His hand trembled with effort as he lifted it to the panel that would grant him access to a secret cache. As the panel slid down amidst the clunk of wooden and iron gears, he bowed his head and gathered strength for this one final effort. Pain ran through his arm and shoulder as he raised the heavy sword and secured it inside the chamber. He drew labored, uneven breaths as he finished, but satisfaction curled within him as he watched the Star Blade's blue-white glow disappear behind cold, dark stone. It was safe now, from both Ereshkigal's minion and Onuris' Arachaena. Only he could open that panel.
Footsteps raced along the labyrinth's marble floors and a mournful smile curved his lips as he turned, his strength failing. Relief pulsed in him as he recognized those footfalls. He slid to the floor as blood pumped from between his fingers. She was coming.
"Sargon! My lord!" Her voice was sweetness and light, and the first twinge of regret twisted through him. Even knowing this was not their time, he loved her. He could no more halt his adoptive mother's influence than he could turn away the tide of his Fate.
He could feel her soft hand against his face, warm against his chilled skin and the flow of energy meant to heal his wound. He stayed her with the last of his failing strength when she would have drained her life source to save him.
"I release you from your oath, Mukarramma."
She sucked in a breath, her gray eyes wide in denial. "You cannot..."
"I charge you instead, to seal and guard this place. Let no one enter here who would release the demon."
That stopped her protest and her dark head bowed, even as he saw the rebellious tremble of her lips. He managed a smile through the pain. In the twilight of death, the future shone in his mind and he knew he placed his faith well. Her spirit would endure and her line would bind that spirit to this place until he could return to finish his task.
"My lord." Her whispered words danced along the darkness spreading through him. "In Inanna's name, I swear it shall be done."
Even as the cold grip of Ereshkigal's vengeance surrounded him, he knew a peace he never expected to feel. Mukarramma would not fail him or his Blessed, adoptive mother. When he returned to claim his place as guardian once again, she would be there to guide him.
A chill like the grave passed through him and his eyes fluttered open. The last vestiges of a dream cloaked him and disorientation furrowed his brow as he clutched at his shoulder. Where was he? Who was he? He blinked, and like a fiery blade, memory stabbed him. The canyon.
His name was Matthew Raleigh and he should be dead. This wasn't the canyon, and that certainly wasn't the blue desert sky above him. The white canopy of a Bedouin tent swayed above him and the sounds of an encampment penetrated his muddled senses. Had the terrorists come back for prisoners? That woman... the one on the canyon ridge. Was she one of the terrorists or merely a hallucination? Matt tried to sit up, but searing pain lanced through his chest. He sank back with a barely-suppressed groan, his eyes squeezed shut against the agony.
"Do not move," a soft, feminine voice advised him in Arabic. "You will do yourself more injury."
Matt's eyes opened again, and he stared into the face of an angel. His pulse quickened in a mixture of dread and awe as a hazy memory filtered through his mind. He knew her. She had a softly exotic face the shade of desert sand with high cheekbones and a smooth, straight nose. Her lips were full and unmarred by make-up, leaving them the dusty-rose of a desert sunrise. Her eyes were a liquid dark shade somewhere between black and pearly gray, framed by thick lashes lightly painted with the kohl Bedouin women favored. Her hair was like midnight, falling around her face as she bent above him. It flowed over her shoulders and spilled over lush breasts barely concealed under a garment of sheer white material that clung to her in all the right places.
This woman went beyond the textbook definition of beautiful. She was every straight man's secret fantasy, come alive. Pure, sweet lust slammed into his gut and he burned with a million questions. Then a shiver of memory crossed his mind, he remembered where he'd seen those eyes before. The docks... and then the canyon.
Like lightning, Matt's hand flashed out, closing around her slim wrist so fast she jumped. He spoke clearly in Arabic to be sure she understood him. "Where are my men? What have you done with them?"
The woman's eyes filled with tears and his stomach churned. He knew. Swallowing hard, he fought down the urge to vomit. Hadn't he lost enough men over the years to be immune to this pain?
"Only two survive." The woman's soft, sweetly accented voice as she spoke in English drew him back, and his heart seized in hope.
Two survivors?
"Who?" His mind roiled with possible losses and saves. Who was closest to the blast? Why couldn't he remember? All he could latch onto were memories of the blast and the woman who now knelt beside him. "Who are the survivors? Where are they?"
"I do not know their names." Her apology was soft and sincere, her eyes downcast. Then that grey gaze lifted, and sucked away his breath as it pinned him in place. "I have not found the time to enquire. They are near and being well cared for."
His eyes narrowed as the ghost of another memory passed across his mind, of staring at her photograph as Star told them about her possible connection to Ra'id al-Mawsil.
"I saw you at the canyon. You had something to do with what happened there, didn't you? Didn't you?" His hand closed with bruising strength on her forearm.
Pain shimmered in her liquid eyes as the woman nodded. "I did not plant the devices which killed your men, but I am as responsible for those deaths as if I had done so. My crime is in not having been swift enough."
Anger simmered in Matt. He didn't know what she meant by the last part, but he got that she was guilty loud and clear. He hated that. Even more, he hated how her complicity did nothing to douse his interest in her.
"So, now I'm here. A prisoner." He spat out the hated word. "Do your worst, but you'll get nothing from me."
She yanked her arm away, regret and determination flashing in her eyes. "I want nothing from you, Commander Raleigh."
With that choked declaration, she ducked out of the tent and was gone. The air shimmered in her wake, like a watery veil over the sunlight. Matt lay staring at the fluttering door flap in confusion. What had she meant? And how did she know his name, let alone a rank he hadn't used in over half a decade? Matt scowled. Great. Another damned mystery.
Hours passed without a single visitor and Matt slid in and out of restless sleep, plagued by feverish dreams ranging from erotic to terrifying. As darkness set in, alert apprehension flooded him. Where was the Arab woman? He'd neither seen nor heard her since her hasty exit earlier. Matt shifted awkwardly. His wounds ached, and he was hungry and thirsty. He snorted, forcing his mind from the pain. Those were creature comforts and he'd done without them plenty of times. He'd survived worse in the jungles of Panama and his desert prison in Somalia.
What stung him worse, refusing to be dismissed, was guilt. In his lucid moments, he studied what he could of the tent and determined it was certainly no prison. He lay on a bed of lush pillows and on the floor of the tent was a beautiful, if somewhat worn, Persian rug. Low, exquisitely crafted pieces of wooden furniture stood at various intervals in the tent. Every piece looked as if it came apart for easy transport. Beauty and practicality surrounded him on all sides.
Matt swallowed back shame. He'd bet his life this sparse but immaculate tent belonged to his intriguing angel of mercy. He was a bastard for saying the things he had. He hadn't even thanked her for saving his miserable hide.
The sound of shuffling movement outside the tent snapped Matt from his self-recriminating thoughts. He reached for the closest weapon at hand -- oddly enough, his own Beretta -- and aimed it coolly at the tent flap as the thin material parted. A soft gasp of surprise left the wide-eyed woman who stood paused in the entrance.
Chapter Four
Matt's hand trembled for the first time in his adult life as he stared down the gun barrel in numbed rel
ief. The woman recovered first, stepping into the tent with brash assurance to set the tray she carried carefully on one low table. She smiled, the brief, heart-stopping flicker of her lips making Matt crave more than he was sure her smile offered.
"I see your reflexes are unhindered by your injury, Commander." The ironic lilt of her voice charmed him, in spite of his self-made promise to not let her get to him. "Please, allow me to treat your wounds before you sate your need for vengeance upon my person."
Matt swallowed reflexively, the gun dropping from his numb hand. He opened his mouth and then closed it, unable to think of a single reply to her flippant barb. Finally, he cleared his throat and managed a weak, "Sorry."
She glanced at him, one dark eyebrow lifted. "For nearly shooting me, or for not doing so?"
Matt cleared his throat again. How did he dig himself out of this? He practically called her a terrorist. If only he could be certain she wasn't. "Neither. I was... rude earlier. I shouldn't have said what I did."
She shrugged as she knelt beside him. The combined movements sent a cascade of silky hair swirling onto his bare forearm. Exotic scents he couldn't name reached up to ensnare him. God, she smelled amazing.
"What is said in the past remains unaltered by more words in the present. Do not apologize for the past. Only remember to think well before you speak in the future."
"Yes... uh... well." He couldn't think of a suitable response. With just a few words she managed to put him neatly in his place. She bent nearer to check his bandages and his throat closed as her exotic, spicy fragrance wafted through his senses again. She was intoxicating, and yet looked so innocent she roused protective instincts he wasn't aware he had. This woman was so unlike his usual type. After Sharla, he only allowed himself to get involved with uncomplicated women who knew the score. This woman, with her cryptic words and sweet, benevolent nature, was an enigma he was certain he would never completely solve if he lived to be older than Methuselah. He sought a distraction. "Where are my men? You said some survived..."
Her compassionate gray gaze returned to his and Matt's chest constricted again. What about this woman got to him?
"As I have already told you, they are near and being very well cared for." Her soft, lilting voice soothed his restlessness. "When you are well enough you may see them. However," she added, a stern note settling in her tone, "you will not be permitted to wander after darkness settles."
"But you were just..."
"A woman moving about the camp is not in danger. However, my Telal'a Inanna -- my guards -- are trained to kill men wandering about in the camp after dark for our safety."
Matt latched onto a single word. "Safety?"
Heat stained her cheeks a dusty rose color as she ducked her head away. "We are a camp of women and children. The few men who reside within our camp know and understand our rules and why they must be so. This is a dangerous world for a woman, Commander Raleigh."
He studied her averted face for a long moment. Then, in a quiet voice, he sought his first answer to the enigma kneeling at his bedside. "You're not Muslim, are you?"
Her attention snapped to his face and then flew away again before he could read the emotion swirling in her gray eyes. "Why would you think that? Are you not in Arabia?"
His lips twisted in a sour half-smile. "That wasn't an answer, lady, and we both know it. Where are you from originally?"
"Everywhere," she replied firmly as she reached for one of a series of small jars on the tray beside her. "And nowhere."
With startling swiftness, she flipped away the blankets covering his chest and peeled away the bandages. Glancing down, Matt frowned. His chest wasn't pretty, but it looked better than he expected. "That doesn't look so bad."
"The wounds are much improved," she agreed enigmatically, and he could only wonder what she saw when she first rescued him.
With the detached objectivity of a trained paramedic, he studied the wound as best he could from his angle. Small, white scars splayed across his chest in a familiar spray pattern -- shrapnel, and a lot of it, judging from the hundred or more scars ranging from slivers to some as large as a half-dollar. However, the red, ugly mass of scar tissue twisting the center of his chest into a horror show concerned him. Even worse, the searing agony in his right thigh told him what he saw wasn't the worst of his injuries.
"How bad was it?"
She shook her head and, for a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer him. Then, she sighed. "I feared we would lose you before we could save you. Fortunately, you are a stubborn man, Commander Raleigh. You stayed alive the entire journey here."
Wherever here was, he acknowledged with a frown. He hated not knowing. "Where are we?"
"The desert." Her terse reply preceded the cold sting of some hellish ointment she smeared a generous measure of over his chest. Matt hissed with pain, drawing a look of mock apology from his nurse.
"Forgive me," she murmured, her voice betraying no emotion. "I did not mean to cause you pain."
Like hell she hadn't. She deliberately slathered that burning stuff over him and he knew why. She was trying to forestall further inquiry about herself. The ointment, whatever was in it, stung like a hornet's nest and she damn well knew it would.
The sharp, antiseptic scent of it brought involuntary tears to Matt's eyes and he silently cursed her for applying it. Her warm touch softened his resolve to hate her as she expertly smoothed away the sting with small, circular motions that brought a sigh of relief to his lips as his eyes closed. Hazily, Matt wondered how a woman who was temptation in the flesh could possess an angel's touch. Unbidden images flashed through his mind, fevered dreams brought to life by her nearness. In them, her soft, capable hands touched more than his chest, soothed more than the physical aches.
His breath hitched, and every cell in his body went into hyper-alert as erotic images flashed before his eyes. Her lush, unpainted lips glistened in the dim light as gasps and moans of ecstasy slipped from her. Dark, silky hair slid slowly over his skin and hers. Warm skin glistened by the flicker of torchlight.
His body caught fire at the images dancing through his mind and he could feel the press of her all along his body, even though nearly a foot of space separated them. Fatigue dissipated like early morning mist warmed by the sun and the burning pain in his chest evaporated with it, chased away by a clawing need he would've sworn was lost forever, roused once again by this mysterious beauty kneeling beside him.
His eyes closed, he bit back a groan as she folded the blankets back from his wounded thigh. The answering response of his body was instantaneous, striving for other, more vital contact. Matt heard her tiny gasp, then a soft laugh. His eyes flew open and his desire exploded into Technicolor fantasy at the mirth dancing in her gray eyes. Her smile was breath-taking, transforming her face from beauty queen to goddess. Those eyes, alight with laughter, pierced the walls around his heart and ensnared him.
"So, you are human after all." One soft hand dropped against his bare hip. "I had been led to believe you were invulnerable to human emotion."
Her words snapped through him and his enchantment melted swiftly into suspicion.
"Just how the hell do you know so much about me?" Matt clenched his fists. "I don't even know who you are!"
"Sleep," she crooned, one warm hand laid against his brow. Instantly, the tendrils of sleep closed around him. He fought the sensation, but couldn't withstand the assault of weariness. With a sigh, he finally succumbed, drifting into a dreamless sleep. As his breathing evened, he felt the woman's soft hand brush over his face and, from the edge of oblivion, heard her murmur, "You will learn the truth when you are strong enough, Matthew, and not a moment sooner."
*****
Al-Mawsil residence
Damascus, Syria
Ra'id al-Mawsil looked up from the Qur'an in his hands as the door opened, admitting a slight frame draped in abaya and hijab. A cool smile touched his face as he tucked the small book into the pocket of his battle dress uniform
.
"You honor us with your presence, my dear." He forced himself to smile into her exotic eyes and loose the sensual charm that was his birthright -- as little as he chose to acknowledge it.
Her hijab-covered head lowered briefly, and he was pleased to see she kept her face demurely covered with one edge of the veil. "It is an honor to be here."
"Indeed it is." He gestured toward one of the two chairs in the room. "Please, sit. Enlighten me."
She nodded again and her dove-gray eyes twinkled. "I have done as you asked."
His breath quickened in anticipation, the lust for power coiled in his gut and spiraled into his groin. He could taste victory, and it spiked a hunger that translated to the physical. His dark gaze latched onto the woman before him and his lips curved up into a hungry, feral smile he knew she would not be able to resist.
"Sweet Black Widow," he murmured as he moved to her, touched her veiled face with one finger. He would take her; slake his hunger. First, he wanted his prize. "Where are they now?"
"In my camp," came the quiet reply, though the coolness of her eyes never altered. A true smile curved up his lips. He could genuinely like this woman if she didn't stand between him and his prize. She leaned toward him, her veil falling away from her face and her breath warm against his face as she murmured, "You will have them soon enough, Ra'id. Do not push me."
Her threat amused him. She believed her Brotherhood could protect her and that arrogance appealed to him. He chuckled as he propped one booted foot on the seat against her thigh and leaned in menacingly, taking her game to the next level with a growled, "I could have them and your beautiful head with but a snap of my fingers. What could you do to stop me?"
She smiled sweetly. That sweetness masked a vicious streak. The sinister gleam in her eyes sent a shiver along his skin. Who was this woman, that she so effortlessly inspired fear? "You could. But then, you would not have me."
In Her Name Page 3
