Pearl Beyond Price

by Claire Delacroix

  Who could willfully abuse such a small and perfect creature?

  And what business was it of his to be angered by that fact?

  Thierry hastily retreated across the yurt, fairly tripping over the unlit stove in his haste to put space between them. He crouched down, his gaze returning of its own accord to the network of scars.

  What could she have done to merit such punishment? ’Twas a puzzle he was unlikely to solve. He sat, only half aware of the silence gradually descending over the camp as he watched her sleep and teased his mind with the search for an explanation.

  ’Twas only much later when his own exhaustion threatened to claim him that Thierry could avert his gaze. He retrieved the scarves from the center of the yurt and stared down at her for a long moment. He heaved a sigh before he bent to bind her ankles once more.

  ’Twould be foolhardy to trust her, he knew, but still he did not like it. And was the task any less effectively done if he wound the cloth between her ankles that they did not chafe? Or what did it matter if the bond was less tight than it could be? She was drunk and fully asleep and he would barricade the only exit himself.

  Thierry tied her wrists together in the same manner, stunned when the woman rolled to her back. She stretched her bound hands high over her head even before he had knotted the scarf. The sight of her stretching right beneath him, her back arched and nipples straining high fed his imagination only too well. The prospect of her moving like this beneath him fairly undid his resolve not to touch her, and his hands shook slightly as he hastily tied the knot.

  He had promised her. Thierry retrieved the blanket he usually slept in, tossing it over her that temptation might be at least hidden from view. Her murmur of pleasure gave him curious satisfaction. He glanced down to find her smiling slightly in her sleep as she snuggled into the covering. What did he care for her comfort? She was a captive, no more and no less.

  But still...

  Considerably more disgruntled than he knew he ought to be, Thierry turned away. He shed his own clothes impatiently and rolled himself in a blanket with unconcealed annoyance, willing himself to sleep.

  Kira awoke with the sense that something had gone foul in her mouth. Her stomach rolled and her eyes flew open with the certainty that she had need of the outdoor facilities.

  The shadowed interior of the tent drifted into focus and Kira frowned in recollection, not having any explanation at all for the soft warmth that caressed her skin. She put one hand down that she might sit up on the cushions, discovering that her wrists were bound. Her feet were similarly tied and she scowled, swinging her shoulders so that she abruptly sat up.

  The blanket covering her midriff fell away. Kira gasped to find herself nude. Her breasts were bared to both the chilly morning air and the inscrutable gaze of the man crouched on the opposite side of the tent.

  He neither moved nor spoke, but Kira was past expecting anything different from this warrior. She was mortified when he did not look away, though, and clutched the blanket with both hands, hauling it over her breasts. Barbarian. Kira hoped he had not noted the way her nipples had beaded under his perusal, knowing all the while how unlikely ’twas that he would fail to observe any detail at all.

  He stood, his movements as economical as always. Kira started when she saw that he wore nothing at all, and compelled her gaze to stop at the thick pelt of hair on his chest. As he moved closer and she stared at his chest, she noted despite the poor light that a mark stretched across his skin from beneath the wiry dark hair. The mark extended toward his shoulder and Kira discerned that ’twas in the shape of a cross.

  Was it a birthmark? A scar? A mark that had been made upon him willfully? Kira could not be certain, but she had seen the symbol before.

  Could he be Christian? She knew that sect used the cross as the symbol of their faith but never had she seen a believer mark his own flesh. And she would not have expected to find one amongst the Mongols.

  When he paused before her, she could see that it had the distinctive port-wine color of a birthmark. She frowned. How could he have been born with such a distinctive mark upon his skin? It seemed against the odds.

  Reluctantly, Kira met his gaze and more immediate questions filled her mind. What had happened the night before? She recalled so little after his promise to leave her untouched—if he had promised what Kira believed he had. She panicked slightly, scooting backward when he took another step toward her. He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly, and she dared not drop her gaze for fear of what she might see. He was too close, for she felt that she could feel the heat from his skin.

  Worse, she could smell him, and the scent did nothing to bolster her resolve. He smelled warm and spicy, unexpectedly clean. Masculine. That unfamiliar warmth, which she could no longer blame on the drink, coiled once again in the depths of her belly. Kira clutched the blanket as she felt her color rise and knew she could no longer hold his regard.

  “I thought that you did not intend to take advantage,” she charged breathlessly, holding the blanket before her like a barrier as he regarded her silently. “Where are my clothes? Why am I naked? What happened?”

  He grimaced and used the same sign language he had used the night before, speaking as he did so in that incomprehensible tongue. He pointed to her, bending to scoop up the cup he had offered her the night before and making a sipping motion.

  Kira nodded quickly. That part she recalled well enough. She wished he would hasten to the heart of the matter.

  He pointed to her once more, closed his eyes and dropped his cheek to one palm.

  Kira nodded impatiently once more. “Aye, that I remember, but I would know what you did last night,” she insisted.

  When he did not respond, she pointed to him and lifted her brows in silent query.

  The warrior nodded, speaking quickly as he indicated himself and pointed to a discarded blanket by the tent flap. Again, he made a gesture of folding his hands together and leaning his cheek on them, closing his eyes.

  So, he had done as he had said. Kira expelled a sigh of relief, the gesture bringing her bare nipples in contact with the soft wool once more.

  “But what about my clothes?” she demanded. As his blank expression, she glanced pointedly down behind the blanket at her nakedness.

  He frowned and swept a hand before himself in a gesture that compelled Kira to note his nudity, dropping his cheek to his palm once more.

  He slept naked. He assumed she did, too.

  Kira shook her head when he gestured to her and lifted his brows. “Nay, I do not sleep naked,” she affirmed, spotting her kurta with relief. She stretched to reach it with some difficulty and when she managed to grasp it, shook it in his direction. “I sleep with this.”

  He shrugged, as if disinterested, turning away to tug on his chalwar and his boots.

  Kira stifled a very feminine surge of irritation that he had so little interest in her nudity. Her pride was stung that he so readily admitted to finding her unattractive, but she reminded herself that it was far simpler this way. She struggled to her knees, letting the blanket drop away. There was little point in shielding herself from view, for he undoubtedly had more interest in his horse.

  Men, she thought with disgust, surprised to find his hand heavy on her shoulder when she tried to rise. How had he moved across the space so quietly and quickly? He frowned and shook his head, leaning over her to untie the scarf that bound her wrists.

  That dark thicket of hair on his chest brushed against her shoulder and Kira took the opportunity to study him through her lashes at such close quarters. Though he was bigger than she, there was not an ounce of spare flesh on his body. He was entirely lean strength and muscle.

  His eyes were gray, she noted with amazement, wondering at his heritage, for his eyes were not as narrow as those of the Mongols’, either. She felt that increasingly familiar tingle of awareness when his fingers brushed her skin, knowing all the while that ’twas futile and foolish to feel anything at all for a bl
oodthirsty warrior like this.

  But he had not abused her, she was forced to concede. Fixed on his task, he dropped to one knee to undo the binding at her ankles with surprisingly gentle fingers. She was lucky that rape was not among his objectives, Kira concluded as she noted the disparity in their sizes once more. There was little she might have done to defend herself against one so much larger and stronger.

  Her father might be relieved that she had not been abused, if she ever managed to return to Tiflis.

  Surprisingly, Kira found that neither the warrior’s disinterest nor the promise of her sire’s satisfaction sat well with her. Clearly, her irrational thinking of the night before still plagued her.

  Her stomach rumbled once more, reminding her of the sensation that had awakened her. There was no need to explain, for the warrior evidently heard it, too. He spoke brusquely, indicating her garments with an imperious finger. Kira hastily donned her kurta, chalwar and djellaba, grateful that he understood her need for haste when he immediately opened the tent flap and hastened her to the latrine.

  Indeed, he lifted her and carried her the last of the way, covering the distance with long-strides at a speed she could not have matched.

  The most savage expulsion of her life left Kira weak-kneed with relief when ’twas over. She inhaled shakily, passing one hand over her sweat-beaded brow. Knowing she had no choice, she turned to look, gasping aloud at the sight of the creamy pearl reposing amidst the dirt.

  Kira glanced to her warrior, but he was scanning the horizon, frowning thoughtfully at the dawn with his arms folded impatiently across his chest. Her heart pounding, she flicked the pearl into the grass with her toe and rolled it around under her foot.

  Convinced he was distracted, she finally picked up the pearl and slipped it surreptitiously into the pocket hidden in the side of her chalwar. She looked guiltily at him again, but he evidently had not noticed her furtive move.

  She willed her heart to slow.

  Kira had no intention of surrendering the gem as yet. She would not surrender her only advantage before she knew his plans for her.

  She understood broken promises too well. The warrior might not have abused her so far, but Kira would be sure of his intent before surrendering the only thing he desired of her. He might be biding his time, only to strike a more telling blow once he had the pearl.

  Kira returned to his side, rubbing her troubled stomach to ease its aching. He turned that sharp gaze upon her and frowned, extending his hand between them in silent demand. Kira jumped at the abruptness of the gesture, then shook her head. She hoped against hope that she looked as convincing as she had the day before. His scowl deepened as he glanced back to the space she had used, offering his hand once more insistently.

  “Nay, I did not pass it yet,” she lied. She shrugged as though she did not understand the matter.

  The warrior’s brow darkened thunderously before he abruptly strode back to the spot where she had crouched. The precision with which he went to the exact location sent Kira’s heart plummeting. He had observed much more than she had suspected and she feared suddenly that he might have seen her covert retrieval of the gem.

  Had she left some mark in the dirt when she pushed it to the grass? She could not be certain and her heart pounded as she watched. He peered into the dirt, then strode back to her impatiently a moment later and grasped her elbow as he hurried her back to the tent.

  Kira hesitated just inside the opening, not at all trusting his grim expression as he hauled on a short kurta with long sleeves that gleamed with the luster of silk. He left the kurta untucked and pulled a coat of mail over it, followed by a leather cuirass that laced over his chest. He looked as though he were dressing for battle, though Kira was an uneducated judge of such matters, and she could not help but wonder where he was going.

  And what he was going to do with her.

  Finally, he pulled the gold-trimmed tunic he had worn the day before over the laced leather. He buckled on a scimitar, lashed a knife to the inside of his left forearm and scooped up an iron helmet lined with leather, jamming it on his head. His gaze fell on Kira as he fastened the strap under his chin and she fairly fidgeted beneath that steady regard.

  He could not know that she had lied to him. Kira dropped her gaze that he might not see the truth in her eyes. Perhaps, with luck, he would merely think her uncommonly modest.

  The warrior grunted to himself, undoubtedly making a comment on her response, and Kira dared to peek as he retrieved his weapons. Had she not seen the evidence herself, she would not have imagined that he could look more forbidding than he had already. This sight, though, made her fold her hands cautiously together before herself.

  For what battle did he gird himself? And what was going to happen to her?

  She was only too well aware of the weight of his regard upon her, although she did not dare meet his gaze. Neither would she cower and so the two stood silently for a long moment. Kira felt each beat of her heart with agonizingly slow speed.

  The warrior remained silent, not a clue to be gleaned from his stony features when Kira peeked yet again.

  Perhaps he knew what she had done. Perhaps he had seen. Perhaps he was granting her one last opportunity to confess.

  Perhaps she should have given him the pearl.

  She had no further opportunity to wonder. A round shield, a bow and pair of quivers were the last items the warrior took. Then Kira found herself being hustled outside and through the rows of round tents, trepidation making her heart race.

  Chapter 4

  “Are you Persian?”

  Kira started at the sound of the familiar language and almost turned before she caught herself. She should keep her secrets. She frowned and scrubbed the filthy garment she had been commanded to wash, wishing any would-be companions would leave her alone.

  The warrior had left her to wash clothes under the direction of an ancient harridan, and wash clothes she would. At worst, the task occupied her hands, if not her mind.

  There was absolutely no need to make idle conversation with any of the other women standing knee-deep in the stream.

  Why would any of these women talk to Kira? They either sought gossip to entertain each other or gathered details for the warriors they served.

  Her relief in understanding even a few words had nearly overpowered her usual caution. Kira had learned long ago that her business was hers alone and she reminded herself of that as she scrubbed.

  “Indeed, you look Persian. I have not seen you in the camp before, either, so you must be newly arrived.”

  Unfortunately, Kira’s lack of response did not seem to affect the woman’s friendliness. She dunked a garment into the river alongside Kira and Kira noticed the dark gold hue of the woman’s skin. Persian skin. The woman had slender fingers, much like Kira’s, though Kira could see that the nails had been broken. The graceful hands that might once have been pampered now bore hard calluses.

  Kira’s gaze returned to her own hands. Would her hands soon be so worn? And what of the rest of her? She plunged the dirty garment into the river up to her elbows so that her hands were lost in the murky water.

  The woman sighed. “I had so hoped you would be Persian,” she said with soft regret. There was no missing the subtle yearning in her tone and the familiarity of the language entreated Kira to respond. “’Tis tedious to have no one to talk with in one’s own tongue.”

  Curiosity got the better of Kira with that comment.’Twas too close to her own thoughts and she had to at least look at this woman. Kira schooled her expression before she glanced over.

  Her companion was only a few years older than Kira, for there was a youthfulness to her features. She was slim and a full head taller than Kira, her movements filled with the fluid grace of a woman of station. Her dark hair was long but coiled back behind her head, several threads of silver catching the sunlight.

  The woman smiled and, though the gesture was welcoming, it revealed the hardness in her dark eyes. Sh
e was bitter, for all her solicitude, and Kira wondered what she had endured in the Mongol camp.

  Did she dare ask?

  “I am Persian,” Kira confessed, wondering at her own impulse.

  The woman’s smile broadened. “And recently arrived?” she prompted.

  “Aye,” Kira admitted. She had no interest in sharing her entire sordid tale with this stranger.

  The woman waited expectantly, but Kira ignored her and returned studiously to her labor. “Ha! I was right on both counts, then.” The woman picked up her own work with satisfaction, but Kira let the remark pass without comment.

  The silence between them was an uneasy one and Kira fancied the other woman was waiting for a confession of sorts. Kira scrubbed the dirty cloth determinedly, well aware that the old woman on the riverbank was missing no detail of this exchange.

  “I was Persian once, as well,” the woman continued, though that was evident already.

  Kira gritted her teeth and regretted her confession. She had more pressing matters to consider on this morning. Where had her warrior gone? Had he abandoned her for good or simply for the day? When would he return?

  What would she do if he did not return? He had not cast a backward glance in her direction when he had left her with the old one. Though it should not have surprised Kira, his indifference bothered her more than she thought it should have. She was uncertain amidst these people, much more uncertain than she had already become in his presence. The only change was the warrior’s absence, but Kira had to acknowledge that she already relied upon his protectiveness. It might be only for the sake of the pearl, but it was better than being without a defender of any kind in this camp.

  “Is that the kalat of your man?” the persistent Persian woman inquired. Kira looked at her uncomprehendingly, not knowing the term. “His tunic,” she whispered in explanation. Kira glanced down to realize that the blue garment in her hands was similar to the one her warrior wore. Indeed, she had not taken the trouble to study the garment she worked on.