In Her Name

by Esther Mitchell

  Matt came back to awareness with a jolt, to find himself staring at a vision capable of stopping his heart with its perfection.

  Manara sat beside a small pool of water, looking like an otherworldly vision of wistful sadness bathed in desert moonlight as she stared into the water's mirrored surface. Gone were the fatigues he hadn't realized he hated until this moment, replaced by something dark and filmy that flowed around her like wisps of smoke on the slight breeze and caught the light in a fall of stars.

  Matt's breath caught and his chest squeezed with a primal desire that drove away all memory of death and battle. How could any man remain morbid in the presence of this beauty?

  Reality slammed home with the force of a speeding train. He was lusting after a virgin who wanted nothing to do with him. A woman whose trust he blatantly misused.

  His courage fled under the weight of regret and shame. He knew he had no right to approach her or beg her forgiveness. Especially when he couldn't yet reconcile who she was with how he felt about her. Instead, he watched her silently, absorbing her beauty. Regret for all he let slip away from him welled up, followed by one violent thought. Damn you, Rachel.

  "She is a beautiful woman. The kind men spend lifetimes composing poetry about."

  Matt startled, his attention jerked sideways by the sound of a new voice, speaking in Arabic. Mustafa stood beside him, a knowing smile curved on his weathered face. Matt nodded and swallowed against the regret that stung his throat. "Have you ever made a mistake you knew was wrong, but didn't know how to make right?"

  Mustafa sighed. "Once, many years ago."

  "What happened?"

  "I tried to own a woman already owned by the world. She belonged to the wind and I always knew it would carry her away from me. Still, I did terrible things, threatened terrible consequences in my attempt to keep her."

  Matt nodded slowly as the guilt of his actions toward Manara closed around his throat. He doubted Mustafa had done anything so terrible, but he would not insult the man by belittling his experience. "What did you do?"

  "In the end, you mean? I let her go." Mustafa glanced Matt's way. "Celia taught me a valuable lesson about belief, and that blood does not make family -- love does." He sighed again, a wistful sound that didn't escape Matt. His curiosity was piqued. What did Mustafa find so alluring about the mysterious Celia?

  "Why wouldn't she stay?"

  Mustafa chuckled. "There are powers at work in this world far greater than any mortal man can control. Celia taught me my family's narrow views of the world merely masked their lack of concern for the fate of others. With my eyes opened, I could not stay. I left in search of the truth, and my Celia. To tell her how wrong I was, and find a place in her life, and that of my only child. I was too late to save her, and I was a stranger to my daughter, and so I sent her where I knew she would be safe -- to Ishtar's temple. I fled into the desert, and here is where I found my destiny. I have Celia to thank for that. My only regret is that I could not save her from hers."

  Matt's brow furrowed. He didn't like where this was headed. "What powers?"

  "Come," Mustafa laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Let us walk as we talk. The exercise does my old bones well."

  Matt kept pace easily with the older man's stroll through the camp. They walked in silence for a time before Mustafa drew a deep breath and sighed again.

  "The desert air holds many secrets, but the earth holds the greatest secrets of all. Amazing treasures. Yet, they are dangerous in the wrong hands."

  Those words roused disturbing images in Matt's head of a blue-white sword and tablets marked with strange characters unlike any he'd ever seen. He had to clear his throat twice to ask, "Like what?"

  "There are many tales. Tales of Djinn trapped in magical lamps and mystical races with horses that run like the wind. However, the most powerful tale is terrifyingly true, one of a secret entrusted to the temple of a dying faith. It is a secret many have coveted. Men have wasted lifetimes in search of it, yet have rarely unlocked even a fragment of the truth. It is a dangerous secret to guard. One of my ancestors, according to family legend, stumbled across the secret quite by accident in a tablet crafted in ancient Babylon."

  "Cuneiform?"

  Mustafa nodded. "He paid dearly for his knowledge, even after he passed it back to its rightful guardian. Men of Rome came and killed him for his secret."

  "What was it?"

  "A recipe." Mustafa stopped as he reached the edge of the camp. "A recipe to give immortal life."

  Nausea assaulted Matt as another memory of a long-ago childhood evening, curled in his mother's lap as she wove a story of a man who discovered how to cheat death -- Nicholas Flamel. As a boy, the story enchanted him and he declared he would discover something so wonderful the world would remember him, as well. His mother's belief was all he needed back then.

  Childhood fantasies died terrible deaths in the face of evil -- he didn't have any belief left. He just survived day-to-day. "You're talking about the Philosopher's Stone."

  "Yes."

  "That's just a legend."

  The old man shook his head. "If only that were true. Men have fought and died in its search. They have lied, stolen and cheated in pursuit of this power."

  "I don't understand what any of this has to do with my mission."

  "Not yet perhaps, but you will. Beware the Spiders who crawl over Nineveh, Sayyid. They would steal your soul to acquire the secrets they do not realize no longer reside there."

  Those cryptic words hung over Matt long after Mustafa bid him a good night. With a final, troubled glance at Manara, Matt made his way back to where his men bunked down on thick sleeping rugs provided by their host. Matt knew he should take advantage of the offer as well. After this, there'd be no bed but the dangerous sand until they reached Mosul. Still, he couldn't rid his mind of the strange conversation or calm himself enough to sleep.

  "You look vexed."

  He glanced up, to find Pete awake and watching him. Matt shrugged awkwardly, unsure he wanted to think about it, let alone talk about it. He wasn't a big talker.

  "Have you ever heard of something called the Philosopher's Stone?"

  "It was one of Sinead's favorite tales." Pete sat up, curious. "It's not really a stone at all, as I recall the story. It's actually an alchemical mixture of basic, natural elements which I believe was supposed to turn any natural substance to gold."

  "It's more than that. According to what I learned as a kid, there was as much magic as science involved and its primary draw wasn't as a source of gold, but as a supply for everlasting life."

  Pete frowned, his gray eyes alert with concern. "Incidentally, why are we discussing this?"

  "Our host believes that the recipe to create it might be what al-Mawsil is really after."

  "And what do you think of this theory?"

  "Hell, I don't know what to think," Matt admitted on a huffed out breath. "None of it makes any sense."

  "J.R. is at the Hatra dig. Maybe we should ask him."

  "That's heading toward Nineveh. I think Mustafa was hinting that the secret of the Philosopher's Stone is buried there."

  "So you think that's where our lad's headed, then?"

  Matt frowned. He wished he could be sure. Truth was, Mustafa was cryptic and Matt had no idea what he meant. "I'd know for sure if I could get Manara to talk to me again."

  "Maybe if--"

  He didn't want to hear this. Matt lay back on his pallet and closed his eyes. "I think we're safe here. Get some rest. We leave at first light."

  "Matt..." Pete's hesitant tone caught Matt's attention and he cracked one lid to look at his friend again. "The lass. What do you plan to do?"

  Anger and shame mingled in Matt's veins. Damn it, he'd asked himself that very question, and the only answer he came up with every time left him unsure whether he was protecting his team, or Manara. "She stays here. Unless she plans to start talking, she's a liability."

  Chapter Fourteen


  He should have known better. Matt swore beneath his breath the next morning when he blinked awake to find Manara crouched near him, again dressed in BDUs and toting a rucksack full of God knew what. His men were gone.

  "What's going on? What do you think you're doing?"

  She flinched at his growled demand and he couldn't tell her that his fear was more for what he might do, not her.

  Manara drew herself up and he nearly smiled at the determined courage in her eyes. "I am going with you, of course."

  He shook his head, the last vestiges of sleep chased away by this pronouncement.

  "Like hell."

  She shrugged "Then I will go on alone."

  "Manara..."

  "You cannot stop me." She rose to her feet, anger pouring from her. She turned her back to him and Matt did the only thing he knew would freeze her in place. He drew his weapon and disengaged the safety. Her shoulders stiffened at the sound, and he didn't need to see her face to know Manara was pissed. He half-expected her to keep walking. She had to know he'd never follow through.

  Matt's brows shot up in surprise when she didn't even budge as he rose to his feet. She remained ramrod straight and unmoving, her back to him. Aware she wasn't about to run off on him this time -- though still unsure why she hadn't already -- Matt secured and holstered his sidearm and grabbed up the rest of his gear.

  "Let's go." He escorted Manara to the edge of the Bedouin camp, where he knew Pete and Trevor would be waiting by now. They weren't the only ones. Mustafa was there as well, his alert gaze darting between Matt and Manara.

  Matt glanced at Manara and winced at the pissed expression on her face. Mustafa would surely have something to say about that. As Manara strode regally past Mustafa, her lips only barely twitching in a smile as she nodded greeting, the old man's brow furrowed.

  "Have you forgotten all we spoke of?" Mustafa kept his voice quiet as Matt moved past him, but disappointment rolled off him. "Why do you seek to control what no man can?"

  Matt paused to frown at the older man. "I know what I'm doing."

  "I sincerely doubt it. However, I can say nothing to change you. You must learn these lessons on your own." The old man shook his head sadly. "I will pray for you."

  Matt had no clue what to say to that. He certainly didn't expect it to do any good. Hell, he quit believing in prayer -- or that there was a God up there -- when he was just a kid. Still, he couldn't insult Mustafa with his skepticism. Instead, he nodded and gripped the shorter man's shoulder in thanks before he went to join his men, keeping a wary eye on Manara.

  As they left the Bedouin behind, Matt had a sinking feeling his relationship with Manara had taken a very dangerous turn. Her silence continued as they trudged through the dry riverbeds and ridges that were once green and lush here in the Fertile Crescent. Manara's silence grated on Matt all day, and he glared back every time she looked down her pretty little nose at him. His mood turned pitch black when they set up camp again and Manara sank regally to the sand and refused to talk to, or even look at him.

  Matt prowled restlessly outside of the firelight, glancing occasionally at his captive -- damn, he hated that word -- where she sat staring morosely at the sand shifting around her feet. She still refused to sleep, and unless she'd done so at the Bedouin camp, Manara hadn't eaten or taken more than a couple sips of water since her fight in the desert. He doubted she had. Manara lived on principle and she looked pale and gaunt. Guilt stabbed him deeper than any knife could.

  Matt winced as the flickering firelight caught the shadows of bruises on her face -- the indentations of his fingers. His actions mortified him, which strained relations between them even further because he couldn't find the words to apologize. He'd never hit a woman in his life, and certainly never intentionally harmed one. Not even Rachel, who'd decidedly deserved a good thrashing, and more. Now, he looked at the evidence of his cruelty toward this innocent, and his heart shattered. He hated those bruises on her wrists, probably even more than she did. Seeing a free spirit like Manara's chained up was the bitterest victory he ever tasted, and seeing her spirit beaten down like this churned in his gut.

  He took a step into the light and nausea roiled in him as he watched her shrink away, her eyes full of wary anger he feared no apology could erase.

  He tried desperately to hold onto the rage of just a few days ago. Damn it, she lied to him! She made him believe she was some innocent beauty in need of protection, but she was really involved in some filthy voyeuristic cult... He lost the thought on a swallowed curse as the light caught the deep purple marks branded into her skin. No matter who she was, or what she did, he had no right to attack her. She had done nothing to him except save his life.

  With wrenching, brutal honesty, Matt faced his own mistakes. Manara never actually indicated she needed, or even wanted, his protection. He took that responsibility upon himself when she told him she was a virgin. If he was completely honest, he had to admit his fears embellished the events of that night at the pavilion. She couldn't watch anything -- not with her eyes closed and her face turned upward. When he sought among his memories, he realized the events transpiring around her were linked to the light and emotion radiating from her. He experienced it himself, and couldn't deny it was a power greater and more pure than any he ever knew existed. Her cryptic statement, not her actions, panicked him. Rachel often sounded like that, and the connection panicked him.

  Pained by the knowledge this situation was entirely of his own making, Matt turned his gaze on Manara's dark head, bent in misery. How could he make it right? Could he make it right at all? For Manara's sake, he had to try -- even if she was already lost to him.

  "You have to eat," he started quietly, hunkering down beside her, an MRE packet in one outstretched hand and a canteen in the other. "At least drink. It's dangerous to not take water in the desert. You'll dehydrate in no time."

  Her flashing eyes raised, dark with anger, as she pushed the offered items away. "I do nothing for your pleasure."

  "Manara, your stubbornness is killing you. Now, eat. Please."

  Her head shook sharply, her eyes rock-hard and ice cold. "Then I will die. At least then I will be free of you. Better to die by my own choice than live by your command. Eat, sleep, stay, walk. You do not own me, Commander Raleigh, and I will not be ordered about any longer."

  "I'm trying to keep you alive!" He bit out the words in fear and frustration. They'd made up the time lost at the Bedouin camp with a brutal pace these past two days. Manara's lack of food and sleep sapped her energy. He'd seen seasoned SEALs drop from less, but his concern for Manara's health and safety eclipsed even his admiration for her willpower and stamina. She didn't have the energy to be arguing like this, and the chill in her voice terrified him as nothing ever had before. He didn't want things between them to end this way. "Damn it, Manara! What about your home? Your people? Don't you want to live?"

  Her chin raised a notch and her glare burned into him like a laser beam. "Why? So you can decide when I am beaten enough? So you can rape me?"

  Those words stopped him cold. "I never--"

  "You would take me apart a piece at a time, beginning with what I valued most. I did not misunderstand that threat, Commander."

  He sat down hard beside her as a wave of nausea washed over him. She was right. He said it, and she hadn't misunderstood him. Worst of all, in his bloodlust, he meant every word of it. He wanted nothing more in those moments of agony than to hurt her as badly as she hurt him. He wanted to bleed everything out of her that made him want her, everything that made him care. He wanted to be free.

  And now? Now, he wanted to take back every damned word, because he finally realized he couldn't be free without her. Finally, Mustafa's words made sense, and he was terrified it might already be too late.

  Damn you, Rachel! He cursed inwardly. If there was a Hell, that's where Rachel Murray was, and she'd consigned him to the same fate.

  "I won't say I didn't mean it at the time," he muttere
d, his gaze averted from her as he fiddled with the canteen's strap. "I won't lie to you, Manara. I was ready to kill us both, the other night. You, for what I thought was betrayal, and me, for wanting you in spite of what I thought you'd done. But believe me, I'm more sorry than you know." He drew a deep breath, and faced his own demons. "You were right when you said I had no right to judge you. You never lied to me. I lied to myself from the very beginning. I created an image of you as perfect, beyond fault, because I wanted you and was afraid of reality. The truth was too terrible for me to face when I saw it. I hurt you out of my own fear, Manara, and I am very, very sorry for that."

  He met her gaze at last, and relief washed through him to find her gray eyes no longer clouded with anger and hate.

  "Why was it so terrible?"

  He swallowed hard and forced himself to speak words that never passed his lips before. He owed her this much. He owed her the truth. "Because I never wanted, never needed, anyone so badly in my life. It scared the hell out of me. I was terrified that the past I tried so hard to escape was becoming my future as well, and I wouldn't have the strength to walk away this time. I wanted to hate you for making me remember, and for making me feel so much, but I couldn't! I hurt you, hoping that if you started hating me, I could hate you back. It was stupid and childish, and I wish to God I'd never done it. But at the time, I couldn't see beyond my own pain, and in doing so, I've made my own nightmare come true."

  She watched him silently, her gaze filled with an emotion he feared to read too closely. He couldn't hope she'd forgive him. That was too much to ask any human being, after what he did. Silence stretched between them, long and torturous to Matt as he watched tears well in Manara's beautiful gray eyes. Then, after what seemed a lifetime, she closed her small hands gently over one of his. Her touch was miraculous, sending his heart ricocheting wildly in his chest, but her words sent waves of dread and agony searing through his veins.