Claire Delacroix (12 page)

She rolled over, fully expecting to find him watching her with that inscrutable expression on his face, but instead she met the sharp 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 halfheartedly returned the greeting. How many more mornings would she see now that she had committed herself to becoming war fodder? How many days until the Mongols rode to battle once more? Kira sighed and rolled over.

“More enthusiasm will you need to show should you wish to snare a man,” the woman commented dryly. “Mayhap a smile would be in order once in a while.” Kira spared the woman a dark look.

“I do not expect to be claimed,” she informed her tersely, not liking having false possibilities dangled before her.

“Too pretty are you to become a whore,” the woman observed matter-of-factly. She dug out some flat bread and offered it to Kira, smearing some white cheese across the top of it. Kira accepted the offering gratefully, surprised to find it quite flavorful. The woman’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “Unless you are not as chaste as you would maintain.”

Kira grimaced at that. “Never have I known a man,” she clarified flatly, secretly amazed to find herself discussing such personal matters with a relative stranger. But something there was about this life-style, something more earthbound than town living 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 purposefully. “Surely you cannot believe yourself destined to walk in front of the armies,” she charged. Kira glanced up from her meal in surprise.

“Aye.”

The woman shook her head in unconcealed disgust and shoved to her feet. “Fool!” she snapped, leaning over to clutch a handful of Kira’s hair and let it run through her fingers. “Have you never seen yourself in a glass? Truly you could aspire to being claimed, should you only trouble yourself to make the effort.”

“Do not jest with me,” Kira insisted through the tightness of her throat. “Well enough do I know my shortcomings.”

“Believe what you like,” the woman declared with a wave of her hand. She propped her hands on her hips as she regarded Kira. “But well enough did I see 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 refused to indulge herself in any such hopeful whimsy.

“He is in the camp, you know,” the woman confided and Kira looked to her in shock. “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. Drinking and celebrating Berke’s army’s retreat they were 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. “Well enough do I know that ‘tis simple to tempt my man when he stumbles home after one of these binges. Would you not tempt Black Wind?”

Kira drew herself up proudly. “I would not become a whore.”

“‘Twas not what I suggested,” the woman countered irritably. “A claimed woman is as close to a wife as one may be here. A ceremony have they, but ‘tis neither Zoroastrian nor Moslem, so I feel not wed 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 should the mood to claim another not take him.”

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 should you be claimed by a blooded one like Black Wind.”

Kira nibbled her lip, barely daring to be tempted by the possibility. “Why is he called that?” she demanded abruptly. The woman shrugged.

“His name he would not give 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. 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, for little he takes on fails. He is a blessed one, despite the stigma of his mark.” She leaned closer and 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. Superstitious nonsense. ‘Twas a birthmark alone her warrior sported, liken to many others Kira had seen except for its distinctive shape.

“But his name?” she prompted.

The woman shrugged. “Rode in from the north, he did, and so stealthily did he pass that none heard him afore he stood before the khan’s own tent. Directions they call 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 itself, hence the name Black Wind.”

And was about as warm. Kira regarded her bread with disinterest, 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 protested halfheartedly, her words silenced with a cutting glance from the other woman.

“Would you rather live than die?” the woman demanded flatly. 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.

“Naught do you know 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. “Well do I think dancing will suit you,” the woman mused. “What is your name, child?”

“Kira.”

“Kira,” she repeated carefully as her gaze ran over her. “Named for the sun, are you. 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 burgeoning 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. Teach me what I need to know.”

T
hierry could not believe his eyes when he saw her 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. Serfs and whores they were, by and large, women who ensured their own survival by the granting of their ample favors.

No place had his witch with them. Surely his eyes erred.

“Time enough ‘tis that you showed interest in the fair sex,” Nogai jested beside him.

Thierry acknowledged that he was probably not as circumspect about his intrigue as usually he was. Indeed, it mattered little now. Invincibility was of import only for those who had power, those with something worth stealing. A battle that had not been meant quite simply that Thierry had had no 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 dared to peer once more at the dancers. His eye fell immediately on the same tiny figure and he shook his head stubbornly. In Tiflis she was, but his fogged mind refused to relinquish its certainty. ‘Twas a trick of the flickering lamplight alone.

Indeed, she heavily favored his witch, but her movements were more languid. A drum was struck, bells shaken and the women took to a cleared space on the floor, their hips undulating in time to the music. A confusing swirl of scarves temporarily 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 woman 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 saw 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 timidly before she rolled one shoulder in an amateurish parody of the more experienced dancers.

Thierry licked his lips and glanced away, unable to account for the sudden dampness of his palms. How had she come to be here? No explanation could he find for her presence, especially dancing as she was, though Thierry cared little for that fact. In truth, he was pleased 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 just moments before.

He could not help but turn his gaze upon her once more.

‘Twas endearing how she tried to dance 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.

No interest had he in any superstitious nonsense, though little indeed did it please him to know that Nogai had discerned the direction of his thoughts so readily. Naught did he need to spoil the sweetness of this moment. Even if she should be gone by the morrow, Thierry would savor this chance to see her again.

And he had naught to lose by making his interest clear. The very thought sent a heated spark of anticipation running through him. Thierry told himself ‘twas naught but the
qumis,
though indeed 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 to him and only briefly before her gaze dropped to the floor. Thierry saw that she nibbled her bottom lip occasionally, her nervousness more than readily apparent, her color unnaturally high.

The gracefulness of her every gesture recalled the sight of her gloriously nude all too readily to Thierry’s mind. He licked his lips, feeling the spark kindled within grow to a flame. The yurt was suddenly much warmer than it had been, to Thierry, at least, but still he could not look away from the unexpected sight of her dancing.

‘Twas when she glanced at the other dancers and mimicked their gesture, tossing aside the large emerald scarf wrapped around her fully, that Thierry realized this could not be some harmless indulgence. Though she threw the silk aside with less practiced aplomb than her companions, her grace was made evident by the gesture.

As was much of the rest of her, he acknowledged with some discomfort. Thierry straightened slowly at the sight of her bare midriff, knowing full well that there was a mole to the left of her navel and liking it not that everyone else in the khan’s tent knew it, as well.

The thought of touching that mole tempted him, but he ignored it.

A crisscrossed red scarf bound her breasts, 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 hooting troubled Thierry now as it had not before and he wondered how many were gazing upon the soft flesh of his woman. The very thought made him cringe, illogical though that was. No claim had he here.

This time when she rolled her hips, it garnered more of a response from him than a cringe, though Thierry dared show naught of his feelings. Nogai whistled loudly but Thierry remained stock-still. The woman looked to him and smiled tentatively once more when she met his eyes. He refused to show any sign of her effect upon him. She must have discerned something in his expression, though, for she raised her hands over her head as the tempo of the music increased. She rocked her hips in time, the very provocativeness of the gesture shocking Thierry, though his companions seemed to have another response.

The woman smiled slowly and Thierry knew she had guessed that he was not unaffected. But what was her objective? Surely she could not mean to tempt him? Not after her relieved response the other night to his stated intention to leave her be?

The very possibility was provocative, but Thierry refused to let himself indulge in such whimsy. 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. As yellow as the sun it was. Thierry wondered how he could ever have thought her dancing amateurish when she deliberately cast it to him.

Mayhap he had misinterpreted. The invitation was blatantly unmistakable. He snatched the scarf from the air, schooling his features to remain impassive. Deliberately he sipped his
qumis
and held her gaze. Well it seemed that she intended to tease him this night, but he would know her desire with resounding certainty before he did anything 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 fairly made his ears burn. Fortunate ‘twas that she could not understand the Mongol tongue. He followed one leg upward, devouring the sight of her golden curves until finally he met her eyes once more.

Still she regarded him as though he were the only man in the tent. The realization fed the heat already burning within him. When her slender hands fell to another knot on her hip, Thierry’s heart leaped. No desire had he for more of her to be displayed to common view lest another be tempted to make her his own.

‘Twas time. 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 immediately regretted his impulse. He was inundated by her sweet scent and clenched one hand around his cup in a bid for self-control. Too tempting ‘twas to have her swaying so seductively directly before him. Should he care to look straight ahead from his seat on the floor, he could fairly stare right into the most fragrant part of her. Thierry resolutely avoided the option.

Instead he made the mistake of looking up to her face.

Vulnerability he saw in those dark eyes. And fear. What had brought her to this camp? He wondered what she had found in Tiflis. Had the marks on her back anything to do with her return? She spun on her toe again and he caught a glimpse of her back, relieved to see that she sported no fresh wounds. What then? Had she come back for his protection? Deliberately was she tempting him and Thierry could only assume that she wanted him to claim her.

His woman. Bewitched he must be, for the idea held no small measure of appeal.

But two days past, he would have declined, regardless of the spell she cast over him. Even this day, he would decline the offer from any other without regret. But in truth, this witch provoked him even when she sought no such end. This night he knew not how he might resist her allure. Naught had he to lose indeed by the softness of a woman, for he was powerless in a society that held only power in esteem.

He could do as she asked.

Thierry’s heart leaped at the very possibility but he forced himself to consider the realities. She was a virgin, unless he knew absolutely naught of the world. Was this truly the price she was prepared to pay? No merchant would have her for certain after this.

Mayhap Nogai had been right and none would have her now.

If only he could be certain ‘twas what she wanted. Thierry tapped the floor closer to his knee and she instantly took the requisite step. The smell of her engulfed him and he blinked disconcertedly, his gaze dropping abruptly from the swaying silk to her feet.

Her delightfully small and well-formed feet.

A red mark there was, mayhap a callus, that had not been there before. Thierry reached to touch the spot on her instep without thinking, startled at the contrast between his rough hands and her smooth skin. She laughed unexpectedly at his touch, her foot wriggling away as she shivered. Thierry glanced up at the unexpected sound in time to see her eyes glimmer with mischief. An amethyst scarf was unknotted from her hips, those tiny feet playfully dancing a hand’s span away.

Thierry looked up in confusion, surprised to find a flurry of soft purple enfolding his senses. He pulled the silk from obscuring his vision and held fast to the end. She danced at the other end of the scarf, undulating with the increased tempo of the drum. Thierry saw naught but her golden loveliness.

She could be his.

When her eyes met his again, he held her gaze and deliberately put his cup aside. She licked her lips nervously but neither broke his regard nor ceased her dancing. With an abrupt flick of his wrist, the amethyst cloth danced out of her grip and fluttered through the air to Thierry.

She looked confused, but little time did he give her to reflect upon the matter. No sooner had he the scarf within his grip than he snapped it again, sending a furl of silk to encircle her hips. He snatched the loose end out of the air and, much to the approval of his companions, pulled her resolutely closer.

She smiled openly at him and danced within the circle of silk, stretching her arms high in that pose that so enflamed him. Thierry gripped the scarf in one hand and reached out to touch the softness of her ankle once more. Instantly she planted her feet on the floor, the music becoming a frenzied beating at that same point. She shimmied her hips in a timeless move, the vibration fueling Thierry’s desire.

Unable to help himself, he let his fingertip trail leisurely up her leg. To his surprise, she shivered but did not move away. Thierry looked up to meet her eyes, seeing his own desire reflected there. Deliberately did she tempt him, he was certain of it, the light in her eyes making him believe she wanted their mating as much as he did.

As smooth as satin was her skin. Thierry swallowed as that fingertip dared ever higher. Not only did she not move away but she slipped one foot farther away from the other. Thierry’s heart pounded at the promise of that, and he allowed his finger to relentlessly continue.

The drumbeat slowed to a repetitive pounding, a pulse that was taken up by dancers and crowd alike. The golden light of the lamps flickered restlessly. The tent resonated, the women pumped their hips, the men stamped their feet and Thierry looked into the acquiescent eyes of his woman.

When he encountered the dampness at the juncture of her thighs, all else was forgotten.

She wanted him. Her eyes widened at his bold touch, but she neither ceased dancing nor looked away. Indeed, it seemed to Thierry that there were none but the two of them within the smoke-filled tent.

But there were more than the two of them. And if she was to be Thierry’s woman, she would be his alone. Not a private society was this one and well enough he knew that only a deed witnessed by many was believed to be the truth. The evidence of one’s own eyes alone could not be disputed.

If she was to be his woman and none were to have any doubt of her status, his possession would have to be a public one. Only that would leave no doubt. Thierry arched one brow, hoping she understood the import of what he asked when she nodded quick agreement without breaking his gaze.

So be it. She would be his for this night and all others. His path resolved, he willfully forgot the others in the yurt once more.

This moment was between the two of them, in truth.

Thierry gave the amethyst scarf the slightest tug, loving the way she tumbled trustingly into his arms. Had he spared the time to think, he might have thought her relieved, but other matters were there to attend. Her small hands were on his shoulders, her breath in his ear, her scent filling his nostrils fit to drown him, her softness filling his hands.

His woman.

She was on her back beside him in a flash, her gleaming hair spread over the bright carpets layered on the tent floor. Thierry was atop her in a heartbeat, his
chalwar
torn open. Incense and her scent mingled in his nostrils, the
qumis
burned hot in his veins, the pulse in his ears echoed the beating drums. He hauled the scarves out of his path and buried himself within her in one move, deaf to the cries of the men around him.