The Champion (7 page)
He forced his gaze to the soldiers below. “You have oil, something to dump, something that burns?”
“I—”
“Prepare to use that to keep them away from the entrance.”
“But…for how long?”
“As long as you can.”
“But we need time, even for that.”
“You have it,” Jacob snapped. “It will take the Grand Vizier time to organize the officers down there, even those he has already swayed to his side. Then they’ll need to construct some kind of primitive siege equipment to get through the door, or over the wall. Either way, if you hold strong, there’ll be no serious attack tonight, not for another day, at least.”
“Our supplies.”
Jacob nodded, turning back to the stairs. “Have someone organize and secure them.”
“Where are you going?”
“I would talk with the Sultan in private.”
“Then…he is not dead?”
“Not nearly as dead as he should be,” Jacob said, leaving the man to stare after him in utter confusion.
Nadira sat kneeling by the warm spill of water, the rupture in the pipe overhead cascading over her fingers, dripping in crystal tears from her nails. Under its trickling echo, she heard the vault door settle into its heavy frame, the squeal of dogging wheels as the locks were slid into place. Boots pinged softly on the stairs, the hiss of machinery masking them on certain catwalks, only to fade into the background as they climbed toward her.
A moment later, he was on the walkway, a solid presence standing in the shadows behind her. She felt his gaze press down on her, the weight of all things lost, naïve dreams now broken and too heavy to bear.
She shook her head. “The machine was supposed to bring us freedom. No more slaves. No more masters.”
“A republic.”
“It was supposed to protect us, because the other sultans would never have allowed us to change. Their armies are larger, and they would never have tolerated a threat to the philosophy of divine rule, not so close to their borders, especially now.”
He stepped closer. “Because they want war with New Europa.”
“Yes.”
“And Ruman is a rich ally, the only sultanate with a seaport large enough to shelter and service their dreadnoughts. As spymaster, I imagine it was easy for your Grand Vizier to sell his loyalty to the highest bidder.”
“He said he supported the plan, freedom for all.”
“He lied.”
“And Osman…”
“Killed outright because he was weak and no one would care, but then you took over and instantly lowered taxes, bestowed rights. You became popular in record time. So the Vizier decided to wait.”
She frowned, lost in some bleak emotion. “Wait for what?”
“For the chance to turn you into a martyr, so that your death would be a call to war for the people of Ruman.”
“A martyr? How could I be a martyr?”
“If you were killed by an agent of New Europa.”
“You? The infamous Robert Letoures? An agent?”
He didn’t reply to that, seeming to war with himself as he watched the water slip through her fingers.
“So many years, I have run from this,” she whispered. “From their stones and their hate…but I see it was for nothing. They will kill me, drag my body through the streets.”
He came close and knelt beside her, sliding his hand into the same trickle of water, his fingers so much larger than her own. “Not you. I will not let you die that way.”
She looked up at him, realizing that he meant every word, a glint of determination sharpening his gaze. Slipping his hand from under the water, he raised it to her cheek, smearing the clay with his knuckles, the pad of his thumb. Powder and kohl bled between his fingers, a false life streaking under the bands at his wrist.
He kissed her, bringing the earthy taste of the oil clay into her mouth, drawing her forward under the falling water. The gentle shower spread warmth through her hair, over her skin, drenching the collar of her robe. His hands stroked her hair, her face, rubbing the last traces of false color away, a painting he could tolerate no longer.
“No more hiding from me,” he said.
She shook her head, a stinging ache in her heart. “They will break through the gate. They will tear down this tower.”
“No.”
“They will murder you, and they will execute me.”
“No.”
“I don’t want to die a slave. When I face them, I want to remember only this, only how it feels to love you.”
The thief made a harsh sound between his teeth.
“Please.” She kissed his hands. “Please.”
He looked at her, the settling of some deep emotion darkening his gaze. Sliding his fingers from her grasp, he stroked them along her collar, drawing the damp white robe from her shoulders. The garment dropped away behind her. Gently, he lifted the strands of jewels from around her neck, and the silk coat over her head.
He left her the thin caftan shirt, running his fingers over the sheer material, finding her tiny breasts like shadows in a silk mist. He drew the shirt tight over them, revealing the tightened buds of her nipples just under surface. Leaning her back in his arms, he kissed one breast through the shirt, his mouth open and wet on her, teasing the little nub until she felt her breath catch. Her stomach tightened, the raw sound of her breathing echoing from the metal around them.
Lifting her hands, she hesitated, then spread her fingers through his hair, feeling the damp wealth of it under her palms. He groaned a soft encouragement and she stroked down his neck, to the skin burning above his collar. Drawing back from her, he rose to his knees and shrugged the long black entari over his head, then his shirt, revealing the long, muscular plane of his stomach, the bare strength in his arms. She reached for him and he caught her hand, guiding it to his chest, pressing her palm to the warm skin.
She splayed her fingers, watching his eyelids lower, his lips part. She could feel his heartbeat, the quickening of his breath as she stroked a path to his waist. He was waiting for her, she realized, waiting to be drawn close, or pushed away, as she saw fit.
A dozen dreams, with a thousand variations over the years, and she had never imagined touching him like this. He had always kissed her, always held her, but the thief in her dreams had never taken real shape, never shown real desire, never trembled under her fingers.
Slipping her hands lower, she untied the sash, drawing the loose trousers down over his hips. He winced and looked skyward, as if even just the sensation of being exposed was too much. Perhaps it was, but he held himself still, his chest heaving, his fingers lightly skimming her wrists.
His cock protruded from his groin, full and proud, and she stroked its smooth head with her fingers. His body tensed, almost to the point of pulling away, but held himself still. She watched him clench his teeth as she closed her fingers around him, stroking and squeezing his hard length, listening to him draw agonized breaths above her, his shaking more violent.
The sight of him helpless made her bold, and she explored between his legs, testing the weight of his testicles, tracing up the line of his rigid stomach. Rising up on her knees against him, she caressed her fingers over his lips, surprised when he caught them between his teeth, tasting them with the warmth of his tongue.
“I will be careful with you,” he breathed against her skin, his hands bringing her closer, seating her on his lap as he sat back on the grate. She was cradled against his naked chest, forced to recline in his arms as he slid her şalvar pants down and tossed them aside. He pressed his fingers between her legs and urged them apart, spreading them wide, kissing her mouth as his hand covered her sex.
His touch was coaxing, his big fingers sliding into the swollen folds, rubbing the sensitive skin. She drew a few sharp breaths, her heart spurred to a panicked rhythm, warmth flooding under his fingertips. He kissed her again, holding her close as the sensation grew intense, her hips writhing in his lap, his thumb circling a tiny pearl of need.
It felt too good. The grip of it drew her up for more, calling her to reach for whatever blissful trophy it offered. She broke the kiss with a gasp, her head thrown back over his arm, her legs spreading wider for the touch of his hand.
“I am yours,” he said, his voice tight, his heartbeat so close to her ear. Nadira shook her head, unable to answer. She felt him flatten his hand, rubbing her with his palm as he slid two fingers inside her. Her body arched, responding from instinct, from need. He rubbed along the snug passage, his fingers slick with her.
“Jacob,” he whispered. “I want to hear it on your lips.”
It could have been anything, any word, any name in the world, and she would gladly have said it. “Jacob.”
“Louder.”
His fingers were stretching, then sliding out of her, strumming excitedly over the hot skin, rubbing a point so blinding it stole her breath.
“Jacob,” she cried, feeling it overtake her.
He groaned in response, holding her as she stretched in climax, a rush of joy as bright as the sky, as free as the horizon. She shuddered as he lay her down on their clothes, her body flushed and languid.
He caught her hips and settled himself between them. She looked up through half-closed lids, watching his expression change as he guided the head of his cock to her pleasured sex. He rubbed its swollen head into the folds, slicking himself with her. Then he filled her, sinking deep, stroking the lingering orgasm until it warmed every part of her.
Nadira wrapped her legs around his waist, feeling him thrust deeper, her body moving under his, her heart lost to the bright current of need between them. He gathered her in his arms, whispering against her hair, kissing her as he caressed the hard length of himself inside her.
She grasped onto the muscle of his shoulders. Her fingers dug into his skin as the pleasure returned with greater force, wringing a second release from the battering slide of his cock, the hard merging of two souls.
His climax followed hers, his last thrusts brutal and halting, his body strained in its grasp. He bowed his head as it eased, pressing his forehead gently against hers, breathing through his teeth, his lips crooked in a tender smile. She stroked her hands over his jaw, tracing the lines at the corners of his eyes, finding him all the younger for the lack of a grimace or frown.
He kissed her hand. “You are, without a doubt, the bravest, most foolhardy, most beautiful, woman I’ve ever met.”
She wet her lips. “
Jacob
?”
His expression sobered a little, his gaze sliding away from her. “It is the name I prefer.”
“You wish me to always call you ‘Jacob’”?
“Yes.”
“Not Robert?”
“Never Robert.”
She shook her head, unconcerned as long as continued to hold her so. “I know so little about you, it seems.”
“I will tell you everything, as soon as I am free to do so.”
“How can you not be free?”
He shook his head, seeming to resist the mood a genuine reply might place him in. “Ask me anything but that.”
“Have you ever had a wife?”
“No.”
“Have you ever wanted to marry?”
“Years ago, perhaps, but the lady did not want to marry me.”
“Foolish.” She slid her hands down his shoulders, the length of his arms, watching his gaze warm to the touch. “And these…why do you wear these thread bracelets? Two on the right, and one on the left?”
“Ah.” He kissed her, drawing back to extricate their bodies, then pulling her snug against him as he lay beside her. “My sister made them for all of us, for each of her four younger brothers, before we went to war. Two of us were killed and I wear their bands on the right. One is missing, presumed dead, but never found, so there is just mine, on the left.”
She stared at his wrists, the faded thread bands betraying someone unexpected, not a thief, or a brigand, but a man who lived comfortably with silence, who carried the dead with him wherever he went. “I did not know you had been a soldier.”
“We each have our burdens,” he murmured, tracing a slow circle on her stomach, appearing lost in the task. “You far more than most.”
“I do not feel so burdened now.”
“You are no longer disguised.”
“As a sultan.”
“As a slave,” he corrected.
Meeting her gaze, he kissed her, lingering in the soft touch for a moment before pulling away and rising from the grate. He lifted his shirt from the catwalk and pulled it over his head, turning away from her as he donned his long entari and tied the sash around his waist. The movements were routine, distant.
She watched him dress and followed his lead, collecting her pants and padded silk jacket, rolling her wet hair into a bun.
He washed his hands in the water, considering the sky through the open tower doors above them. She followed his gaze, recognizing the golden hue of the light. “You think they will attack tonight, when it grows dark?”
He shook his head. “You should be safe in here.”
“
I
should…?”
Looking down at her, he grimaced. “I will return before morning.”
“Return? Where are you going?”
“Outside the wall. It is necessary.”
“You’re going out there, to them?”