
“But—” Kira’s half-hearted protest was silenced by a cutting glance from the other woman.
“Would you rather live than die?” the woman demanded.
Kira found herself nodding. “Aye,” she admitted, knowing it to be the truth.
“Then surely coupling with a man cannot be too high a price to pay,” the woman observed. Seeing Kira’s doubt, she gave her a maternal pat on the shoulder. “I would not see you die, child, especially when one such as Black Wind desires you.”
“He does not,” Kira argued, but the woman only smiled.
“You know nothing of men if you believe that,” she chided, and Kira dared to hope. The woman extended her hand again. This time Kira let herself be pulled to her feet, her own tentative smile matching the woman’s confident one. “I think dancing will suit you well,” the woman mused as she surveyed her. “What is your name, child?”
“Kira.”
“Kira,” she repeated carefully as her gaze ran over her. “You are named for the sun. Does the sun not choose life every day?” The woman leaned closer and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Would you not choose life, little Kira?”
“Aye,” Kira said after a moment’s pause, her voice growing firmer with her growing conviction. Optimism burned brightly within her now that she gave it rein and she dared to hope that her warrior could indeed be tempted to claim her for his own.
“Aye,” she said again. “I will choose life. Please teach me what I need to know.”
Chapter 6
Thierry could not believe his eyes when he saw his witch in the khan’s own tent two nights after he had sent her home.
Surely ’twas a trick of the light, or the copious amount of qumis he had imbibed, for his woman appeared to be among the dancers. They were serfs and whores, by and large, women who ensured their own survival by the granting of their ample favors.
His witch had no place with them.
Surely he erred.
“’Tis time enough that you showed interest in the fair sex,” Nogai jested beside him.
Thierry acknowledged that he was probably not as circumspect about his curiosity as usual. Although, it mattered little now. Invincibility was of import only for those who had power, those with something worth stealing. Since there had been no battle, Thierry had lost the opportunity to prove himself. And unproven, he had no power within the tribe.
The smoke was thick from incense in the khan’s tent and the cloying sweetness stung Thierry’s eyes as he studied the dancers. They moved constantly, changing places, their garments trailing and blurring into a medley of color. All the same, he picked out the same tiny figure once again. She was in Tiflis and he knew it well, but still he would have sworn that she danced in the company before him.
’Twas a trick of the flickering lamplight.
The woman in question heavily favored his witch, but her movements were more languid. A drum was struck, bells shaken and the women’s hips undulated in time to the music. A confusing swirl of scarves obscured his vision as the women ran in a tight circle amidst the sound of applause. When they stopped, he glimpsed a trim ankle before the flowing cloth drifted down to hide it from view once more.
Thierry looked up to find his witch not two arm’s lengths before him.
There was no disputing his impression now. ’Twas her, though her gaze was less sharp than he recalled.
His heart skipped a beat. He guessed that the slowness of her movement was probably qumis-induced and stifled an indulgent smile. Her large eyes appeared yet wider and darker with the sweep of dark kohl accenting them. Her lips seemed ruddier and fuller and he had no doubt they had been painted, as well. She met his eyes and smiled before she rolled one shoulder with less verve than the more experienced dancers.
Thierry glanced away, unable to account for his sudden agitation. How had she come to be here? Why was she here? Why was she not in Tiflis? He could find no explanation for her presence, especially dancing as she was, though Thierry could not disguise his pleasure. In truth, he was glad to see her again, though he would not have admitted as much to another living soul. Could he have missed her? Impossible, but he definitely felt better than he had mere moments before.
He could not help but watch her dance.
’Twas endearing how she tried to move like the other women, her innocence as obvious as the nose on her face. Thierry felt an unexpected glow of affection swell within him as he settled back to sip his qumis. Yet again in this woman’s presence, he was tempted to smile.
“Witch.” Nogai reminded Thierry of the danger she posed with the terse word, but Thierry silenced him with a glance.
He had no interest in any superstitious nonsense, though it should have troubled him to realize that Nogai had discerned his thoughts so readily. Nothing should spoil the sweetness of this moment. Even if she should be gone by the morrow, Thierry would savor this chance to see her again.
The marvel was that he had nothing to lose by making his interest clear. That sent a heated spark of anticipation running through him. Thierry told himself ’twas only the qumis, though he knew better.
The men hollered and hooted at the dancers in typical fashion, several of the women blowing kisses and making beckoning gestures as they danced. The witch looked only at him and only briefly before her gaze dropped modestly to the floor. Thierry noticed that her color unnaturally high and she swallowed often, a sign of her agitation.
He recalled the sight of her gloriously nude all too readily. He let the spark of his interest kindle to a flame and welcomed the surge of his desire. The yurt was suddenly much warmer than it had been, to Thierry, at least, but still he could not look away from his dancing witch.
When she mimicked the other dancers and tossed aside the large emerald scarf that had been wrapped around her, that Thierry realized her choice would have repercussions. Though she threw the silk aside with less grace than her companions, her beauty was revealed.
Thierry straightened slowly at the sight of her bare midriff, knowing full well that there was a mole to the left of her navel. He intensely disliked that every other man in the khan’s tent now knew it, as well.
A crisscrossed red scarf bound her breasts, while another in brilliant blue girded her hips. An array of other scarves in bright hues hung from or around the blue one, the moving gaps between them affording tempting glimpses of her shapely legs. The men’s shouts of encouragement troubled Thierry as they had not before and he wondered how many were gazing upon the soft flesh of his woman.
He had no claim, but he urgently desired to make one.
But she had not wanted him to touch her.
Had that changed? Or did she seek to tempt another?
When she rolled her hips, it garnered more of a response from him, though Thierry dared not reveal his reaction. Nogai whistled loudly but Thierry remained impassive. The witch smiled tentatively when her gaze met his. He refused to show any sign of her effect upon him. She must have discerned some hint of interest, for she raised her hands over her head as the tempo of the music increased. She rocked her hips in time right before him, the move so provocative that Thierry was shocked. His companions seemed to have another response.
Surely she could not mean to tempt him? Not after her relief the other night to his stated intention to leave her untouched?
Nay, she could not be tempting him.
She took a step closer to him, seemingly oblivious to the other men in the tent. She spun on one toe and unraveled another scarf
from her hips. It was as yellow as the sun. Thierry wondered how he could ever have thought her dancing unpolished when she deliberately cast it to him.
The invitation was blatant and unmistakable. He snatched the scarf from the air and held her gaze. If she intended to tease him this night, he would know the truth of her desire before he acted in response.
Her ankles and calves could be seen more clearly since the yellow scarf had been removed. Thierry admired the view, even as the lewd calls of his companions made his ears burn.’Twas fortunate she could not understand the Mongol tongue. He surveyed her, letting his gaze trail from that perfect foot, up her fine leg, over her golden curves, until he met her gaze once more. He smiled, just a little, and she flushed, her eyes sparkling with what might have been relief or triumph.
She danced with greater vigor and still regarded him as though he were the only man in the tent. Her attention fed the heat already burning within Thierry. When her slender hands fell to another knot on her hip, his heart leaped. He had no desire for more of her to be displayed to common view lest another be tempted to make her his own.
’Twas time to make his own claim. He tapped his index finger on the floor of the tent directly before him. Something flickered in the woman’s eyes. Her color blossomed anew but she took the steps needed to bring her directly before him.
And resumed her dancing.
Thierry was inundated by her sweet scent and clenched one hand around his cup in a bid for self-control. He could not look impulsive or passionate, lest he be considered to have a weakness. He had to let her seduce him.
’Twas tempting to have her swaying so gracefully before him. Should he care to look straight ahead from his seat on the floor, he would stare into the most fragrant part of her. Thierry resolutely avoided the option.
Instead he made the mistake of looking up at her face.
He saw vulnerability in those dark eyes. And fear. What had brought her to this camp? He wondered what she had found in Tiflis.
Suddenly he recalled the marks on her back. What if her return had not been welcomed? What if she had not been greeted with joy?
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