Claire Delacroix (6 page)

“‘Tis not much,” he commented, as though the insufficiency pleased him in some way. A victorious sense flooded through Thierry at the knowledge that he had not failed as anticipated. He dug the remainder of the pearls from his pocket with satisfaction.

“This part of the tribute are frauds,” he added. The other man’s eyes lit with a predictable gleam.

“Frauds? They dare offer frauds as tribute? Mayhap we should visit Tiflis,” Abaqa suggested. A rousing cheer filled the tent. “Berke and his Golden Horde first,” he shouted over the enthusiastic response of his men and turned a smug smile on Thierry. “An old score have I to settle there,” he added in an undertone. “Those around me know that I do not soon forget a slight.”

Thierry met Abaqa’s gaze as toasts were raised by the assembled commanders at the idea of two battles in short order. He saw the animosity reflected there as their gazes locked, but refused to look away as another round of raucous music broke out. The shaman pounded his horse-headed staff on the ground and the men stamped their feet in time, until their laughter broke the rhythm.

Abaqa smiled and the tension was broken. He glanced over his military elite indulgently as he quaffed his own draught. Thierry followed his gaze and was caught short by the knowing expression etched on the features of the shaman. That man was avidly watching his discussion with Abaqa from the other side of the yurt.

The shaman’s gaze brightened as he noted Thierry’s regard. Thierry stifled his inevitable sense of dislike when the man threaded his way across the yurt to stand just behind the khan. He nodded to the religious man. The shaman smiled archly and responded in kind.

Had the man divined something of this battle already? Did he know anything of the woman captive in Thierry’s own yurt? A sense of vulnerability assailed Thierry and he suddenly wished the woman was not there, whether she was his own or not. Better ‘twould be for both of them if she was safely back in Tiflis.

The hair on the back of Thierry’s neck prickled, even as he knew the very idea was nonsense. Naught could anyone see of the future. The shaman knew naught.

Abaqa rolled the pearls across his palm, much as Thierry had done earlier, and shot the younger man a sharp glance. “Clever you were indeed to suspect the value of the gems,” he asserted quietly. His eyes narrowed slightly as he held Thierry’s regard.

His tone was not approving. Thierry’s pulse leaped in dismay. Something was wrong.

“Mayhap
too
clever,” Abaqa added deliberately.

His unexpected words hung in the smoke-filled air as the other three men waited for him to continue. The pearls rolled across the khan’s callused palm and gleamed in the flickering lantern light. The four men barely seemed to breathe, the flickering lamplight illuminating the curious stillness of their tanned features as the revelry continued unabated around them.

Had Thierry been too audacious? Had Abaqa’s tolerance for his presence in the camp expired?

Would he share the same fate as Chinkai?

Abaqa poured the pearls into his empty chalice and considered them in the bottom thoughtfully for a long moment. He looked up suddenly, his bright gaze revealing that he enjoyed the air of anticipation surrounding him. He tapped the chalice methodically with one finger and held it up to Thierry’s view.

“I once heard tell of another commander having a chalice made of the skull of an opponent who rode unsuccessfully against him,” he mused. He held Thierry’s gaze for a long moment. Were his words meant to be a personal threat? Thierry’s pulse accelerated. Abaqa leaned forward with a confidential air that fully captured the attention of all three men.

“I would have Berke’s skull bear my
qumis,
” Abaqa concluded slowly.

He had named the khan of the Golden Horde, their opponents on the morrow. Thierry exhaled in silent relief.

Abaqa smiled a dangerous smile, making Thierry suspect that every nuance of his response had been detected. He struggled not to fidget with the knowledge that Abaqa was enjoying toying with him.

“‘Tis time we saw what legacy you bear in your veins,” Abaqa suggested with seeming indifference. His lids dropped as he watched his own fingertip slide around the rim of his chalice. Thierry wished he could see the expression in the older man’s eyes. “You should have no qualms leading the right wing on the morrow,” the khan added flatly and his lip curled condescendingly before he continued. “We shall see soon enough whether you are truly as stealthy as the black wind itself.”

Thierry’s heart skipped a beat at the risk and the opportunity, though he carefully schooled his features as he nodded.

Was this the opportunity he had been waiting for? Was this the chance that would prove his ability as a leader? A single
tümen
of ten thousand men riding under his command on the morrow. Should Thierry manage to prove his loyalty and survive this test, it could be the first step to establishing his own foundation of support within the tribe.

“May the Golden One’s blood bring you luck,” Abaqa concluded, his tone revealing that he expected exactly the opposite to occur.

And should Thierry fail? The expression in the other man’s eyes told him that any failure on the field would be interpreted as disloyalty to the new khan. Abaqa held Thierry’s gaze that he might see the fullness of the threat before snapping his fingers impatiently for more
qumis.

“I thank you for your salute,” Thierry said politely. He did not need to look to know that Nogai had detected the same skepticism in Abaqa’s eyes.

Thierry’s gaze sought the shaman’s regard seemingly of its own accord. The shaman quirked a knowing brow and smiled a secretive smile. Thierry’s resolve to ride successfully from the field redoubled in that one long moment.

He would show them all of what he was made on the morrow.

T
hierry was surprised to find the shaman behind them when he and Nogai finally abandoned the khan’s yurt and gained the relative silence of the night. The man moved more silently than Thierry could fathom and he felt a twinge of annoyance at his presence. The shaman smiled anew as though he had detected the path of Thierry’s thoughts.

“An assumption you make that you will succeed on the field tomorrow,” he purred silkily. Thierry shot a glance to Nogai. His companion said naught, but ‘twas easy to detect his nervousness at the unexpected comment.

“Not unreasonable would such an expectation seem to be,” Thierry observed, hating that he was beginning to question the matter himself. No power had this man in truth, he reminded himself. Political aspirations of his own had the shaman and the truth was clear to all who dared to see. Indeed, how could he manage to divine the future before it occurred? Illogical ‘twas.

The shaman’s eyes glittered in the shadows and the moonlight gleamed on the polished wood of his staff. Beneath such light, the horse’s head seemed to take on a life of its own and Thierry fancied that the hoof at the base of the staff stamped impatiently in the dirt of its own accord.

Suddenly the sounds of celebrating in the khan’s yurt seemed much, much farther away. They were alone under the moonlight, just the three of them. The sounds of merrymaking were more muted than Thierry knew them to be in truth. Was this some sorcery of the shaman’s? He looked into the ancient eyes of the shaman and felt as though they had been magically shifted to some other world.

Indeed, the world he knew seemed too far away in this moment.

Nonsense ‘twas. But the shaman’s smile widened despite Thierry’s conviction.

“Naught have I to fear from you and your ambitious dreams,” the shaman intoned as he leaned closer to Thierry. Nogai took a tentative step back, but Thierry refused to follow suit. He would not let this man intimidate him, no matter how close his words struck.

“Shown to me ‘twas,” the shaman hissed when Thierry said naught. He rattled the bag of sacred sheep bones he carried for making his predictions and his eyes narrowed as he leaned yet closer.

Thierry did not dare recoil or break the man’s regard.

“The gods showed me their hand in your fate and ‘twas not a pretty sight, Qaraq-Böke. Aspirations have you, ‘tis evident to all, but all your ambitions will amount to naught. Tiflis was but the beginning.” The shaman arched his brows high and sneered. Thierry knew a moment of dread but he stifled his fear, hoping it did not show in his eyes.

“Naught,”
the shaman repeated. He smiled with relish as he cast a scornful glance over Thierry. “A failure will you make of your life and, worse, ‘twill be by your own hand that you fail.”

That last proved the fallacy of the tale. Success did Thierry want and well enough did he know himself to understand that he would never forsake his own ambitions.

“Naught do you know of this,” Thierry argued skeptically. The shaman’s eyes widened at his disrespectful tone.

“Do I not?” he mused, his arching brow eloquently conveying his skepticism. “Mayhap you know better than I. Mayhap you can divine the future better than I. Mayhap you have garnered the support of more powerful spirits than I in your short life.” His lip curled as he paused to glance over Thierry.

“Mayhap,” the shaman sneered. “But I think not.” He spun on his heel and his white cloak swirled out behind him, the colorful strips that hung from it dancing in his wake. “Mayhap we shall see on the morrow who knows best.” He cast the words over his shoulder with a carefree air and they hung ominously in the night.

Thierry refused to respond. Nogai shivered openly when the shaman turned away, but Thierry resolutely held his ground as he watched the man go.

Threatened he had been before and he would not take this taunt any more seriously than the others. ‘Twas but a game to disarm him and undermine his confidence.

Victory would be theirs on the morrow and Thierry knew the fact well. And when ultimately his own success was rewarded, as Thierry had no doubt it would be, the shaman’s error would be clear for all to see.

* * *

Thierry let his horse run with the others for the night so that it might graze. For a long moment he let the harness swing from his hand, his gaze tracing the beast’s path. What had he wrought of his life this day? Naught but trouble, as far as he could see.

And yet more trouble, of an entirely different nature, awaited him at his own hearth. He turned with a frown and stalked back to his yurt in poor humor. ‘Twas humiliating enough for Nogai to joke about who would sift the woman’s leavings, but ‘twas doubly unnerving to find himself resenting the other men’s delight in discovering that the woman was not his whore.

Never mind his rising anticipation at the knowledge that she awaited him just steps ahead. He should not have returned to Abaqa’s yurt. Even if Nogai had insisted on a fortifying shot of
qumis
in the wake of the shaman’s warning.

Thierry would ignore the woman. No use had he, after all, for women or the vulnerability they created. Thierry wondered if he had imagined the glint in the khan’s eye when he had confessed to taking her. Foul luck it had been indeed that a flushed Nogai had spilled the entire story. Thierry had been asked for naught but affirmation, which he could not deny.

Witch. Already had she turned his life on end. Was she at the root of this new uncertainty stalking him? Had Abaqa changed his mind about Thierry in truth, or did he simply continue to toy with Thierry? And if Abaqa
had
changed his mind, had the witch somehow contrived the change? Did she take retribution for her captivity?

The thought was more than unsettling. Witchcraft or not, her very presence had undermined the security of his position within the tribe, just as he had feared. Women meant vulnerability in a culture where all pursued their own interests alone. ‘Twas as simple as that.

Mayhap ‘twas time enough he gave up this vagabond life. After all, the Mongol strain was but a quarter of what coursed through his veins.

The unexpected thought caught Thierry completely off guard. He actually considered the possibility for the barest instant before discarding it with disgust.

What nonsense was this? No other life had he. Khanbaliq tempted him, but he resolutely pushed that recollection aside, as well. Naught was there for him in Khanbaliq, even if he chose to ride across the width of Asia to return to that town.

This
was his life.
This
was the path he had chosen. And the labor of his years was destined to bear fruit, sooner or later. Thierry could feel it. Mayhap it had been too soon when the old khan died, but he was young enough to wait out Abaqa’s reign. And continue to consolidate his support while he waited. Leading a
tümen
on the morrow was but the first step. No interest had Thierry in casting all aside now for what amounted to no more than whimsy.

More nervous must he be about this battle than he had thought.

Thierry shoved open the tent flap in poor humor. The wan moonlight was enough to show that the woman was not only awake but watching him warily. What did she expect of him? he thought irritably. He trudged into the yurt and squatted down to light the brass lamp. Had she not tried to deceive him? Was she responsible for his woes? When the flame flickered to his satisfaction, Thierry swiveled without standing and silently returned her regard.

Was that relief he had briefly glimpsed in those dark eyes?

It helped his resolve not a bit that the golden lamplight seemed to heighten her soft femininity. The position her bonds had forced her to take showed the ripe curve of her hips to advantage from where he crouched. Her skirts had pulled up almost to her knees, leaving her feet and calves temptingly bare. Thierry fancied he could discern a hint of more private treasures in the shadows of her skirt. Her hair was cast loose over the cushions, dark and thick. He well recalled the smoothness of it between his fingers, and he shoved to his feet with a determined grunt.

Not for him was this.

He bent and untied her ankles with swift gestures, ensuring that he did not touch her flesh. Was it truly as soft as it appeared? His curiosity tempted him but he would not indulge himself.

She immediately straightened her legs, stretching with a wince. Thierry refused to acknowledge a nudge of guilt at the marks on her skin. She would not play on his sympathy so readily, he told himself, knowing without doubt that looser bonds would only ensure that she escaped.

Her movement revealed that she did wear
chalwar,
and he cursed his mind for the tempting images it had contrived. Naught could he have seen of anything. Clearly the woman’s very presence was addling his wits.

Witch.

He untied her hands and she rubbed her wrists but once before she rolled and sat up. The motion brought her in such close proximity that Thierry could smell the sweetness of her skin. The teasing scent fairly undid all of his resolve to leave her alone. Her hands leaped to the knot in the scarf that gagged her when he did not immediately untie the knot.

She hesitated, her eyes lifting reluctantly to his. Well could a man drown in the fathomless appeal of those dark orbs. And those lashes. Had ever he seen such lavishly thick eyelashes? Like some forbidden princess she was and he wondered if she deliberately flaunted her appeal.

Thierry nodded once and shoved to his feet, having no interest in getting closer to her that he might loosen the knot himself. She sighed with relief when that scarf, too, was discarded. Thierry could not help but covertly watch the rise and fall of her full breasts at the gesture.

How well would she fit beneath his hand? Too easily he recalled the delicacy of her shoulders under his grip. Everything tightened within him and Thierry realized how long he had been alone.

Because he had no space in his life for the vulnerability women brought.

Somehow the reminder carried less conviction as he regarded the woman in the soft light. She watched him warily, as though she knew not what he might do, and Thierry collected his thoughts hastily. He leaned over to grasp her slender wrist and haul her to her feet.

She was so much tinier than he. For an instant Thierry appreciated anew the difference in their relative sizes. He liked the delicacy of her features, the fact that the top of her head did not even reach his shoulder, the fragility of the wrist within his grip.

She tipped her head back to meet his gaze questioningly. Her lips were full and soft. Thierry wondered how she tasted before the flicker of trepidation in her eyes hauled his thoughts back to matters at hand.

‘Twas best he ensured that she feared him. Her fear alone could eliminate his desire, and business there was to attend to. The sooner she surrendered the pearl, the sooner Thierry could see temptation out of the way.

* * *

The latrine pits were behind the camp and open to the four winds. The emptiness of the plains surrounding them gave Thierry no qualms at letting the woman have some measure of privacy. He turned his back on her and scanned the distant hills with disinterest, forcing himself to breathe evenly. Even if she ran from here, he would catch her before she got far.

And ‘twas far easier for her to search her own leavings.

When he heard her footsteps approaching, he glanced down at her, resolutely holding her gaze as he extended his hand once more between them. She shook her head firmly and he nodded.

A good draught of
qumis
was what she needed to set things on their way, he concluded. And the liquor would make her sleep soundly this night, as well, which was no small advantage, either. If he rode to battle on the morrow, Thierry certainly had need of his own rest. Little desire had he to spend his night awake and worrying about his fetching captive’s escape.

Qumis
it would be.

* * *

Kira shot her captor a glance of scathing suspicion when he offered her a battered tin cup. When she hesitated, he lifted his dark brows once, then drained half the cup’s contents in one swallow. He offered the remainder to her once more.

Clearly she was supposed to drink it. Kira accepted the cup, sniffed tentatively and winced at its content’s foul odor. Swill! She glanced to the warrior dubiously. He nodded once, firmly, and let his fingertips stray suggestively to the hilt of his knife.

Drink or die. ‘Twas not much of a choice, but there was a possibility that this vile substance would not kill her.

A very small possibility.

But how would she ever force it down? Kira flicked a glance to the warrior, realizing in the same moment that there was no chance he might look away. She would have to drink it. She eyed the evil brew, took a deep breath and drained the cup in one swallow.

The liquor burned a path to her belly. Kira coughed at its unexpected heat and felt tears come to her eyes. The warrior swore under his breath. She took a shaky breath when she recovered herself and glared at him reproachfully through her tears.

He might have warned her that it was a concoction to be sipped.

The warrior said naught, merely refilled her cup. Kira almost rolled her eyes. Surely he did not expect her to drink more?

Although, to her surprise, the fire in her belly had diminished to a rather comforting glow. He hesitated before he handed her the refilled cup, lifting it toward his lips and making a series of sipping gestures.

Did he think her completely witless? That much she had deduced already. Kira knew her lips twisted scornfully before she could stop the expression. She nodded hastily and took the cup, dropping her gaze so she would not have to see his response.

Their fingers brushed inadvertently in the exchange, making Kira inordinately aware once more of the quiet intimacy of their surroundings. The drink unfolded a heat in her veins, making her uncomfortably aware of her companion’s allure.

But this warrior had no use for her. Had he wanted her favor, he would already have taken it, when she was bound and unable to fight him.