The Other Guy's Bride (19 page)

Ginesse thanked him for that. He’d just turned her virginity into part of the gift the Tuaregs were bringing to the chief, the
amenokal
. Juba would be much less prone to rape her now that his compatriots had been informed of her increased value. She hoped.

She stared at Jim, willing him to turn around and look at her and somehow relay that everything was going to be all right. Even dazed with fear and shock Ginesse could not help but admire his horsemanship. Her father was a good rider—no, a great rider—but he had nothing on Jim Owens. There was no violent kicking, no coarse whoops, or lashing of reins. Whatever he did was done noiselessly, undetectably. One instant the horse was standing perfectly still, the next the pair of them were flying silently out across the sand, past the reach of their fire’s light, a centaur come to life.

He did not look back.

“My father is Harry Braxton.” Ginesse spoke in Arabic, keeping her voice carefully respectful as she followed the Tuareg leader through the camp. “He is an important man. A fierce chieftain. He will reward you well for my safe delivery to Fort Gordon.”

Juba ignored her, as he’d ignored all her pleas and petitions for the last four days.

“Please, you must listen,” she said urgently.

He looked around, as if surprised to see her still there. She stopped, holding her hands palm up in supplication. “Please, my father—”

“Sold you,” Juba interrupted. “Enough. You are a slave, not my wife. You will make my ears bleed with your lies and pleas.”

Whatever her father’s reputation, it had not extended to Libya. Each day Juba stuck her on a camel in the middle of the caravan. Each night, he pitched his sumptuous tent and left her to huddle next to one of the camels for warmth. He let the desert be her warden; it proved a vigilant guard.

Where could she go? How far would she get on foot before succumbing to the elements? And if she did manage to steal off on one of the camels, even the swiftest one, eventually they would find her and bring her back.

But today was different. They had left the dunes behind and were heading into rockier terrain: a mixture of sand and gravel occasionally broken by low plateaus and shallow
wadis
where small stands of tough little acacias huddled. Juba called an early halt to their travels and had his tent pitched at the mouth of a small fissure.

The men exchanged wary glances but set about making camp, building a fire, and unloading and hobbling the camels. Ginesse felt Juba’s eyes on her more than once. The harsh conditions, her ultimate destination as a gift for a powerful leader, and her virginity had so far kept her safe and well-fed. She feared that was coming to an end.

That first night she had been certain that Jim would come back for her, steal into the camp in the dead of night and take her out from under their noses. He hadn’t come back.

And a good thing, too, because the Tuaregs had also expected him. They’d lain in wait, the rifles across their laps, their eyes alert to the smallest movement out in the desert. The next night, and the next, she’d remained awake straining to hear the sound of Jim’s stealthy approach. But he hadn’t come back then.

She was frightened. If she let herself think, she would edge to terrified. Each time Juba glanced her way, she trembled. Each time she thought of him lying over her in the way Jim had, her stomach rebelled and she had to knot her fist against her lips to keep from retching.

Time was running short. She should have stayed out of his sight, made herself as inconspicuous as possible. Now he was studying her thoughtfully, stroking a dirty, broken thumbnail up and down his cheek. She could almost see him consider his options. He had only Jim’s word that she was a virgin, and if she proved not to be, well, Juba could always claim he’d been deceived by the slaver who’d sold her to him. True, he would be embarrassed, and that certainly weighed heavily with him, but how heavily? Not enough, she feared.

Damn
that henna powder, for Ginesse had no misconceptions about her desirability; her value lay in her red hair and its ability to bestow good luck on whoever possessed her. It wasn’t even that red anymore.

“Go into my tent. Wait for me there. We will discuss your father and your ransom.”

He was lying. He wasn’t even making any concerted effort to hide the fact. His tone was indolent, his gaze scornful.

“Please. We can talk out here—”

“We will talk in my tent,” he cut in brusquely. “Later. You go there now and wait for me. Unless you wish to learn how a slave is punished amongst my people.”

“No,” she whispered.

“Good. Because you would end up in my tent either way.” He pointed at the tent. “Go.”

She had no choice. She bowed her head and did as he commanded. Inside, the tented was outfitted with accoutrements worthy of a sheikh. The sand had been covered with thick layers of Persian carpets, a half dozen pillows of gem-colored embroidered satin piled in the center. Silk tassels the size of gourds hung from the ceiling alongside a pair of ornately worked copper lanterns, as yet unlit.

A table of hammered brass that carried an enameled carafe and demitasse cups squatted near the center of the tent, and a low ottoman bed had been set up along one side. This, too, was piled with pillows and covered with a striped blanket. A water pipe stood near its head.

It all looked very civilized and comfortable, and Ginesse wheeled around and began hunting for something she could use as a weapon. Juba kept a curved dagger in a sheath at his waist, and she had seen knives strapped to the upper arms of the other men. Perhaps there was something…

Five minutes later she gave up her search. Except for some clothing, the tent was remarkably antiseptic. There was nothing she could use as a weapon except the spurs on a pair of boots. That would have to do.

Frantically, she set to prying off a spur, one ear tuned to the movements of the men outside. When she was done, she carefully set the boots back in their original position. Then she waited, her heart thudding dully in her chest.

She listened to the low back and forth of conversation between the men, the clang of cooking pots, the soft “
nurrr
” of the camels, and the crackle of firewood. The light grew murky inside the tent and the wind rose, sending sand hissing along the tent’s sides. Then, as the last light faded from the tent and she’d struck the flint and lit the hanging lanterns, she heard Juba bark some peremptory commands. Men reluctant to comply answered in grumbling complaints, but a bit later she heard the groaning of camels being roused from their rest.

He was sending some, if not all of his men, away. Likely those he least trusted to keep a secret.

Her heartbeat kicked into a gallop, and she backed further into the tent, clenching the spur tightly behind her back. Her hand grew slick with sweat, and her knees felt watery.

It seemed like she stood like that, facing forward, forever. The camp had gone preternaturally quiet, the only sound the occasional moan of a camel or snap of the firewood breaking. She heard a man say something, a muttered reply, and then footsteps leaving.

Then, finally, horribly, she heard the sound she’d been dreading: the self-assured footfall of a man approaching the tent.

She lifted her chin, horrified to feel tears welling in her eyes. Furiously, she blinked them away. She was better than that. She was braver.

She saw his silhouette looming large against the tent flap, his robes swirling around him on the quickening breeze, tall and ominous and infinitely threatening. A dark hand seized the flap and switched it violently aside. He ducked his head and entered.

Jim Owens.

She was a tall woman, but she looked heartbreakingly fragile standing at the back of the tent. She stared at him, rooted to where she stood, her whole body shivering uncontrollably.

“I never left. I was always out there. Watching. I couldn’t come sooner because they were expecting it.” He was speaking too fast, too urgently, the words tumbling out past the constriction in his throat.

God, she must have been terrified. She must have thought he’d abandoned her. But there’d been no way to tell her, no sign he could have given that wouldn’t have been picked up by her captors. If they’d suspected for even a second what he was about, she would have ended up in Libya as a slave.

“But I wouldn’t have let him—” He broke off, gazing at her beseechingly, willing her to understand.

He’d endured the torments of the damned these the last four days, knowing how she must be suffering. More than once he’d been on the verge of throwing caution to the wind and taking his chances. But while he would take chances with his life, he couldn’t with hers. So he’d bided his time, waiting until the tribesmen were separated and their guard down, each moment extending into a hellish eternity. Then tonight, Juba had sent two of his men ahead; they wouldn’t be returning anytime soon.

“You came.” It was barely more than a whisper, and God help him, he couldn’t read anything in it, couldn’t tell if it was shock or disbelief or condemnation or something else that flavored her voice, and ultimately the only reply he could make was the simple truth, a promise as much as an assertion.

“Always,” he said. “I’ll always come for you.”

With that, whatever paralysis had held her broke. She launched herself across the tent, flinging herself into his arms, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. He staggered back a step under her momentum, clasping her high against his chest.

“I knew you would come,” she sobbed against his throat. “I knew you would, I just didn’t know when, and then when you didn’t I was afraid something terrible had happened to you!”

He closed his eyes, fighting the wave of emotion that threatened to drive him to his knees. She’d known he was coming. She’d trusted him, had faith in him. She had never doubted him. Instead, she’d worried about him.
Him
. When she was the one in the hands of a slave trafficker.

“Never leave me like that again.”

“Never.”

She was crying in earnest now, her whole body racked with sobs, tears spilling from her eyes and streaming down her cheeks as she gazed up into his eyes. He was lost, incapable of thinking clearly, uncertain what to do, what to say, how to
fix
this. Always in his life when something went wrong, he acted, he
did
something; he sought, he tracked, he stole, he fought, he used fists and muscle and brain and cunning and he acted. But here, now, with her, he had no idea what to do.

“Are you all right?” he asked, turning her face up to his, searching her eyes, trying to see into her, to discover if he’d been too late after all. “
Are you all right?
”

“Tell me what to do,” he said. “Tell me how to make this better. Should I kill him?” Now there was an idea with some real merit.

“No!”

“It would be a fair fight. Juba and the only other man left are tied up and unconscious right now, but I could rouse Juba, wait a while, and then use broadswords or guns. His choice. Or fists.” He liked the idea of fists.

“No!” she said. She pushed back a little. “No. You…you…” Their eyes met. He watched in fascination as her pupils grew larger, her lips parted, full and rich and incredibly inviting. The tip of her tongue dabbed at the center of her upper lip. It utterly undid him.

A maelstrom of relief and lust awakened in him, turning his body rock-hard. He felt each point where she was pressed against him in excruciating detail, the soft weight of her breasts, her slender waist, her lithe thighs dangling against his, the slight mound at their apex riding above his brutally stiff erection.

He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe. His control teetered on the brink of dissolving completely.

And then she was kissing him. Not a gentle, questing kiss, but a hot, searing, opened-mouthed kiss. Her hands were bracketing his face as she lifted her body up along his, her legs rising to wrap around his hips.

And his body reacted before his mind had time to engage.

He reached down and rucked up the robes that kept her from him, his tongue deep in her mouth, reveling in the taste of her, the heat, and the urgency of their kiss. His hands found her round, firm buttocks and lifted her higher, a rumble rising in his chest at the delicious torment of her rubbing against his cock. Abruptly, she tore her lips from his and unwrapped her arms, and before he could even curse himself for being too bold and too rough, her hands dove down between their bodies. Heedlessly, she ripped his shirt apart, scattering buttons across the red and gold Persian carpet, and yanked it from his shoulders.

She was intent on her work, her gaze fixed on his chest, her breath coming in little pants, her skin flushed. Her hands flowed down his chest, her palms riding the shift of muscle to his waistband. He felt the buckle coming undone. She jerked at his trousers’ strained buttons, releasing him. Her fingertips brushed against the swollen head of his erection.

He closed his eyes, teeth clenched in an effort to force control over his overwhelming impetus. She was having none of it. He felt her knees hitch higher around his waist as she lifted herself on his chest, felt her rise up against him, rubbing into him, a sob of frustration deep in her throat.

Nothing he had ever experienced before compared. He felt his honor shredded on raw desire, felt his principles blasted away in the furnace of passion. He tried. He chanted an inner mantra:
She’s not mine his. She’s not
—

But she was. Damn his honor, damn Pomfrey, damn the world.
She was his.

“Please,” she whispered hoarsely. “I don’t know…I can’t…”

He did. He could.

He shifted his hands beneath her thighs, gripping her tightly, and lifted, seating himself at her slick opening. Slowly, he lowered her onto him, watching her face all the while, shuddering with the restraint he tried to exercise. She gasped with pleasure, and then the gasp turned to one of hurt surprise. Her gaze flew to meet his, a little betrayed, a little afraid. He moved once, breaking through the thin membrane, and held there. Her inner muscles clenched hard around him, instinctively trying to halt a deeper possession. Too late. He didn’t say a word, God help him. It was all he could do to stay there, rock-hard and immobile, and let her accustom herself to the feel of him.

Her hands clamped down on his shoulders, her forehead pitched in a scowl, and beneath her robes her breasts moved in startled agitation. She started to rise up, to withdraw from this too intimate connection, and then he felt it, the slow release of her inner muscles, the gradual acceptance. Her eyes flickered wider by another degree, again surprised, but no longer betrayed.

He clasped her soft hips in his hands and rocked against her, into her. A small cry escaped her throat and wonder filled her face. Bracing herself with her hands on his shoulders, she pushed down, bringing him deeper inside of her, then lifted, slowly gaining rhythm as she worked his body to her own untried purposes.

He took it as long as he could, jaw clenched, eyes shut tight against the sight of her awakening desire lest it take him to crisis before she was ready. But in the end her unpracticed moves, her soft mews of frustration proved too much.

He lifted first one of her hands then the other to the cross-beam supporting the tent’s roof and curled her fingers tightly over them.

“Hold on to this,” he whispered against her damp neck. He thrust deep into her. She gasped and held tight to the tent beam, his thrusts into her sending the lanterns swinging gently, so that the golden glow touched and released her ardent face, painting her in instances of passion transfixed. Again he thrust and again, hard, deep, but it was all gone, all control, all thought, only the knowledge that she was his.

Dimly, he grew aware that she’d released the tent beam and her fingers were dug deeply into his shoulder muscles, that her legs were high and tight around his waist, and that she countered each of his thrusts with one of her own, awkward, exquisite little jerks, writhing against him, driving him mad in her quest for her own release. More than his own climax, he wanted to see her face when she found hers.

He gripped her hips and held her hard against him, rocking into that soft mound, dragging his flesh against the small, silky bead of pleasure buried there. Her head fell back, her hands clenched in fists against his chest, and an anguished sound rose to her lips, her face straining.

With a gasp, she came, suddenly, ravishingly. Her eyes flew open and locked with his, her expression amazed and confounded. His lust was rising to a crescendo, and he let go of it with one powerful thrust, his eyes never leaving hers, letting her see what she did to him, how she took him from himself, how she destroyed him.

With a muted roar, he spilled himself hot and urgent within her.

A part of him, the outlaw part, disreputable and covetous, exulted in what he’d done, while the shadow of the honorable man he’d meant to be recoiled.

Gently, he lifted her, tenderly unhooked her legs from around his waist, carefully set her down. With a sound like a sigh, the robes fell from around her waist to her feet, concealing her. She swayed a little, and he caught her by the elbows. Her gaze searched his face, but he could not interpret that questing expression.

It was too late for apologies, too late to be the sort of man she deserved. “It can be something more than that,” he said. “Something…better. I promise.”

She was gazing at him uncomprehendingly. “Better?”

The pools of golden light shed from the lantern still swayed overhead, revealing then concealing her face.

“I am not a good man, Mildred. I have done things you would despise, but I have never killed a man and I have never taken from a man anything he rightfully owned.” He took a deep breath. “Until you.”

She backed away a few steps. “Pomfrey
owns
me?”

He found a smile for her affronted tone. She would rail at being called any man’s possession. “Not you. But the right to call you his bride.”

The right to call her his bride and build her a house and buy her gowns and jewelry; the right to show her the world and see her eyes glow as she made some new discovery or learned some fascinating bit of minutiae; the privilege to introduce her to statesmen and officers and witness their admiration and her bemusement. All the things he would never be able to do. Because he was no one. A shadow. A living ghost.

He had nothing to bring to a marriage, nothing to offer her in Pomfrey’s stead.
Nothing
.

He’d selfishly, forcefully, and thoroughly compromised her. There’d been no tenderness, no regard for her virginity, no softly murmured encouragement or slow building of anticipation. She’d been terrified for four days, uncertain of her future, and then, when she’d been waiting for her would-be rapist to appear, he’d arrived instead. It was so natural, so understandable. In her sudden liberation from fear, in gratitude and relief, she’d responded instinctively by celebrating life at the most primal level. He’d used her spontaneous reaction as an excuse to take what he’d wanted, what he’d wanted since the moment he’d first seen her.

She would be a fool to accept him, and Mildred Whimpelhall was no fool. But she
was
a lady. And he would be a gentleman. He would offer for her, and she would accept. What choice did she have? What choice had he left her?

He took a deep breath. “Miss Whimpelhall, I cannot undo the last minutes, but I can make them right. If you would do me the honor of marrying me, I promise you that I will do everything within my power to try to make you happy.”

“Undo?
Make them right?
” The surprise in her voice took him aback. He supposed he deserved that.

“Yes,” he said stiffly. “Did you think I was so lost to decency that I wouldn’t ask?”

“I didn’t
think
about it at all,” she said, her eyes flashing. “
I
wasn’t thinking.”

She needn’t remind him of his sins; he knew them all quite well. But again, he supposed he deserved that, too. “You should do so now.”

“Should I?” She sounded uncertain and defensive. She crossed her arms in front of her chest, but rather than making her look imposing, the gesture only succeeded in making her look incredibly young and vulnerable. “
Why
should I marry you?”

“Why?” he repeated numbly.

“Yes. Tell me why you want to marry me.”

Because I am a selfish bastard. Because the thought of you in another man’s arms hurts deeper than a shank in my side. Because even if I never see you again and die sixty years hence, your image will be the last thing to fade from my mind’s eye. Because I want you. I want you.

“I compromised you. I couldn’t…I am not without honor, regardless of how my actions seem to disprove that claim. Please, you must believe that.”

“Oh, I do,” she said in an odd voice. The lantern had ceased its slow pendulum swing now, and her expression was lost in the dusky shadows. “I believe you are a
most
honorable man.”

“Thank you.” If she believed in him, anything was possible. Somehow they would make this work. Somehow he would make her happy.

“And while I am most cognizant of the
honor
you do me,” she said in a flavorless, oh-so-careful voice, “I am afraid I must decline your offer.”

“What?”

“I am not going to marry you,” she said.

Her words made no sense. She wouldn’t marry Pomfrey without telling him what had happened or at least informing him that she was not the virgin he would insist on his bride being. She was simply too honorable. And she could not be so naïve as to believe that if she told Pomfrey the truth he would still marry her.