She spun on her toe again and he scanned her back, relief flooding through him that she sported no fresh wounds. What then? Had she come back for his protection? She might need it, whether that had been the reason for her return or not. She was deliberately tempting him and Thierry could only conclude that she knew what she was doing and wanted him to claim her.
His woman. Perhaps he was bewitched, for the idea was enticing.
Merely two days before, he would have declined, regardless of any spell cast over him. Even this day, he would decline the offer from any other woman without regret. But this witch provoked him even when she did not try to do so. On this night, he did not know how he could resist her allure.
Worse, he did not want to.
Thierry had nothing to lose, for he was already powerless in a society that held only power in esteem.
He could do as she asked, and he would.
Thierry’s heart leaped as he forced himself to consider the realities. She was innocent, unless he knew absolutely nothing of the world. Was this truly the price she was prepared to pay?
Perhaps Nogai had been right and none would have her now.
Theirry tapped the floor closer to his knee and she immediately took the requisite step. Her obedience was intriguing, but he much preferred when her eyes flashed with defiance.
Obedience might be a sign of her need.
The smell of her seduced him utterly, for she was evidently warm from the dance. Thierry blinked, his gaze dropping from the swaying silk to her feet.
There was a red mark on one foot, perhaps a callus, that had not been there before. Thierry reached to touch the spot on her instep without thinking, amazed by the contrast between his rough hands and her smooth skin. She laughed unexpectedly at his touch, her foot wriggling away as she shivered. Thierry glanced up at the unexpected sound to see her eyes sparkling and his breath was stolen away. An amethyst scarf was unknotted from her hips, those feet playfully dancing a hand’s span away.
Thierry was surprised to find a flurry of soft purple enfolding him. He pulled the silk from his face but held fast to the end. She danced at the other end of the scarf, undulating with the increased tempo of the drum. Thierry saw only her golden loveliness.
She would be his.
When her gaze met his again, he deliberately put his cup aside. She licked her lips but neither broke his regard nor ceased her dancing. With an abrupt flick of his wrist, the amethyst cloth danced out of her grip and fluttered through the air to Thierry.
She looked confused, but little time did he give her to reflect upon the matter. No sooner did he have the scarf within his grip than he flicked it again, sending the silk to encircle her hips. He snatched the loose end out of the air and, much to the approval of his companions, pulled her resolutely closer.
She smiled openly at him and danced within the circle of silk, stretching her arms high in that pose that so enflamed him. Thierry gripped the scarf ends in one hand and reached out to touch the softness of her ankle once more. She planted her feet on the floor, the music becoming a frenzied beating at that same point. She shimmied her hips in a timeless move, the vibration fueling Thierry’s desire.
Unable to help himself, he let his fingertip trail leisurely up her leg. She shivered but did not move away. Thierry looked up to meet her eyes, seeing his own desire reflected there. The light in her eyes convinced him that she wanted their mating as much as he did.
Her skin was as smooth as her scarf, as soft as the silk. Thierry swallowed as he slid his fingertip ever higher. She took a step, placing one foot farther away from the other to grant him access, her gaze locked upon his. Thierry’s heart pounded, and he allowed his finger to relentlessly continue upward.
The drumbeat slowed to a repetitive pounding, a pulse that was taken up by dancers and crowd alike. The golden light of the lamps flickered. The air in the yurt seemed to pulse, the women pumped their hips, the men stamped their feet and Thierry held the welcoming gaze of his woman.
When his fingertip encountered the dampness at the juncture of her thighs, all else was forgotten.
She wanted him. Her eyes widened at his bold touch, but she neither ceased dancing nor looked away. Indeed, it seemed to Thierry that there were only the two of them within the smoke-filled tent.
But there were more than the two of them. And if she was to be Thierry’s woman, she would be his alone. This was not a society inclined to privacy, and he knew that only a deed witnessed by many was believed to be the truth. The evidence of one’s own eyes could not be disputed.
If she was to be his woman and none were to have any doubt of her status, his possession would have to be a public one. Only that would leave no doubt. Thierry arched one brow, hoping she understood the import of what he asked when she nodded quick agreement without breaking his gaze.
So be it. She would be his for this night and all others. His path resolved, he willfully forgot the others in the yurt once more.
This moment was between the two of them, in truth.
Thierry gave the amethyst scarf the slightest tug, loving the way she tumbled into his arms. Had he spared the time to think, he might have thought her relieved, but there were other details to attend. Her small hands were on his shoulders, her breath in his ear, her scent filling his nostrils, her softness in his hands.
His woman.
She was on her back beside him in a flash, her gleaming hair spread over the bright carpets layered on the tent floor. Thierry was atop her in a heartbeat, his chalwar torn open. Incense and her scent mingled in his nostrils, the qumis burned hot in his veins, the pulse in his ears echoed the beating drums. He hauled the scarves out of his path and buried himself within her in one move, deaf to the cries of the men around him.
Her gasp he heard alone. He whispered some reassurance in the Frankish tongue he had not dared to let pass his lips in years before her sweetness overwhelmed him. She was too tight for him to last, but perhaps ’twas better for this to be concluded quickly. He thrust within her and felt the bite of her nails in his shoulders. He managed to thrust only once more before he arched back and spilled his seed.
Witch.
His witch. Thierry collapsed atop her, knowing he had never been so completely claimed. No one would lay an abusing hand upon her again, he thought fiercely, daring to whisper once more within the soft curve of her ear. She was his and his alone.
She was silent beneath him, her breath coming in anxious spurts, and Thierry acknowledged the press of men around them. This was no place for such a sweet union. The deed had been done and now he would have his woman to himself.
Her eyes were closed when Thierry dared to look and he knew a moment’s doubt, but he resolutely shoved to his elbows. The deed was done, but he must ensure that none doubted the evidence of their eyes. There would be ample time in privacy for the slow loving he longed to savor with her. The night was yet young and his anticipation rose much more quickly than he could have expected.
Flooded with a protectiveness he dared not explore, he pulled his cloak to cover her as he withdrew, leaving himself exposed to draw the men’s attention from her. His. A murmur went through the tent as Thierry stood slowly over his woman, his feet braced on either side of her draped and prone form. Slowly he met the gaze of every man in the yurt, daring each to acknowledge the evidence of her broken maidenhead smeared upon his flesh.
There would be no doubt on the morrow that he had done this thing. There would be no question of who possessed this woman. She had curled up at his feet beneath the cloak, reminding him of a small cat, though her hands concealed her face from view.
One of the other men reached for the cloak with a mumbled joke, but Thierry drew his blade in a flash. Finding the point at his throat halted that man’s gesture. He swallowed carefully and straightened beneath Thierry’s gaze, though none moved to aid him. The tent fell yet more silent as the others awaited the outcome of the challenge.
“None shall look upon what is mine,” Th
ierry growled.
The stillness in the tent was so complete that he had not a doubt all had heard his claim. Once again he met the gaze of each in turn, waiting until the challenge faded from each pair of dark eyes before moving on. Satisfied, he sheathed his blade, adjusted his chalwar and crouched down to pick up his woman.
She recoiled from his touch, the accusation in her wide eyes when she pulled away making his gut clench.
But no time was this for dissent. Thierry hoped she saw the warning in his eyes before she buried her face again in the folds of the cloak. He reached for her anew, hoping none had witnessed her response other than him. He only dared to exhale when she did not fight him and he stood with her cradled in his arms.
She was lighter than he recalled and he marveled once more at her delicacy, letting his hand spread to span the slenderness of her waist. He felt the tension coiled within her and understood belatedly that their coupling must have been a shock to her. Deciding on this bold path had taken courage and Thierry’s admiration surged for his woman. Soon enough would he show her that coupling need not be such a hasty deed.
’Twas impossible to check his pride that she was his in truth, that he had been the first and that there would be no others so long as he drew breath. Thierry resolutely held her closer, determined to sweeten her recollection of their first mating before the night was through.
There were ways of pleasing a woman and, though he had long been chaste, he was sufficiently well acquainted with such techniques. Indeed, the very thought of touching her in more private circumstances lent purpose to his step as he left the khan’s yurt.
’Twas only when he gained the outside air that Thierry heard her quiet sobs. His lips thinned at the muted sound, his rationalizations forgotten as he cursed the barbarian he had become.
Kira willed her tears to stop, certain the warrior would think her a complete fool for such behavior. She wondered then why she should care what he thought after what he had done.
They had coupled like animals. Worse, the deed had been done before an audience of base brutes. What kind of people dared to watch such intimacy? Certainly, Kira had expected that their mating would be an inevitable result of her dancing, should she be successful, but she had never imagined ’twould take place in public.
Indeed, she could scarce believe it now.
She felt soiled as she never had before.
No wonder this incident made her cry when her father’s frequent beatings had never drawn a tear. Although there had been a twinge of pain and certainly some discomfort, what had just happened could not compare to the bite of the lash she knew so well.
’Twas the shock alone that fed her tears. Shock and disappointment. Perhaps her tears held a measure of embarrassment, as well, for she had no right to have any expectations of this warrior. She knew nothing of him, not a detail of his past or his nature, not even his real name.
The night air was cold but Kira refused to huddle any closer to the man who carried her. What had she done? She no longer felt gratitude for the qumis that had fed her resolve and loosed her inhibitions, for its heat had abandoned her. Kira shivered, hating the filmy veils that clung to her flesh.
She had been treated as a whore, and deserved no more than that.
Kira did not dare to look up at the warrior’s face. She remained huddled within his cloak.
She had wanted to be claimed, had she not?
She should not weep that her wish had been granted.
She brushed away her tears, impatient with herself.
Her traitorous body was too aware of the lean strength of his chest as he carried her away from the spectacle they had made. She heard his solid footfalls in the beaten-down grass and felt the resolve in the arms that held her against him.
No doubt his expression was as impassive as ever. She despised him suddenly for granting her what she had asked of him. ’Twas his fault that she had been forced to make such a choice, for he had stolen her from Tiflis and the life she knew. He had taken her to the Mongol camp, from which she could never return home.
And he had ensured that her first mating was no sweet coupling.
Truly, she had plenty of cause to blame him for her situation.
But Kira could not ignore the fact that she had chosen him of all the men assembled there. She had expected more of him. Kindness, perhaps. Consideration. Clearly, she had seen cause for such expectation where there had been none.
Kira’s feelings on the matter were more confused than she would have preferred. His warmth was too comforting and it would have been too easy to subside against him and let him gather her even closer.
Or worse, to let him touch her with such familiarity again. The scent of his skin reminded her that her own desire had not been satisfied. She had felt a new impulse when he had touched her as she danced, a wild heat that surged through her body and made her yearn for...something. Even as she recalled it, the sense built again, coupled with an awareness of him.
She was twice a fool. She should loathe him. This warrior deserved no more than her hatred.
He ducked into the enveloping shadows of the tent they had already shared and Kira’s pulse quickened. Did he mean to mate again? And yet more troubling, why did the anticipation mingle with her fear?
He crouched without striking a flint, cradling her yet closer in his lap. Kira was too aware of the darkness pressing around them and the distant sound of merrymaking. Indeed, the shadows make her more keenly aware of the warrior’s proximity, his scent filling her lungs and heightening the intimacy of this setting. Perhaps ’twas better to be in public after all, and she tried to put distance between them.
His arm tightened around her, checking her retreat as he kept her resolutely in his lap. He muttered incomprehensible words under his breath as he sat down. Kira froze, startled that he did not sound angry.
She dared to glance up even as her heart thudded in her ears, then cringed at the shadow of his hand rising above her. His hand paused for a moment and she knew he had noted her fear before he gently pushed the hood back from her damp face.
He had left the tent flap open and Kira could discern his features in the half-light. His eyes were gleaming in the shadows and he was studying her intently. Was that concern in his expression? Or did she again grant him more credit than he was due? She hastily dropped her gaze.
To Kira’s surprise, a rough thumb slid slowly across her cheek, collecting her tears in a single gesture. She watched, transfixed, as the warrior raised his hand and carefully licked the salty drops from his own flesh. Kira dared to meet his gaze, her mouth going dry at the intensity of his expression.
Slowly, as though he feared to startle her, he repeated the gesture and wiped the tears from her other cheek. He did not blink, let alone break her regard, and Kira’s chest clenched as his tongue collected his new harvest of tears from his thumb. Something awakened within her again but she refused to indulge it, forcing herself to recall the kind of man he had to be.
A Mongol.
A barbarian.
A ruthless warrior.
Kira swallowed as he brushed a fingertip across her cheek, his manner contrite.
He could not be apologizing.
Could he?
What could a man such as this know about such social niceties? His very tenderness fed Kira’s tears and they flowed with new vigor despite her efforts to stop them.
How could this man confuse her so? And why did he do so?
He leaned slowly toward her and Kira’s breath caught, his move reminding her that she was cradled in his lap. His other hand was curled surely around her waist, his fingers gripping her pelvis with a gentle firmness. The strength of his thighs was beneath her and when his free hand caressed her chin, Kira was stunned to hear a faint sigh escape her own lips.
When the tip of his tongue touched her cheek ever so gently and lifted away another tear, Kira shivered. He pulled her closer within the circle of his embrace as though he thought her cold and her fin
gers spread of their own accord to fan out on his shoulders. His careful removal of her tears was eroding any thought that he was to blame for her horrendous fate and she could not fight her instincts on this matter.
He was apologizing.
Kira’s heart melted at the realization, his touch igniting that unfamiliar desire once more. The tension awakened by his fingertip rose within her again, but with greater power. She did not know what to do about it, but she imagined her warrior did.
When his lips closed firmly over hers, Kira could think of nothing but gaining that release. He nudged open her lips with his tongue, tempting her, and Kira’s world spun at the warm spice of his kiss. Kira closed her eyes as she submitted and clasped her warrior’s neck, liking the feel of his corded strength beneath her hands.
She trembled when he cupped her breast in one warm hand. He teased her nipple with work-roughened fingers and Kira gasped at the pleasure that coursed through her from that point.
Emboldened by his sure touch, she dared to run her hands over the breadth of his shoulders. Without breaking his languorous kiss, he guided her hands to the front of his kalat, his own hands roving to curve around her buttocks. Kira’s heart leaped to her throat and her fingers trembled, but she unfastened the ties nonetheless.
She hesitated for a moment, then slipped her hands beneath both the fur-lined tunic and the silk shirt beneath. His skin was as warm and smooth as heavy satin left in the sun, the wiry hair on his chest tickling her fingers. Kira recalled only too well the sight of his nudity the other morning, and her pulse leaped.
She found his nipple and gave it an impudent pinch, liking the way he jumped in surprise. He chuckled then, a sound that startled her and charmed her. Before Kira could savor the unexpected accord between them, he shifted her weight in his lap and she felt the press of him against her buttocks. The warmth of his hand landed flat on her bare stomach and Kira froze, suddenly certain that she knew what he was about.
This was no apology. He meant only to earn her complaisance that he might take her again this night. What a fool she had been!
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