Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Michel tore after her, through the entrance of his yurt at the edge of town. He had completed arrangements with Francois and spent the next moments pursuing this unpredictable woman as she stormed back through the town to their lodging.
“Please stop for a minute,” he said as she whizzed back and forth. He held back a grin. He couldn’t help it. He knew she was upset, but the way she was taking charge had both alarmed and amused him.
She came around the iron stove at the center of the yurt to straighten the stools at the table, then set to work, noisily arranging a kettle of water on the fire.
“I am your servant,” she snapped. “I only answer to orders.” Then she pointed to the stool at the table behind the stove. “Sit!” she demanded.
Michel, too perplexed to argue about exactly who was giving the orders, went to sit. Just as he did, she launched a cushion right under his ass. He threw his hands up, exasperated.
She had absolutely stunned him when she began screaming at him earlier. He had truly believed she didn’t understand his language outside of a few words. But she had left him gaping like an idiot, while Francois had just laughed and laughed.
Now, in the yurt, Michel watched as she dedicated herself to this role of servant, rushing around, straightening and organizing his things.
She arranged their shoes just outside the door, dragged a stool from the front of the yurt to the back, balled up his sleeping roll, and tossed it to the other side.
He put his elbow on the table and stretched out to lean his head on his hand.
“Slow down,” he teased. He knew how bad he must look to her.
Especially considering some of the things he had said to her when he didn’t think she understood.
“Listen. Listen,” he called as she zipped around.
He wanted a conversation, but she wouldn’t stop, so he just talked.
“You’re right, I gave Armin money to avoid a commotion,” he said, sitting up straight again.
“I just acted on impulse.” He tracked her as she moved.
“You had just fallen on top of me. I thought I was helping you.” He paused, speaking solemnly.
“I can see how some things I said could be insulting.” She slowed just long enough to give him an annoyed look.
“Ha, ‘could be insulting,’” she scoffed. She leaned down to pick up the bed at the corner. She jerked it away from the wall, and it groaned across the floor.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“The bed is on the wrong side.”
“Sit down,” he said, going to the structure. “I’ll move it.” He lifted the frame and paused. “Where do you want it?”
“East wall,” she directed, her arm pointing to where his sleeping roll had been.
“Why did you hide the fact that you speak French?” he grunted as he dragged the heavy bed frame to the other side. He halted in sudden realization. “Do you speak standard Mongolian, too?”
“Of course I speak Mongolian.” She gave him a look of pure disbelief. “I am Mongolian.”
“Then why,” he grunted again, getting the bed where she wanted it, “did you pretend you didn’t understand me?” He placed the bed and scooted it against the wall with his knee. Then he watched her as she came over to straighten the blanket.
She stopped to look at him from the other side of the bed. “I’ll tell you.” She folded her arms in challenge. “But first, agree to take me to France.”
“To France?” he balked. For a second, Michel thought of his mother’s reaction if he returned to Chevalerie palace with a tribal girl in tow.
Or Cardinal Mazarin’s response if he thought Michel was treating this journey like a holiday.
No, he couldn’t bring her back to France.
He was to be the future Duke. No one could know that he had engaged in such a transaction or compromised a tribal woman, even if it had been with good intentions.
Michel looked at the woman and shook his head, unable to agree.
“I will take you to your people,” he said. “I will keep you safe until then.”
“No,” she said.
“No?” he asked, his eyes coming up in surprise.
“I will be your servant.” It was a declaration.
Michel shook his head slowly. “I don’t need a servant.”
“Well, you have one now.” She took up the blanket and shook it out with a snap. “Plus, you do need a servant. You live like an animal.”
“I do not—” he began, but she cut him off.
“You don’t even know how to set up a yurt. You anger my ancestors.”
“It’s fine…” he trailed off, looking around at the scattering of furniture and the supplies she had pulled out to reorganize.
“France,” she said. “I will go with you to France.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “As your servant.”
“For someone who hasn’t spoken for four days,” he said, coming around the bed, toward her, “you sure have a lot of demands.”
“I didn’t tell you I spoke French because I wanted to avoid this argument.” She waved her hand back and forth between them.
“You thought if you didn’t speak, and I couldn’t figure out what to do with you,” he looked at her, in his own disbelief, “that I’d just take you all the way to France?”
She stopped then. She turned to face him, and her voice went soft.
Her hands came together in front of her, in a gesture of self-preservation.
“I need to get to France,” she stated, a glint of fear shimmering through her eyes.
“It was the best plan I could come up with.” Then she glared at him once more, her resentment returning. “I, too, was acting on impulse.”
He leaned back against the table, trying to assess everything despite her sudden softness and distress, which stirred a deep protective instinct inside him.
He folded his arms. He still had too many questions—where she had come from, why she wanted to go to France, why she was still so mad at him—but he didn’t want to give her a reason to stop talking again by asking the wrong thing.
He tried a different approach. “I insulted you. I see that. I’m sorry. I truly didn’t mean the things I said to Armin.” He tilted his head, still watching her. “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself? So I can stop making wrong assumptions,” he said, coaxing. “We can start there.”
“No,” she said, her eyes promising new challenges.
She went to move away, but he took her elbow to hold her in place, her dismissive attitude sparking his own irritation. “We’re still going to have a problem communicating if you are going to be this disagreeable all the time.”
She pulled her arm away and turned to face him, close, eyes lit with furious heat. “What would you like to know, Master?”
“How about your name, Siren?” His patience did wane.
She bit into her bottom lip hard enough that he could see the indentation from her teeth when she released it. Then she took a breath and spoke. “Eve,” she whispered.
“Eve,” he repeated. He liked the way her name felt in his mouth.
He couldn’t help the feeling of triumph that she capitulated, even as he noted the control she exhibited.
She had to know that she had no power over him, to insist as she had.
He looked down at her. The fact that this woman had fallen under his care struck him again.
Suddenly, it felt like a much larger responsibility than he had anticipated.
“Why don’t you want to go home?” he asked, his voice soft, leading.
“That,” she said, turning away once more, the acquiescence gone, “is none of your concern.”
Michel trailed her with slow steps. “If you want me to take you all the way to France, it sure as hell is my concern.”
She didn’t answer, but she turned to him again. He saw it, that same control come over her, like she fought an urge to be reckless, to smack him or tell him to bite his own tail. He could see her thinking, figuring. He realized then that she was a very smart woman and not just a beautiful one.
He liked her.
Then something changed in her, suddenly, like a storm.
Michel felt it instantly, her edges turning to curves.
Truly, she had a siren’s call, and his body responded to it before he could control himself.
The pressure in his chest, the tightening in his gut, a twist of lust going right down into his groin.
Her body was looser now. He was aware of her shape, her scent—black currant, an orchard of citrus—in a way that invited too many problems.
She stood in front of him, looking up, her dark golden hair rippling in streams down her body. She pawed her hands across his chest, each touch sending a little jolt. He watched her, aware his breath had quickened.
“Why did you buy me?” she said, still watching, words soft. She invaded his space, took it over.
“I didn’t really buy you,” he said, swallowing.
She bit her lip, lightly this time, enticing. “You knew what you were doing,” she sighed. “You say you just wanted to help, but you knew what exchanging money with that man would do. That it would bind me to you. You had to know.”
“I wanted your safety. I didn’t want to have to kill a man in the street to get it,” Michel said, his own voice softer.
She paused, pressing closer, letting her body lean into his. “Did you want me, Michel?”
He felt that dangerous muddling again, looking at her, hearing her say his name. She was undeniably beautiful. “I wanted to help you.”
“That’s not why you bought me,” she purred.
She was right, he knew. Though he wanted to argue and claim his intentions had been pure, she had addled his brain upon first sight.
Right now, feeling her soft heat against him, all he could think about was what it would feel like to throw her down and enjoy her on the bed beside them.
He wouldn’t. It would be hell to stop himself from thinking it, though.
He took the opportunity to touch her, even as he warned himself against it, and he trailed a finger down her arm, still watching her. She had a draw, a pull he couldn’t resist.