Panther's Prey (17 page)

“Congratulations.”
 

He grinned. “Tonight there will be a
bayrami
, a celebration.”

“I’m sure your people could use one.”

He studied her face, taking in her sincere but wan smile. “You look worn out,” he said.

“I tried to sleep. I can’t.”

“Take some of that potion you gave to Anwar.”

“We may need it all for him.”

“You can spare half a dose, enough to make you drowsy. There was almost a full bottle in your bag, you didn’t use much of it.”

“I was afraid to become dependent on it.”

“Was it very bad when your parents died?” he asked quietly.

Amy looked away from him. “Maybe I was spoiled and just couldn’t handle adversity, but one minute I was part of a family, and the next I was... alone.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Malik replied quietly, and when she looked into his eyes she saw perfect understanding..

Risa ran up to Malik and said something excitedly in Turkish.

He held up his hand for Risa to wait and looked at Amy.

“Go back to my tent and rest,” he said.

“But Anwar...”

“I’ll make sure Maya tends him. You’ve done enough. Maya will bring you the medicine and then she’ll sit with her brother.”

Amy nodded.

He put his hand on her shoulder. “You can handle adversity,” he said, and smiled.

Amy watched him walk away with Risa and then went back to his tent.
 

* * *

Amy awoke in darkness, to the sound of music. She lay in a semi-slumber, the oil lamp in the tent a blur before her half closed eyes, listening to the
tanburs
, violins and flutes, watching the play of light and shadow on the canvas of the tent. She felt refreshed and relaxed, as if she had slept for a week instead of most of the day. When she stretched and finally sat up she saw that she was not alone; Maya was sitting about ten feet away, holding a bulky package in her lap.

“Maya?” Amy said.

The young woman rose and came forward, kneeling and touching her forehead to the dirt packed floor. When Amy moved to raise her up she pressed the bundle she held into Amy’s hands, and Amy unfolded it to look at it.

It was a dress, a gauzy handmade gown of finest Bursa silk in the traditional Turkish style. It had bell sleeves and a high cinched waist and was exquisitely embroidered with red and gold thread in a Seljuk pattern of vines, leaves and rosettes. Amy stared down at the painstaking needlework, ran the whisper weight cloth through her fingers, holding it up to the light to see it better. It was the loveliest garment she had ever seen.
 

“Maya, this is gorgeous. Thank you for showing it to me,” Amy said, handing the gown back to Maya.

Maya shook her head and gave it to Amy again.

“This is for me?” Amy said, shocked, pointing to herself.
 

Maya nodded vigorously.

“Oh, no, you must have worked on this for months. I can’t possibly take it,” Amy said.

Maya’s face crumpled at her tone and the Turkish girl looked like she was going to cry.

Amy was nonplused; she had no wish to offend Maya but the gift was far too extravagant. It had probably been intended as Maya’s wedding dress.

Maya suddenly grabbed her hand and began to tug Amy out of the tent. Amy followed, puzzled until she realized that Maya was bringing her to see Anwar. They passed a large bonfire in the center of the camp, around which the musicians were playing and many of the women danced. Amy did not see Malik, but didn’t have much time to look because Maya hustled her past the celebrants and into Anwar’s tent.

Once inside Amy realized why Maya had been so insistent about the gift. Anwar was sitting up, propped on a pile of embroidered pillows and sipping a cup of broth.

He put down the cup and held out his arms when he saw Amy.

She gave him her hands and he held them to his dry, cracked lips.

“
Tessekur ederim
,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” Amy replied to the familiar phrase, snatching her hands back shyly. All this excessive gratitude was making her feel quite embarrassed.
 

“
Elinize saglik
,” Maya added.

Amy looked at them smiling at her, two people who would have cheerfully throttled her a week earlier, and marveled at the complexities of life. She bent to check Anwar’s dressing and then left, going back to Malik’s tent where she found Maya’s dress crumpled on the floor.

Maya clearly thought Amy had saved her brother’s life, and Amy realized that in a culture she was just beginning to understand, it would be an insult for her to refuse Maya’s finest possession.
 

The music changed and Amy listened to a solitary voice, accompanied by a dulcimer, singing one of the plaintive Anatolian folk songs she often heard about the camp. The tunes were so sad they could bring tears to Amy’s eyes even though she didn’t understand the words. Amy smiled wistfully as she removed the cover from the claw foot tub and gathered soap and towels.
 

Even when the Turks were having a party their melancholy nature came through in their music.

She picked up the large black iron pot Matka used to bring water and went in search of a boiling kettle. But when Matka saw Amy approaching the small fire she always kept going, she took the pot from Amy and filled it herself, then recruited Risa to get more. Amy stood aside as they filled the tub, then Matka dismissed Risa and went to stand guard at the entrance of the tent while Amy bathed.

It was clear to Amy that Anwar’s recovery had changed her status from camp pariah to camp heroine in the blink of an eye. Even taciturn Matka was suddenly solicitous.

Amy shuddered to think what might have happened if Anwar had died; could even Malik have saved her?

She had a long, luxurious bath, even washing her hair with the pine soap and rinsing it with the clear water Risa brought. She dressed in the gown Maya had given her, which was a little too big, except in the bust where the fitted gold clasps pulled the panels of silk together tightly, molding the bodice as if she were wearing a corselet. The neckline was cut low, exposing the tops of her breasts to an almost immodest degree. Amy threw the
feradge
, or cape, she had been wearing when disguised as a bedouin over her shoulders before she left the tent.

It was a warm, clear night, fragrant with the wild heliotrope that grew in profusion around the camp. Matka glanced at Amy’s dress, her shining face, her damp and shining hair, and said, “Malik,” pointing through the trees.

I must be about as subtle as a halberdier’s truncheon, Amy thought as she watched Matka trudge back to the party. I didn’t even have to ask.

Amy followed the path to the clearing, her feet as light as the fiddle music which now filled the air. She felt wonderful after her long nap and sure of what she had to do.

For once in her pampered, careful, well tended life she was about to take a chance.
 

Malik was sitting alone on a tree stump, smoking one of the cigarettes he could rarely afford and looking up at the star filled night sky. He was wearing the tunic Amy liked best, dark blue and slashed almost to his waist, its color and style setting off his dark good looks and slim physique to perfection. His trousers were the same tan he always wore, tight and tucked into black boots. His hair had been recently brushed, taming its wild waves, and as she got closer she could see that he had shaved closely, revealing the slight cleft in his chin and the hairline scar on his upper lip.
 

He stood when he heard Amy approaching and tossed away the butt, watching her as she stopped a few feet away.

“Why aren’t you celebrating with the others?” she asked him, drawing the shawl closer about her.

“I’m celebrating alone,” he replied evenly. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better.”
 

“So is Anwar.”

“Yes, I know, I saw him. Maya took me to visit him. She said,‘Elinize saglik’ and gave me this dress.” She held out the skirt for him to see. “What does that phrase mean?”

“It means that your hands should have a long life. It’s said to anyone who has done something wonderful: a cook who has prepared a delicious meal, an artist who has created a marvelous painting, or, as in your case, a doctor who has healed a patient.”

“I see. Do you like the dress?” she asked.

“Very pretty.”
 

“I think so too.”

“It’s a shame you won’t have much use for it when you leave here,” he said evenly, looking away from her.

It was the first reference he had made to her departure since the day he had cut her bonds.

“Don’t you think my Aunt Beatrice will appreciate native dress?” Amy asked lightly.

“I think you will soon be back in hoop skirts and those ridiculous sailing sleeves you were wearing when I met you,” he replied.

“Sailing sleeves?” Amy said.

“Yes, they look like billowing sails, you know what I mean,” he said, gesturing.

“Leg o’ mutton,” Amy said.

“Is that what they are called?” he asked, amazed, sitting again on the stump.

Amy nodded, smiling as she looked down at him.

“You must admit that Western women wear strange clothing,” he muttered.

“I think I prefer this style of clothing now,” Amy said to him, letting the shawl slip down her arms, exposing the low neckline of the dress.
 

His gaze lingered on her bare throat and swelling
décolletage
before returning to her face.

“So do I,” he said huskily.

Amy took a step forward, saying, “I’m so glad that Anwar has improved.”

Malik smiled. “It’s funny to think you’re responsible. Before he was wounded Anwar couldn’t wait to get rid of you. And after his injury he was unconscious and didn’t know until today that you had effected his cure.”

She reached out and touched his cheek. “I didn’t do it for him,” she said softly.

Malik stared at her for a long moment and then slowly closed his eyes, turning his head to kiss her hand. When she lowered it to trace the curve of his lips with her finger he snaked out one long arm and drew her to him fiercely.

Amy gasped as he pressed his face to her exposed bosom, rubbing his skin on hers like a cat. She shuddered when she felt his tongue trail along her collarbone and then probe the valley between her breasts, his mouth so hot and wet it turned her bones to water. When he lifted his head and opened the bodice of her dress, her knees gave way and he pulled her into his lap.
 

He had one nipple in his mouth before he had even seen it, his free hand greedily cupping the other. Amy sank her fingers into his hair and held him against her, her breath coming in short bursts as he sucked and nipped and teased, drinking his fill of what he had denied himself for too long.

He pulled the sleeves off her arms and shoved the dress down to her waist, kissing the white smoothness of her shoulders, the tender, blue veined flesh of her throat and wrists and inner elbows. The sight of his dusky skin against her paleness, the feel of his strong hands roaming her bare back as his mouth caressed her made Amy faint with longing. She clung to him, so enervated she would have fallen without his support, when he stood suddenly with her in his arms and strode briskly to a patch of grass.
 

He flung Amy’s shawl upon the ground, then set her down on it, sprawling full length next to her, catching himself with one arm as he dropped. In the next instant he had rolled Amy under him and lay poised above her, his liquid eyes filling the world.

“I have wanted you so much,” he said thickly, his voice sounding strange, as if the admission had been wrung from him against his will. “So much, from the beginning.”

“Don’t talk,” she whispered, blinking back tears as she pulled him down to her once more. “Don’t talk.”

The last was said against his mouth as his lips met hers for the first time, and it was a sensation she would never forget. She had been kissed before, by the boys who had courted her back in Boston, but not like this. Malik was a man, and this was a man’s embrace: powerful, demanding. His mouth was soft, a contrast with the hardness of his teeth and the hard body pressed against hers, and she could taste the faint tang of tobacco and the bitterness of raki on his lips. He kissed her again and again, his mouth fused to hers, his weight pinning her as he stroked her hair, running the silken strands through his fingers. Amy slipped her hands inside the waistband of his pants and loosened his shirt, tracing the muscles of his back, which bunched as she touched them. His skin was hot, and she could feel his tension in the tips of her fingers. As his mouth moved to her cheek, her neck, she tore restlessly at his tunic.
 

“I want to feel you against me,” she moaned, pushing the material away from his neck, where she could see a pulse beating strongly. He sat up abruptly and tore off the shirt, tossing it on the ground. When he lay back down he held himself up on his hands, looking at her, as she ran her finger down his chest. Then she gripped his shoulders to lift herself up and trace the same path with her tongue.