Panther's Prey (13 page)

“You’re hurting me,” she whispered, twisting uselessly in his grasp.

He didn’t move.

“I said, you’re hurting me. Let me go!”

His fingers relaxed slowly and Amy snatched herself away from him, rubbing her wrists.

“Go back to the camp and stay in my tent,” he said abruptly, looking away from her.

“Aren’t you going to put a rope around my neck and lead me there?” she said in the old taunting tone, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was visibly shaken, her face pale.

“The sun is going down right now. If you want to take off and spend another night with the wolves, be my guest. I won’t come after you this time.”

“Why? Because you already have your money?” she said nastily.

“Because you are a nuisance and a burden and I wish I had never set eyes on you.”
 

There was a long pause. Then she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, which was trembling.

“I hate you,” she hissed, her eyes filling with tears.

“That’s your problem,” he replied.

One tear crept down her cheek, and she dashed it away in annoyance. Then she stalked past him, and he turned to watch her go. When she had disappeared through the trees he took her place on the polished stump and put his head in his hands.

He should not be involved in this; he did not have the time. To say that he had more important things to do was a ludicrous understatement: the fate of his country was hanging in the balance and he was having spats with a spoiled American teenager who had already caused him more trouble than all the previous women in his life combined.

In short, he was risking his mission, not to mention making an ass of himself.

It didn’t seem to matter. He was ensnared and he knew it. In three weeks she would leave and he would never see her again, but while she was with him he could not stay away from her.

He stood and began to pace, thrusting his fingers through his hair distractedly. He must stay away from her. He
must
. His agreement with Kalid Shah had left several things unspoken, and one of them was that Amelia leave the rebel camp as she had entered it.

The tension between them was causing them to fight, but he couldn’t take her, even if she was willing to be taken, and even if he was dying of the need to sink into her so deep he would be lost forever. It was no longer a matter of keeping her virginal for the slave trade; it was now a matter of honor. His honor.

He would not break faith with the Pasha of Bursa, who was risking his life and that of his family to help the revolutionaries’ cause.

Malik closed his eyes. Why was it so difficult to resist her? It wasn’t just that she was ready and wanted him, even if her inexperience was confusing her and she didn’t yet realize it herself. Her anger and her indignation, very real at first, were now becoming a defense; he could see through them to her true emotions. But he would have to let the moment pass, even though he knew it could never come again.
 

She would soon go back to her old life and forget him.

The thought was unbearable. He realized that he was clenching his fists in frustration and opened them immediately.
 

Malik stopped walking suddenly and looked up at the setting sun. Anwar would be searching for him, wanting to review the plan for their infiltration of the Armenian quarter.

When the Sultan’s men arrived at dawn, the rebels would be waiting.

Chapter 6

The silence woke her. Amy sat up and looked around the empty tent. Malik’s pallet was still rolled up, unused, and she realized with a start that he had not come back after their argument.

She stood and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, walking through the tent flap and stepping outside. It was the hour before dawn, when the birds began to stir and the women started the cooking fires. Amy looked around curiously and quickly realized what had disturbed her.

All the men and the horses were gone. The noise they made was absent, and the resulting quiet was unnerving.

The women moved about her like shadows, performing their routine tasks. They ignored her as if she were part of the morning mist drifting through the trees.

Amy watched them, wondering why they were alone. There was no one she could ask. To her knowledge, Malik was the only member of the rebel group who spoke English, and her Turkish was restricted to a few necessary words and phrases.

Whatever was happening, all the others seemed aware of it. There was no alarm in their expression or demeanor, and their placid acceptance of the changed situation made her almost envy them their serenity.

She knew she could never be so detached. She always wanted to know everything about every situation, and sometimes it got her into trouble.

It was the longest day of Amy’s life. She had no idea what was going on and there was no one to tell her. At dusk, when she could stand it no longer, she found Matka doing needlework and said to her in English: “Where are the men?”

Matka looked at her and shrugged.
 

“Malik Bey,” Amy said, enunciating carefully, certain that Matka would understand that much. Then Amy gestured expansively, sweeping her arm to indicate empty space, and pantomimed looking around corners and into the distance. “Where is he?” she asked.

Matka’s expression indicated that she understood, but she still said nothing. She went back to her sewing. Frustrated, Amy moved away, looking around for someone else. Risa, the young girl who had helped Matka to bathe Amy when she first arrived at the camp, walked past with a pail of water. Amy grabbed her arm and went through the same routine.

“
Mahalle Armenia
,” Risa replied.

Even Amy knew what that meant, she had heard Malik use the term often enough: the Armenian quarter of Constantinople.

“Why?” Amy asked, lifting her shoulders and arching her brows inquiringly.

“
Tanzimat
,” Risa replied. The revolution.

The revolution? Amy thought, watching Risa walk away. What did that mean? They were always occupied with the revolution, they lived for nothing else.

Then realization dawned, and Amy felt a cold finger on the back of her neck. Risa meant that the men were fighting, she meant that they were fighting right now. Malik and his band were risking their lives at that very moment, and the sudden knowledge made her feel naive and foolish.

War was Malik’s occupation, his interlude with her just a means to that end. Why was she surprised that he had disappeared from the camp to go off and fight the Sultan? He had done it countless times, and he didn’t need her permission to continue on his chosen path.

Amy shivered, wondering if she would ever see him again. She wished that their last encounter had not been so ugly, so filled with bitterness and anger.
 

As soon as she realized where Malik was she knew she didn’t want anything to happen to him.

When darkness fell she went back to Malik’s tent to sleep. No one was paying any attention to her, and she could have walked right out of the camp; Malik must have known she would not go. After all, he was risking nothing by leaving her unguarded. He already had his money and Amy’s best way out of this nightmare was to wait for Kalid Shah. But there was more to it for her now. She wanted to stay and see that Malik returned safely. She knew the desire was childish, in just a few weeks he would be nothing but a memory, but the need to see him again remained.

She fell into a fitful doze, waking frequently throughout the night, but it was light before she heard the sound of horses hooves’ and knew that the men were back.

Amy jumped up and ran out into the clearing as the other women did the same. She looked around frantically for Malik, but saw only the limp bodies of injured men slung across horses, tended by those who were still capable of riding. The returning rebels swarmed around her, greeted by their wives and families, but she couldn’t find the face she sought. Then she suddenly glimpsed a glossy dark head, a slim torso covered with blood, and her vision went dark for a moment. When it cleared again she saw with a sickening lurch of relief that the man with the wound was Anwar, and Malik was standing by his side.

Her heart still pounding in reaction to the spurt of fear she’d just experienced, she watched as two men lifted Anwar from Malik’s horse and carried his still form into his tent. Malik followed them, walking past her without a glance.

The camp was busy for the rest of the day, but there was no sense of accomplishment in it. Rather it was the ceaseless activity of a hospital which prevailed, as everyone’s attention focused on tending the wounded. Amy watched Anwar’s tent until late afternoon, observing the comings and goings and Malik’s tense expression whenever he appeared. Finally, as the women were gathering to cook the evening meal, he emerged and stalked across the clearing.

Amy ran up to him and said, “I can help you with Anwar.”

This got his attention, as she had known it would. “What do you mean?” he demanded, looking down at her.

“I volunteered at a hospital in Boston for two years while I was in school. I know a lot about nursing.”

He snorted. “Oh, yes, I know about American volunteers. Did you ever actually see a sick person between the luncheons and teas and the bandage rolling?”

“I assisted at bedside treatments and changed dressings and administered doses of medicine.”

“And you had a civil war going on in Boston at this time?” he said dryly.

“We had criminals and police who were shooting each other,” Amy replied. “I cared for them. What else do you need?”

“I need a doctor,” he burst out in frustration, “but they’re all too afraid of the Sultan to come here.”

“Then I’m the next best thing. Will you let me take a look at him?”

Malik gazed at her doubtfully.

“I want to help,” Amy said quietly. “I may not be fond of your methods of raising capital but I would not deliberately worsen the condition of an injured man.”

He still regarded her uncertainly, not convinced.

“Is there anyone else here with experience in Western medicine?” Amy asked. “Is there anyone else here with any medical experience at all?”

“We’ve tended the wounded many times,” he said stiffly.

“Has your best friend been shot before?” Amy countered. “What can it hurt to let me see him?”

He sighed resignedly. “All right, come along,” he said, and she trailed at his side as he entered the tent containing the injured man and several of his relatives. When Amy knelt by Anwar’s side and touched his forehead one of the younger women protested in a vehement burst of Turkish.

“What is it?” Amy asked, looking up at Malik.

“She doesn’t want you tending him,” Malik said shortly.

“Why not?”

“She says you’re a foreigner and an infidel and have brought bad luck to the camp.”

“She has you to thank for my arrival here, agha,” Amy said. “Why don’t you tell her that?” She bent over Anwar again and the woman clutched her arm warningly.

“Look here, I’m not going to hurt him,” Amy said. “Malik, tell her I’m trying to help. She has to trust me.” She looked up at Malik. “You do, don’t you?”

“If I didn’t you wouldn’t be in here,” he replied quietly.

“Then tell them all to go now,” Amy said. “I have to be able to concentrate.”

Malik said something curtly in Turkish and the family left the tent one by one. When he was alone with Amy he asked, “What do you think?”

Amy peeled the makeshift dressing back from the wound and gazed down at the suppurating hole in Anwar’s shoulder. It was jagged from the exit of the flattened metal pistol ball and charcoaled with the powder burn.

“Well?” Malik said anxiously.

“The ball exited on its own so I don’t have to probe the wound for it, and that’s good. But the wound is infected. That’s why it’s oozing and his skin is so hot. He has a fever.”

“What can you do?”

“He needs a poultice to draw the wound. I must have the herbs to make it and something to reduce his fever.”

“We have nothing here, you know that,” he said impatiently.

“Isn’t there an apothecary in the covered bazaar in the city?” Amy asked. “You could purchase what I need there.”

“Tell me what to get and I’ll go. I’ll be back in one day.”

Amy stood and faced him. “I don’t know the Turkish names, I have to see them.”

It was a moment before the implication of what she had said reached him.

“I’m not taking you back and forth to Constantinople with me,” Malik said flatly.

“Do you have any choice? I can ride well enough, you won’t have to carry me. Do you want Anwar to die?”
 

“We will attract attention!” Malik said. “You may not have noticed this, Amelia, but Turkish women don’t have yellow hair and gray eyes!”

“Then we’ll wear the bedouin robes you use for a disguise. If I keep my face covered and my eyes down no one will notice me. I only have to be in the shop for a short while, I can identify everything by sight. I was very well taught by an herbalist famous in Boston for his cures.”