He recalled the scholar’s assertion that the taste of a pearl revealed its source, and wondered. Could she have been assessing pearls when they came upon her? That was a most practical solution to the puzzle and Thierry tried to assess it independently of its allure.
She might be nothing more or less than a woman stolen from her home. She might be simply a frightened woman who had deliberately tempted him this night to ensure her own survival.
Or perhaps a witch.
But she was claimed. By him. And together they must find their path from this night onward. She was his ally and he must be hers, for their fates were bound together.
Somehow he had to earn her trust without the ability to talk to her.
Thierry lay on his back and stared at the roof of the yurt, ignoring the giggling that accompanied Nogai’s sport. His thumb stroked the softness of her shoulder blade, even as the soft brush of her breath against his skin and the weight of her fingertips on his chest filled him with an unusual contentment.
How much did she understand of what had happened this night? Thierry suspected that only time would reveal the truth to her. He had no way of telling her that he intended to keep her by his side without fetching the annoying scholar from Tiflis. Soon they would be on the move again and it would be unreasonable—not to mention unpleasant—to be permanently blessed with that man’s company. Nay, this was an obstacle he and his witch had to conquer alone.
He could only make his intent clear by keeping her at his side, and that would take time.
In the interim, he would set himself to the task of earning her trust.
The first step was not to partake of her charms without her explicit consent again. Not only did the very recollection of his deed trouble Thierry—even knowing the necessity of it—but ’twas clear that she intended to extract a toll from him for it, as well. Beside the risk of the shaman’s threats coming true, there was the unquestionable fact of her newfound distrust of him. The price was clearly too high all around.
He would have her come to him when next they mated.
Thierry frowned, knowing that this night must have been a less than a pleasant experience for her. Would she even want to come to him after such a mating? Doubt grew within him as he stared down at her, as peaceful in sleep as a child.
Impulsively, he bent and brushed his lips across her smooth brow, liking the way her silky hair caressed his nose. The very softness of her triggered his arousal once more and Thierry wondered in that moment how he would keep himself from her, perhaps indefinitely.
Wither and fall off. Truly, the shaman knew nothing and Thierry was tempted to show him the evidence of that himself. This witch would keep him aroused when even she ignored him, let alone when she turned her will upon him.
But what if she never came to him again?
As Thierry stared down at her, an idea formed in his mind, tempting him with the possibility so that it could not be denied. Perhaps if he showed her the pleasure that could be hers from this pastime, she might eventually come to him of her own volition.
Perhaps ’twas worth a try.
Kira was having the most wonderful dream.
She was floating in a warm sea of silk, drifting while a school of little fishes nibbled at her thighs. Kira sighed and stretched amidst the soft swirl of silk, smiling to herself when the teasing fishes ventured higher. They were nudging at the apex of her thighs where that sensitive spot was concealed. Kira parted her legs to grant them access. They dove through her nest of curls and she imagined them disappearing into the secretive darkness before their nibbles stole her breath away.
She twisted away from their seductive touch but the fishes followed her diligently, their feather-light teasing sending a tide of warmth coursing through her. The sea of silk grew warmer, or else her skin became more sensitive, for it seemed every fiber of her being tingled.
Kira dared to part her thighs yet farther, gasping aloud when yet more fishes teased her breasts. She felt her nipples bead beneath the warm assault and arched high, stretching her hands above her. They collided with a broad pair of shoulders and Kira’s eyes flew open.
This was no dream. Her heart fairly stopped at the silhouette of her warrior bent over her. She looked at his mouth, watching as his lips gently tugged her nipple to a peak. She caught her breath as he lifted his head an increment and pursed his lips. The warm breath that fanned over her skin launched tingles across her flesh. Kira shivered and he met her gaze, his eyes fathomless silver.
Kira swallowed and her heart clenched.
Their gazes held for half an eternity in the shadows of the night. The sounds of the others sleeping filled Kira’s ears as she silently stared at him. Then the warrior’s fingers moved against her again with the persistence she had attributed to fishes and Kira felt her lips part with pleasure. He leaned toward her and Kira closed her eyes as his mouth closed over hers, knowing she was too aroused to deny his touch now.
Her senses were filled with the smell and the taste of him, his warmth, his strength. He coaxed and cajoled her and, as surely as if she had willed it herself, Kira felt the fires kindled beneath her skin once again. Her legs shifted restlessly beneath the blanket as he ran an intoxicating row of kisses under her chin. She thought her heart would burst when he nuzzled her earlobe, his breath tickling the tender flesh there before he boldly licked behind it. Kara shuddered but her response gained her no respite from his fiery touch.
Those fingers between her thighs caressed incessantly, demanding yet more of her even when she knew not what to do. She felt a moan rise to her lips but her warrior was quick to swallow the faint sound, his firm lips locking over hers once more. The move brought his bare chest into aching proximity with hers and Kira arched high at the brush of those wiry hairs against her aching nipples.
Suddenly a frenzy was loosed beneath her skin and she struggled against sensation. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders when his fingers continued to demand. It was too close, too much, too overwhelming and nameless, this tension that would not be denied.
With an abruptness that took her breath away, everything clenched within Kira. She made a cry into the warrior’s kiss as convulsions swept through her. It seemed that her heart stopped forever, and her body clenched with a strength that astounded her. She saw a blinding light behind her eyelids and felt a frisson fit to fry her skin.
Then there was nothing.
Nothing but the darkness, the rapid sound of her breathing and the gleaming silver of her warrior’s eyes. A leisurely warmth flooded through her and she sighed with contentment before she snuggled deeper into the embrace of the blanket. Kira barely had time to spare him a smile before she slipped back into that seductive sea of dreams once more.
The summons from the khan came before the dawn.
Thierry was awake and heard the messenger’s footfall on the grass before the man even reached the yurt. Instinctively he knew that he was the one being summoned.
The time of reckoning had come.
’Twas a relief in a way to know that Abaqa would finally make his move, and Thierry found himself calm. The keshik guard ducked his head into the yurt without preamble, his uniform revealing his regiment as the khan’s private guard. He nodded once when he met Thierry’s gaze, then disappeared outside where he would wait.
Thierry extricated himself slowly from the tangle of silk and softness that was his woman. He did not want to wake her so early and moved carefully, bending to tuck the blanket back around her. She nestled down into the wool, rubbing her cheek against the spot where he had rested. His heart leaped, but Thierry refused to permit himself any illusions.
She had sought him out for his protection. He had granted her request in exchange for the pleasures she could grant him. ’Twas best to keep matters simple between them. He would keep his end of the bargain and that was all there was of import hare.
The light of morning had restored his reason.
He could not halt his quick visual check befor
e donning his chalwar, grunting with skeptical satisfaction that all was as it should be. As though, it could be any other way. Shrivel and fall away. Was he not a warrior trained to believe solely the evidence of his own eyes? Rationale would govern his thoughts. Thierry could not completely quell an unexpected surge of scorn that these Mongols should be so gullible.
But was he not part Mongol? And what precisely was the other part that recently had made him think himself separate from them? Thierry dressed in haste, as though running from his traitorous thoughts.
As he made to join the messenger outside, he found himself unable to subdue the urge to look back on his woman one last time. She would be safe here with Nogai and he knew it well. Not wanting to look soft, Thierry made a pretense of adjusting his scabbard as he surreptitiously glanced in her direction.
She slept, as before, with all the innocence of a child.
He wished suddenly that she would not awaken before his return.
Nonsense. The khan summoned him this morn and he knew that this interview would require his full attention. Changes were afoot. Thierry snapped the buckle on his belt and strode out into the waning darkness. He exchanged a terse nod with the keshik guard and the pair of them set a quick pace for the khan’s yurt.
Chapter 8
Abaqa was eating dates, or more accurately, he was having dates fed to him by one of his wives. He smiled at Thierry’s appearance and the expression was predatory. Thierry noted that ’twas Abaqa’s western wife draped by his side. She had come from Constantinople to forge an alliance, although Thierry had seen precious little evidence of such a truce.
Though truly, with the current state of affairs in the Byzantine Empire, it seemed there was little enough to be gained from a link with the Byzantine royals. Undoubtedly, the woman was better out of her homeland. The men exchanged greetings, the guard stepped back and Thierry waited patiently.
The khan chewed thoughtfully for a long moment. “Had Berke not died in so timely a fashion, you might have had expectations,” he said finally, emphasizing the last word in a most pronounced way.
Aye, Thierry conceded to himself, he had had expectations when he had ridden from the camp. The retreat of the Golden Horde had stolen away the promise of the fulfillment of his ambitions, but still he could hope ’twas only a temporary setback.
Even if the shaman’s actions and Abaqa’s words told him clearly otherwise.
“Perhaps,” he agreed. “’Tis of little import now.”
“Perhaps not,” the khan said enigmatically. He waved away his wife with an impatient gesture, fixing his gaze on Thierry. He smiled slowly, evidently realizing that he had captured the younger man’s attention, and carefully folded his hands together before he spoke.
“As the commander I know you to be, you must realize that this battle was our last chance to expand to the north.”
Thierry nodded, unable to divine the path of this discussion. Such matters were well-known, even within the ranks.
“We are constrained on every side now, even with the Golden Horde’s retreat. I have no interest in their lands north of the plains that are clearly ours once more, for that land is useless for grazing. ’Tis clear enough, as well, that the lands north of Tiflis have already been raided so extensively that there is little remaining to take from them. The size and value of the tribute you collected from Tiflis can only be a sign that ’tis time to find greener pastures.” Abaqa spoke quietly, studying his fingernails with more interest than seemed appropriate. “The time has come that we must explore our final option.”
Thierry immediately thought of dozens of equally drastic possibilities. He intuitively disliked that the khan was telling him about this, and distrusted that his destiny was apparently entwined with this option.
This could not be a good sign for his own fate, as he was not usually among Abaqa’s confidants.
“We must make an alliance with the Franks,” Abaqa concluded, raising his dark gaze to meet Thierry’s.
Thierry knew his surprise showed, for he had not the chance to check it. “The Franks?” he asked when it seemed he was expected to say something.
“Aye,” Abaqa grunted, and frowned. “They hold Palestine and many a time over the years have they contacted us about combining forces against the Mamluk dogs. Now they have lost Jerusalem, a matter of much import to them, though ’tis truly a hopeless town to hold. It is undoubtedly a question of religion. We know well enough that their emissaries are filled with an unreasonable desire to see us baptized.” He plucked another date from the bowl his wife had abandoned and dropped it into his mouth.
Thierry waited.
“In truth, that is why my sire refused to trouble himself with them. Who can imagine a man of faith at war?” Abaqa made a vague gesture.
Thierry knew only of Buddhist monks and could not imagine any of them wielding a sword. Even the shaman did not pick up a blade, though that man was filled with enough threats and dire warnings to suffice.
“My wife, though, knows of these Franks,” the khan confided, leaning forward to prop one elbow on his knee. “They ravaged Constantinople once in their religious lust and left most of the city for dead.”
Thierry noted the spark in the man’s eyes.
“Such information leaves me pondering a Frankish alliance,” Abaqa continued, nibbling the clinging bits of date from his fingers with nonchalance. “I would know what kind of men they are.” His voice dropped slightly and Thierry stiffened. “I would have a military man provide me an assessment.” That dark gaze swiveled back to pin Thierry to the spot. “I would have you find out.”
“What do you mean?” Thierry asked. ’Twas evident what Abaqa meant but he wanted to hear the matter stated clearly.
“I would have you ride to this Paris of theirs as an emissary. You will carry my greetings and perhaps my encouragement of a treaty, depending on the evidence before your own eyes.”
Thierry swallowed, knowing the impertinence of the question he would ask but having no choice. He had to know.
“Why me?”
The khan’s smile told Thierry that he was not expected to succeed. “I heard a tale that you speak the Frankish tongue,” Abaqa commented.
Though this was true, Thierry suspected ’twas not the fullness of the tale. The shaman’s silhouette separated from the shadows behind the khan. The man’s eyes gleamed and Thierry knew a moment of dread to have his suspicions so readily confirmed.
Truly it seemed that his fate was not to be markedly different from that of Chinkai.
At least Thierry had a chance of surviving. And survive he would, despite the schemes of these two men.
“Aye, I have spoken the Frankish tongue,” he agreed. “Though it has been many years.”
“The road is long,” Abaqa said with a wave. “You will have much time to practice.” His eyes brightened and he leaned forward once more. “There is another reason,” he confided in a low voice.
Thierry’s heart began to pound. “Aye?”
“Aye. Show me your mark.”
Thierry reluctantly unfastened his kalat. He knew only too well the suspicion the Mongols had of his birthmark, though he gave it little heed. His father had one much the same. What relevance could it have to this mission? He bared the port-wine stain to view, surprised to hear a woman’s gasp.
“’Tis the mark of the Christ,” the khan’s Byzantine wife declared, her voice breathless. The shaman’s eyes glittered triumphantly and the khan’s smile widened.
Thierry watched in amazement as she darted forward to trace the outline of the mark with a quivering fingertip, though she did not touch his flesh. Her hand paused and hovered before him as her gaze flicked audaciously to his, then danced away, her head bowing as she dropped to her knees before him.
Thierry glanced up in surprise to meet the knowing smile of the khan. He felt the woman’s lips brush across his boot.
“They will believe you,” Abaqa growled, his gaze sweeping scornfully over his wif
e.
Thierry took a step back from the kneeling woman and cleared his throat. “When shall I leave?”
“This very day,” the khan asserted, snapping his fingers impatiently at his wife. “There is no need for you to ride back to Tabriz with us. The way is shorter from here.”
His wife stood hastily and scurried back to his side, her eyes downcast once she noted her spouse’s dissatisfied frown. She had erred gravely in dropping to her knees before any other but the khan himself.
Thierry hoped she would not have to pay for her insolence.
“The message will be ready shortly.” The khan tented his fingers together and smiled yet again as he met Thierry’s gaze. “Perhaps that rebel Nogai would be well advised to accompany you.”
Thierry’s heart clenched that his fall from grace should implicate his friend as well, but there was little he could do about the matter now.
“After all,” Abaqa commented under his breath as he selected another plump date, his easy manner apparently restored, “I have no space in my camp for ambitious men.” The glint in the khan’s eye told Thierry that ’twas not Nogai’s ambition that troubled him.
He was being cast out of the camp, Nogai condemned to accompany him because of their long and openly acknowledged friendship. Thierry flicked a glance around the yurt and found a satisfied gleam in the shaman’s eye.
The other man tapped his staff on the ground with satisfaction, the tails attached to the horse’s head carved at its top dancing in the fitful light. Thierry had no doubt that his influence was responsible for this discussion. As their gazes held, the other man smiled slowly, his gaze dropping to Thierry’s crotch.
“I would assume,” Abaqa commented with feigned disinterest, “that I would have no reason to concern myself about witches in the camp on the morrow.”
“Witches?” Thierry echoed, refusing to be goaded. He held the shaman’s gaze until the man’s smile faded before looking back to the khan.
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