Claire Delacroix (16 page)

Was this the way of whores in the camp? Kira hunkered down under the blanket and wondered what her warrior would expect when he returned. Would he similarly send her on her way? And where exactly did these women go?

The sound of breathing filled the tent again in the women’s wake, the warrior’s companion sprawling on his back and snoring with his mouth open as though he had not even awakened a moment past. Kira dared to peek around. She decided immediately that she liked the look of this one even less when he slept. Rougher he appeared than her warrior, more poorly groomed, dirtier and evidently of lower rank.

Well it seemed that she might have done worse the previous night. Kira shivered. But what had she gained? Would her warrior return to similarly oust her?

It seemed forever had come and gone in the time she lay there and fretted over her status, though indeed the tent had only become incrementally lighter when the warrior made his appearance once more. Kira’s heart jumped at the decisive opening of the tent flap, no doubt in her mind who would stand framed against the morning’s grayness should she dare to look.

But she could not. She squeezed her eyes shut and pretended to sleep as her heart pounded in her ears. Mayhap then, he would not have the heart to awaken her and cast her out, though well enough did Kira know that she was hoping thus in vain.

The tent was silent except for the other man’s snores, the very air charged with expectancy. Well did Kira know that she was being watched again, but she resolutely kept her eyes closed.

If only she could slow her breathing or unclench her fingers beneath the blanket.

The warrior took a barely audible step and Kira heard whatever he carried drop to the ground. She tensed when she felt him stretch his length out alongside her, bracing herself for the worst.

Naught happened. Kira fancied she could feel his breath fan her skin, his breathing annoyingly more regular and slower of pace than her own. She panicked, knowing that she would do well to fool him at such close range, and desperately hoped that he merely intended to fall asleep once more like his brethren.

A sharp tap on the end of her nose made her jump. Kira’s eyes flew open to confront the knowing expression in the disconcerting gray gaze so close to her own. Was that amusement that almost tugged at the corner of his lips? Indeed, it could not be and she stared back at him fearfully, uncertain what he intended to do now that he had discovered her ruse.

To her surprise he merely coaxed her to sit up before him. Kira shivered and clutched the blanket to her chest, not entirely convinced that his intentions were good ones. The way he moved to sit directly behind her fed her trepidation and she felt herself stiffen at his proximity.

Then his fingers were in her hair. Kira almost leaped skyward in alarm until she realized that he was finger-combing its length. She twisted slightly to look at him, only to earn a quick condemnation and a gentle finger beneath her chin urging her to face forward once more.

No desire had he that she witness whatever vile deed he had in mind, Kira thought bitterly. She jabbed her chin into the air stubbornly, certain she would see that he had not an easy way of whatever he intended to do.

There was no mistaking the rhythmic tug of having her hair braided, though Kira fought the evidence for a more rational explanation. He was grooming her? How could this be? It defied reason that he would do such a thing. She twisted around, not knowing what to do in the face of this unexpected development, and her gaze fell upon the burden he had dropped.

Clothing. Similar to his in style it looked, but smaller of cut.

Was she to have these clothes? And was this a sign of possession? Kira glanced over her shoulder uncertainly. The warrior had finished her braid and was tying the end with a short length of rawhide. He met her gaze, one end of the rawhide in his teeth, and raised his brows expressively.

Kira fought the urge to smile at his unexpectedly playful expression and quickly turned away from him. Her heart pounded erratically and she told herself not to be a fool. The man had no interest in her. Likely he knew she had no garments and would see her garbed before tossing her out.

The assertion did not ring as true as Kira thought it should have, for surely a man who cared naught for her would not worry whether she was soaked in this rain. But then, surely a man who cared naught for her would not have pleasured her in the night as he had.

Mayhap she merely knew too little about men who cared naught. Well did her father care for her, this she knew without doubt, and that alone should have told her that affection was a demanding burden. Mayhap a lack of regard was a less painful obligation.

Kira frowned, knowing herself to be more thoroughly confused than ever she had been. She closed her eyes and let the scent of the warrior’s skin fill her nostrils, acknowledging that his very presence calmed her fears. Mayhap that was enough.

Mayhap that would have to be enough.

The warrior urged her to her feet with a hand beneath her elbow. He indicated with an imperious finger the deep blue
kurta, kalat
and
chalwar
he had brought, and Kira reached for the loose shirt. A solid finger on her shoulder brought her up short and she cursed herself for making the mistake of meeting his eyes. Too aware of him was she in the humid warmth of the tent with the beat of the rain filling her ears and the memory of his intoxicating touch heating her cheeks.

He pointed to the silk
kurta
she wore and said something, his gesture indicating that she should remove it. Kira’s face flamed but he remained resolute.

‘Twas his shirt, after all, she supposed. Kira dropped her gaze miserably, uncertain she could cavalierly disrobe before him this morning. His flat palm intruded on her peripheral vision, that signal of demand that he knew she understood. Kira nodded quickly. He would have his
kurta
but she would grant him no view of what was beneath. ‘Twas irrational and well she knew it but still she could not do it.

She squared her shoulders to brace herself before meeting his gaze once more. With a swirl of one finger, she tried to show him that she wanted him to turn around. His features remained impassive and he showed no signs of moving. Kira sighed, gritting her teeth as she resolutely gripped his arm and tried to turn him. Well enough she knew that he had no interest in her form, but still her modesty compelled her to maintain some dignity.

At least she would not be forced to confront the disinterest in his eyes. She gave his elbow a resolute shove and, to her surprise, he complied.

No need had there been to be so readily complaisant, she thought irritably. At least the man could pretend to having some interest. Unreasonable she was being, and Kira was fully aware of her erratic mood, though this uncertainty over her fate did her temper few favors.

She desperately wished there was some way to know her status once and for all.

Kira spared a glance to the other occupant of the tent to ensure that he was sleeping, then hastily peeled off his silk
kurta.
Having no idea how much time the warrior would grant her to change, she quickly donned the garments he had brought. Kira frowned at the padding in the hips of the loose
chalwar
trousers, certain it would make her look hugely round. With a muttered sound of disgust she removed the pads and cast them aside, then hauled the fur-lined tunic over her head just as the warrior turned around.

He nodded with what might have been approval and pointed to a pair of boots Kira had not noticed before. She jammed her foot into one, lacing the open front up to the knee similar to the way the warrior wore his. Kira picked up the other boot, seeing out of the corner of her eye that he had dropped to a crouch and was quickly rolling up the blankets she had just abandoned.

He said something to his companion, who snorted in his sleep but continued to snore more or less undisturbed. A frown briefly darkened the warrior’s brow as he put the blankets aside, then he stepped over to shake the other man.

His companion sat up with alarm, his gaze focusing reluctantly on the tent around him. He blinked and frowned, the pair exchanging a quick volley of comments as Kira watched. The other man looked perplexed and made a demand, which the warrior answered with a single terse word.

He straightened abruptly, leaving his companion with a moderately dazed expression. The warrior collected a pair of leather saddlebags and matter-of-factly packed the blankets away. He removed a pair of heavy cloaks, casting the shorter one about Kira’s shoulders before he donned the other. His companion seemed to take that as a sign of some kind, for he stood so quickly that Kira had no chance to avoid a glimpse of his nudity.

She stared stubbornly at her freshly booted toe, not knowing what was happening and uncertain she even wanted to know. Then the warrior loomed in her peripheral vision and she glanced up to find him tossing one of the saddlebags over his shoulder. He handed her the other one and gestured her toward the tent flap, his companion hauling on his boots as he hastened to follow them out into the rain.

The surrounding tents looked dejected in the gray morning light, their heavy felt sagging with the weight of the rain. Misty ‘twas and damp, and Kira shivered within the warm embrace of her new clothes. She glanced back to find her warrior hefting onto his shoulders a saddle that he had left just inside the tent.

Her pulse leaped when his companion followed suit. She needed little imagination to see that they were leaving the camp. Her warrior’s gaze met hers and Kira’s heart gave an unsteady lurch, the sensation leaving her unsure whether to be pleased or not that he had not so far cast her aside.

Would he take her with him, wherever he was going? Or would she be consigned to the ranks of the whores servicing the camp? Kira licked her lips carefully, trudging in the direction he indicated with trepidation weighing heavily on her heart.

* * *

The realization that the price for taking a witch was evidently quite low pleased Thierry more than he would have preferred. Touching her had reassured him yet again that the shaman had evidently misunderstood the inclination of her powers, if indeed she was a witch at all.

Simple ‘twould have been to be able to blame this small woman for the khan’s decision of this morn, but Thierry knew ‘twas not the case. Only too aware was he that his becoming an outcast had been in the wind afore he knew she was in the camp.

Thierry’s optimism about visiting his native land dismissed any such worries out of hand. A new future had he in the land of the Franks and Thierry was assailed by a sense that his would be a noble destiny there. In fact, he was feeling remarkably hale this morn, despite the khan’s choice. His woman walked before him, her hips swaying temptingly, and he acknowledged himself to be feeling healthy, indeed.

But a few hours since they had coupled and already he was anxiously wondering how long ‘twould take her to come to him. Truly he had denied himself too long.

The shaman was a fool.

He watched his woman’s shapely buttocks and recalled the flutter of her heart beneath his hand. Something clenched within him at the memory and he vowed silently that she would come to him again. Had he not pleased her in the night?

Unless she had no recollection of his touch. Thierry searched his mind for some minute sign she had made this morn of her newfound awareness of him. Not a gesture, not a glance, not a flush could he recall that might signify that she, too, had needs. Indeed, she seemed yet more supremely unaware of him than before.

Could it be that witches truly had no need of men? Could this be the price of taking one? To be enchanted and have no hope of possessing her again? The very possibility of that being true made Thierry itch to make her taste her need once more.

But nay. He had vowed to himself that he would wait for her. Khanbaliq invaded his thinking yet again and for the first time, he felt a wave of ingratitude toward his sire.

Curse the man for teaching him to hold the sanctity of a vow above all else.

“C
ongratulations,” the Persian woman purred into Kira’s ear.

Kira turned away from the latrines, astonished to find anyone else awake in the silent camp. The Persian woman smiled knowingly. “Well did I tell you that you were too pretty for war fodder. And no doubt was there left that Black Wind chose you as his woman.”

Kira felt her brows rise skeptically. “Indeed, the deed could scarcely be missed,” she commented sourly as she adjusted her
chalwar.
The other woman gripped her arm, and Kira glanced up in surprise.

“Know you not what he did?”

“Aye.” Kira winced in wry recollection. “I know well enough what he did.”

The woman smothered a smile. “Nay, Kira, not that. You do understand that ‘tis their way to stake a claim publicly?” she added in a lower tone. Kira felt her eyes widen.

“I do not understand,” she said carefully, not daring to believe what the woman seemed intent on telling her. Surely ‘twas not a custom to possess a woman before all the others?

The Persian woman nodded slowly as she saw comprehension dawn in Kira’s eyes. “‘Tis evident he wanted to leave no doubt that you are his,” she hissed. “Possessiveness in a man is good sign, indeed.”

Kira’s heart leaped and she flicked a quick glance to the warrior standing at the far side of the latrine. He was facing toward the open fields behind as though completely unconcerned with her actions, but well enough she knew by now that he was fully aware of what she did and precisely where she stood.

In a way, such an awareness was strangely comforting. Had it been someone who threatened her this morn, instead of merely the chat of this woman, Kira knew that little could go amiss before her warrior was at hand.

She rather liked that. The other woman chuckled and patted Kira companionably on the shoulder, jarring her out of her thoughts.

“Aye, little Kira. Well do you know what I mean. Make no mistake, for Black Wind has claimed you for his woman.”

Black Wind. Was that what “Thierry” meant? Kira turned to the other woman and looked right into her eyes. “How do the Mongols say `Black Wind’?” she asked.

The woman looked surprised, then smiled confidentially. “Qaraq-Böke,” she said, much to Kira’s confusion. Naught at all did that sound like “Thierry.” So harsh was the word in contrast to the name that the warrior had given her that Kira’s heart began to pound.

Surely he could not have told her the name he would confide in no other here?

“No other way is there to say it?” she demanded breathlessly. The woman shook her head quickly, confusion lighting her eyes.

“Nay, Kira. ‘Tis Qaraq-Böke he is called. Would you not say it to me first?” she asked helpfully. “Well you should know that but a slight inflection changes the meaning of a word in their tongue. I would not have you insult him when all seems to be progressing so well.”

Kira smiled and glanced to her warrior as the surety of her conclusion flooded through her. “I will not insult him,” she murmured with growing confidence. She gave the other woman an impulsive hug before she spun away, filled with an uncharacteristic optimism.

“I fear we are leaving and would wish you good luck,” she said gaily. The other woman looked mildly surprised, but Kira waved and danced away. “Thank you!” she called before turning to her warrior triumphantly and granting him the same sunny smile.

For Kira had no doubt that her warrior had confided in her his real name. And that was more a sign that he had claimed her for his own than anything the Persian woman might have told her.

He turned to watch her approach, his sight landing unerringly on her as though he knew exactly where she was the entire time. Kira’s pulse echoed in her ears and she stifled her jubilant smile as she fairly skipped across the grass to him.

He had told
her
his name after but a few days. And these people had known him years without learning his true name. Indeed, that could only be a good portent of things to come.

* * *

Something had changed in her assessment of him, though Thierry could not guess what ‘twas. He puzzled over it as he saddled his horse in the misty rain, well aware of her complacency as she stood beside him. Calmer she seemed and he risked a covert glance in her direction to find her expression uncharacteristically patient.

Surely a woman would fuss over the foul weather? But nay, she merely stood and watched him work as though she would learn the task. Aye, he thought sourly, a woman afraid of horses well needed to know how to saddle a beast.

What game did she play with him now? Did she mean to steal a horse and escape him in the night? The idea that she might never come to him had unnerved Thierry more than he was certain it should have. Well he knew his current mood was the result. He spared her a glance and she met his gaze pertly.

Thierry spun back to his task, his fingers fumbling with the horse’s trap. Indeed, the woman would make him skittish with her incessant changes of mood. Well it seemed that he could not foresee what she might do. ‘Twas a new sensation and not one that Thierry was finding enjoyable.

Predictable had her response been when he had awakened her in the night, though he could not have expected her passion. And truly, had he troubled to reflect upon the matter, he might have anticipated the way she had recoiled after their mating.

But how or why had she ended up in Abaqa’s camp again? Sent her directly to Tiflis he had and he wondered what had changed her path. There was a puzzle. And what had originally given her the audacity to openly defy him, a Mongol, in her father’s shop?

Witch, he concluded readily, sparing her another covert glance. Naught did it help matters that the garb he had obtained for her accented her petite figure. Even without the padding in her
chalwar,
her hips were delightfully rounded and her waist small enough that he longed to fold his hands around her.

She smiled at him and Thierry’s heart fairly stopped.

He felt the scowl darken his brow as he abruptly turned back to the horse’s harness. Glad he was that she had not done
that
sooner, for the sight was fetching, indeed. Too readily did he recall her laughter when he had tickled her foot in the khan’s yurt. That delicate foot with its high arch and tiny red callus. Thierry swallowed carefully and fastened the last strap on the harness.

Suddenly Thierry was markedly less certain of his ability to keep his vow.

He gestured to another of his horses and then to her, making a mock riding movement. Her eyes widened and she looked from the saddled horse to the unbridled one in momentary confusion. She pointed to him with one slim finger, her blank expression all the question Thierry needed.

He pointed to himself and laid one hand on the saddle. The horse stepped sideways, anxious to be on the run. His woman pointed to herself tentatively and Thierry pointed to his horse, then the other and shrugged.

“Tiflis?” she asked. Thierry shook his head firmly, surprised that she did not seem disappointed by the news. Had she not family in Tiflis?

“Paris,” he informed her, but her expression changed not. Mayhap she had not heard tell of the Frankish city.

“Constantinople,” he said flatly, hoping she knew the name of that city.

Her expression revealed that she was familiar with the town, the way she hastily laid one hand on his saddle beside his, showing at least an awareness of the distance. Aye, well he could imagine that she did not want to ride all that way alone with her uncertainty of horses, but he had had to offer the choice. For the sake of his vow, if naught else.

Thierry glanced down and was struck again by the difference in size between their hands lying so close together on the red leather saddle. He deliberately tore his glance away from her small hand and met her eyes.

“Constantinople?” she asked, pointing to him, then herself.

Any fear she had shown of him seemed to have dissipated rapidly, Thierry thought irritably, not in the least pleased that any sexual interest in him had seemed to depart along with it. Had he not ensured she was pleased? How long would she force him to endure the haunting scent of her skin?

How long could he endure her proximity without the barbarian within him bursting forth once more?

When Thierry forced himself to nod in response to her question, she pointed inquiringly to Nogai, then to all the horses, and he nodded once more. She chewed her lip for an instant, firing his desire to taste her anew. Evidently unaware of her impact on him, she patted the embroidered saddle once more and indicated herself.

“Constantinople,” she said with a decisive nod.

So be it. Thierry nodded and swung up into his saddle. He gave in to his impulse and gripped her around the waist when he leaned down, savoring the fact that his hands virtually encompassed her as he lifted her into the high saddle behind him.

The cursed witch smiled at him again before he managed to turn away.

Had the other women told her something? Thierry knew he called more hastily to Nogai than was his custom, the proximity of his woman troubling him as they rode out of the sleeping camp.

* * *

The ride did naught to improve his mood.

Their lack of a common tongue irked Thierry more than it ever had and he found frustration chafing at him as they rode west. Too tempting indeed was it to have her ride behind him, every step of the horse sending her breasts pressing against his back. Well it seemed to Thierry that he could feel the imprint of her nipples, though ‘twas impossible through all the layers of clothes between them.

He refused to ride at a slower pace in deference to her unfamiliarity in the saddle or the weather. A mission had he from the khan and no woman would hinder his path. The assertion sounded like an excuse even to Thierry’s ears, but he rode on determinedly, even as the rain soaked them to the skin. This was his life, a mercenary’s life, he thought stubbornly. Well enough had she chosen to be with him—now she would see the fullness of the path she had taken.

They stopped but once to let the horses drink from a river. To Thierry’s astonishment the woman complained naught. She merely offered a slightly more tired version of her smile when he climbed into the saddle again. Impossible that she was not uncomfortable. Indeed, his own wet garments were chafing.

But nay. She simply brushed her wet hair out of her eyes and slipped her arms cautiously around Thierry’s neck when he lifted her high. It helped his frustration not one iota that she was apparently perfectly content with both her choice and his denial of his own needs. The wave of possessiveness that shot through him had him placing her before him in the saddle before he dare to think. Nogai smothered a smile, but Thierry flatly refused to indulge his friend’s humor.

* * *

They stopped finally when the moon was high overhead. The rain had slowed to a fitful drizzle and the woman stirred sleepily when Thierry dismounted. The gently rolling land extended as far as the eye could see in every direction and he frowned at the thought that they would have to stop in such an open place. At least the horses could readily graze.

Her eyes opened blearily and she met his gaze with less than her usual clarity of vision. Thierry folded his hands together and dropped his cheek to rest on one as he had once before. She smiled yet again, a softly seductive and sleepy smile that sent a startling pang directly through him. She slipped from the saddle like a woman in a dream, folding her arms about herself and shivering slightly as she glanced around.

“Mayhap we should kindle a fire,” Thierry suggested.

Nogai laughed. “Oh, aye, well do I recall that always do we kindle one,” he jested. Thierry felt his neck heat at the reminder that they seldom kindled a fire except on nights of dire cold. Which this one was not. Already was he more than fully aware himself that ‘twas the woman’s presence that had prompted his suggestion. Still, he did not appreciate Nogai reminding him of that fact.

Civilized ‘twould be to warm themselves on such a damp night. Indeed, ‘twas only sensible to ensure none of them sickened on the long path to Paris, lest the khan’s message go undelivered.

“‘Tis a cold enough night to merit one,” he snapped, only too aware of her gaze upon him.

“Certainly,” Nogai agreed with mocking deference. “I would not have you catch a chill at your sport this night.” The shorter man turned to dig his tinderbox from his saddlebag, shooting a bright glance over his shoulder. “That is, unless the shaman spoke aright and you have naught with which to make your sport.”

Thierry bit back a sharp retort, gritting his teeth as he resolutely unfastened his horse’s saddle. Such a comment deserved no response. Nogai chuckled to himself and Thierry felt his ears burn, so certain was he that the woman looked between the two of them in confusion.

He lifted the saddle to the ground, dropping the saddlebags alongside. With a quick gesture he unfolded a blanket from one pack and cast it over the saddle, beckoning to the woman without meeting her eyes and patting its seat. She immediately did his bidding, a fact that pleased him more than he thought it should have. He folded the blanket around her with a brusque gesture, not waiting to see whether she smiled or not.

“Oho, surely the place of a woman has changed now that you have taken one,” Nogai taunted. “Should she not be tending to our needs, instead of the other way around?” Thierry remained stubbornly silent while he removed the rest of the horse’s harness, setting the beast free to run with its companions.

“She is tired,” Thierry argued, knowing that Nogai would not leave the matter alone.

“And we are not?” the other man demanded archly. Despite his protest, he dropped to his knees and began to rummage in his tinderbox. “Should you spoil her now, no chance will you have of having her do your bidding later,” Nogai advised. “Soon enough will you weary of her charms and wish she was doing all, as other women do.” Thierry’s lips thinned as he passed his friend a pair of fagots from his pack.

“‘Tis not the way of my kin to leave the women do all,” he muttered. Nogai looked to him in astonishment.