Beloved (11 page)

In a way those kisses had frightened her, for they had rendered her so helpless. She hadn’t known what was expected of her. She had never allowed a man to kiss her before. The young men of her tribe had wanted to often enough, seeking to catch her alone, or entrap her in a tight place; but she had always escaped their seeking mouths, their eager hands, using violence if necessary, for she was no man’s toy, and never would be. He had held her gently, tasting of her lips just enough to arouse her curiosity, which, she suspected, was exactly what he had intended. He had touched her nowhere else, and yet she knew from Bab and Tamar’s prattle that a man liked to fondle a woman’s body. Why hadn’t he touched her? Was there something wrong or displeasing about her body?

Wide awake again, Zenobia rose from her bed and walked out onto the portico overlooking the garden and the city. Distracted, she paced back and forth for some minutes. What was wrong with her? To her complete surprise, she was near to tears. Where was her Hawk now? Had he left her at her door only to go to Deliciae’s arms? Two tears rolled down her cheeks, and she brushed them away furiously. Why should she care what he did?

“Zenobia?” His voice sounded in her ear and, startled, she cried out. Strong arms wrapped around her, and to her horror she burst into tears, sobbing wildly against his bare chest. He let her cry, and when at last her weeping began to abate he lifted her up in his arms and carried her back into her bedchamber. Sitting on the edge of her couch, he cradled her against him.

“Why do you cry, my little flower? Are you homesick?”

“N-no.”

“What is it, then?”

“I thought you had gone to Deliciae.”

“I have not sought Deliciae’s bed for months. I go to her apartments to see our children. Do not tell on me, though, Zenobia, or you shall ruin my reputation.” He was close to laughter—joyous laughter.
She cared!
She cared enough to weep when she thought him with another woman! Still, he must not press her too closely, though her slim hand caressing the back of his neck was maddening.

“Where did you come from?” she asked him.

“My chambers are next to yours, my flower,” came the reply. “The portico is mine to walk upon, too, and I also found it difficult to sleep.”

She was suddenly aware of his bare chest, of the fact that he wore nothing but a wrap of cloth about his loins; of the fact that she was practically naked herself in her sheer white cotton chemise. It was something that had not escaped the prince’s notice, and he could feel his manhood rising to meet the challenge of her beautiful body. He moved to put her away, but her arms tightened about his neck.

“Zenobia!”
His voice held a plea.

“Love me a little,” she said softly.

He shuddered. “Zenobia, my flower, have mercy. I am only a man.”

“Love me a little, Hawk,” she repeated, and then she moved her body in such a way that her chemise fell open. She shrugged the flimsy garment off her shoulders and it fell to her waist, baring her round full breasts.

The sight was a glorious one, and for a moment he closed his eyes and invoked the gods to aid him. He ached to possess this lovely girl who taunted him so. His hands itched to caress her, but he tried to practice restraint in the face of incredible temptation. Then her hand reached down, caught at one of his, and lifted it up to one of her breasts. “Zenobia!” he groaned. “Zenobia!” But his hand was already responding to the soft, warm flesh beneath it.

“Oh, Hawk,” she murmured against his ear, “do you not want me? Even a little?”

“Do you want me?”
he managed to gasp. Her breasts were like young pomegranates, firm and full in his hand.

“I hurt,” she responded. “Inside of me there is an awful ache, and I do not understand.”

“It is desire you feel, my flower.” He let his eyes stray down, catching his breath as he saw the full glory of her breasts. The nipples were large and round, the color of dark honey. He longed to taste the sweetness of her flesh, but now was not the time. He had been quite serious when he had told her he had never made love to a woman who did not care for him.

She would be his wife, but he would give her time to adjust, time to learn to love him. He wanted that love, for he knew that Zenobia had never given her heart, let alone her body, to any man.
She was yet a child for all her voluptuousness of form and facility of mind; and it was the woman he looked forward to knowing, a woman that he would help to shape and mold.

He held the girl child, his own desires successfully under control now as he gently caressed her, crooning soft words of comfort in her little ear. His tenderness had the proper effect, and she quieted, soon falling asleep against his shoulder. When her breathing was calm and even he stood and, turning carefully, placed her upon her bed, drawing the silken coverlet over her. He stood for a long minute looking down on her, drinking in her loveliness, and then with a sigh of regret he blew out the lamp and left the room.

He stood out on the portico, gripping the balustrade, his eyes sightless, not even aware that the desert night had grown cool. How long would he have to wait? He wanted this girl by his side. He wanted to share his whole life with her, the burdens as well as the good things. He somehow believed that Zenobia’s shoulders were strong enough to bear some of his load. Treading a path between the Romans and his warlike Persian neighbors to the east was not an easy task, especially when he also had his own commercial community to satisfy. It was up to Palmyra to keep the caravans safe.

Then, too, there was the
other
woman in his life, his mother. The prince grimaced. The only favor Al-Zena had ever done him was to give him life, and even that had been done grudgingly. He had heard the stories of his birth, and how she had fought against becoming a mother right up to the last minute. It had been said that if she had cooperated his birth would have been an easy one; but she had not, and consequently had injured herself, making it impossible to ever have another child. His father had never forgiven her, but then neither of his parents had loved the other. Theirs had been a political marriage, and it was said his mother had resisted the match, being in love with a prince at the Persian court. It was also said that his father had been forced to rape her on their wedding night, and that he had been conceived then.

Both his parents had loved him, but his father had not allowed him much time with Al-Zena. It was not until his father’s death that he had come to know her better, but by then he was eighteen, and a man grown. Still, he had recognized her unhappiness; seen what havoc a loveless marriage could bring; and vowed that never would he touch an unwilling woman.

He had even tried to make friends with her, but she became
possessive, and even destructive. Consequently he gave lip service to his filial duty, and kept his own counsel. He was clever, though, and so openly solicitous of his mother that she believed she had won him over, and was constantly advising him, attempting to interfere in the government of Palmyra, a task for which she was singularly unsuited. The hardest part of it all was that he had no one to talk to; to share this burden.

The sudden sound of the water clock dripping the minutes away reminded him of the lateness of the hour. Turning, he walked back into his own bedchamber, lay down, and with habit born of great discipline fell quickly asleep.

When the desert dawn came, reaching across the sands with fingers of molten flame, tinting the land apricot and gold, two figures rode from the city, black silhouettes against the colorful morning sky. Odenathus had personally chosen a spirited Arab mare for Zenobia. The mare was white, as was his own big stallion, and newly broken. Zenobia was her first mistress.

“What is her name?” the girl asked as they rode from Palmyra.

“She has none as yet, my flower. It will be up to you to name her, as she is my first gift to you.”

“She is mine?” Her voice was incredulous with delight.

“She is yours,” he repeated, letting his eyes stray to her long legs, bare beneath her short chiton. He was going to have to do something about that, for he wanted no man ogling those lovely legs.

“I am going to call her Al-ula,” Zenobia said happily.

He smiled, and nodded his approval. Al-ula meant “the first” in the Arabic tongue. “It is a good name, and you’re clever to think of it, my flower.”

“What is your stallion called?”

“Ashur, the warlike one,” he replied.

“And is he warlike?”

“I am unable to keep any other stallions in my stables. He has already killed two. Now I keep but geldings and mares.”

“I’ll race you,” she challenged him.

“Not today, my flower. Al-ula is but newly broken, and will need time to become used to you. Besides, I must return, for I have a full schedule today.”

“May I come with you? It will be far more interesting than chatting with the women. I am not used to sitting about doing nothing but painting my toenails and soaking in a perfumed tub.”

He chuckled sympathetically. “When you are my wife you may come with me, Zenobia.”

“Hades!” She realized she would be forced to remain in the women’s quarters, caught between Al-Zena and Deliciae.

He read her thoughts, and chuckled at her discomfiture. “Ah, my poor flower, caught between the wasp and the butterfly.”

“How did you know what I was thinking?” she demanded.

“The look on your face was stronger than any words you could have spoken,” he replied. “If you become my wife, Zenobia, I will not pen you in a harem, I promise you. You will be free to come and go as you please, for I will do what no Prince of Palmyra has ever done for his princess. I will make you my equal.”

“I don’t want to live in the women’s quarters,” she said suddenly. “If I become your wife, I want my own house within the palace. I would choose my own servants, and purchase my own slaves. I want no spies in my household.”

She drew her mare to a halt. The sun was now risen, and the sky was bright blue and cloudless for as far as the eye could see. Following her lead, he stopped his stallion, and turned to face her.

“I am unschooled at playing games, Hawk,” she said quietly. “Let us be frank with each other. You wish to marry me, and my father has agreed to it, but how soon depends on me for both you and my father have understood my need to accept this marriage. My father believes that you are the right man for me, and because of the great love he bore my mother he would have me happy. I am fortunate. Not many men would understand my feelings.

“I am also fortunate in his choice of a husband for me, for you, too, understand that I cannot be fettered. I must be free! You have been kind to me, and I believe that I am beginning to care for you. The things that I shall ask of you will not be difficult.”

“I understand,” he answered her, “and you may have anything that is within my power to give you, Zenobia.”

“Ah, Hawk, you make very rash promises,” she teased. “One should never agree to anything until one has heard all the terms.”

“Would you teach me, my flower?”

“Can you not learn from a woman?” came the sharp retort.

“Do you love me a little?” he demanded.

“Do you love me, Hawk?”

“I think I fell in love with you on the day your mother was killed. You were so confused, and hurt and frightened. I wanted to reach out then, and hold you in my arms; but I was Prince of
Palmyra, and you but the child of my cousin. It was not meet that I comfort you greatly, though I wanted to, Zenobia.”

She was very surprised by this confession, and quite pleased as well. Still, he must not be allowed to become sure of her. Both Tamar and Bab said that a woman should never allow a man to become too confident. “I hope you are not going to tell me you spent the three and a half years since my mother’s death pining for me, for I shall not believe you, Hawk.”

“I forgot completely about you, my flower,” he said bluntly, pleased with the outraged gasp that followed his statement. The little minx was suddenly too sure of herself; and had his father not warned him never to let a woman become too confident?

“Then how can you say you love me?!”

“I loved the child that day, and when I saw the lovely girl she had become, I fell in love all over again. I will never lie to you, Zenobia. I love you.” He reached out and took her hand in his. “Oh, my flower, I do love you. Have pity on this poor prince who would lay his heart and his kingdom at your feet! When are we to wed?”

“Just a little time,” she pleaded.

“I cannot wait long, Zenobia. I am a lonely man, and I long to have you by my side to love, to talk with, to share with.”

He could have said nothing more calculated to win her over. “I will marry you as soon as the priests permit,” she answered him, and when his eyebrows lifted in surprise at her sudden decision, she smiled. “You need me, my Hawk. Have you not just said it? Our marriage has been a fact since you and my father agreed upon it. Only the date has remained in doubt. Logic tells me if I was distressed by the thought of your being with Deliciae last night, then I must love you a little, even if I cannot admit it to myself yet.”

“Oh, Zenobia,” he said, “I wonder at the woman you will become!”

“Why should you wonder?” she laughed. “You will be here to see.”

He, too, laughed. “So I shall, my flower. So I shall!” Then, turning his horse back toward the city, he said, “It is time we returned, Zenobia. I will not race you, but let us gallop a way so Al-ula may show you her paces.”

Before his words had died on the wind she wheeled the mare about and was off. Surprised—she was always surprising him—he put spurs to Ashur and followed her. Together they thundered
down the barely visible desert road leading back to Palmyra, the horses’ hooves stirring up tiny puffs of yellow dust. He watched her, bent low over her mount, tendrils of her wind-loosened hair blowing about her face. What a glorious creature she was! This girl-woman who was so soon to be his wife.

As they came through the main entry into the large courtyard, the guards at the palace gates were hard pressed not to grin at one another in pure delight. Leaping lightly from her mount, Zenobia cried out triumphantly, “I beat you!”