Chapter 1 #2
Michel was pleased with himself. He crossed his arms in satisfaction, glad he had been able to squash the problem, as the street returned to normal activity.
As a Western man traveling into tribal territory to do business, he had to be very careful not to upset the balance or overstep any boundaries.
He knew terrible things happened, but through his traveling and his presence, he always did his best to keep everything legitimate and safe for his kinsman, for anyone traveling these routes, including a woman who seemed very much on her own.
He turned back to the woman to really look at her.
She was Mongol clearly, with the characteristic eyes and high cheekbones, but striking, dark, golden blond hair that made her all the more remarkable.
She was several inches shorter than Michel, though still a tall woman.
Despite the tattered attire—with the streak of blood which he was sure was from Armin’s nose—she stood tall, healthy, supple, strong.
Michel gave her a bit of a grin, expecting some sign of gratitude, but she just stared at him with that same intensity, her brow furrowed, her eyes narrowed. She didn’t look grateful at all.
She looked furious.
“How many times have you come through Merv, Michel?” Veronica balked at him. “And never once have you indulged in my girls. Yet, you pluck this rose right in front of me.” She moved forward and took the woman’s hand, pulling her into the sunlight. “I’m insulted.”
“Veronica,” he scoffed, waving her off. “You know me better than that.” He moved closer to the woman.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice gentle.
He repeated it in Mongolian. He didn’t know if she understood anything he said.
It was unlikely she spoke any French. Many of the traders and merchants in this region did, but the tribal nomads didn’t.
Veronica fixed the woman’s shawl over her shoulders with a motherly tenderness. “My, you are a pretty girl.” Veronica then spoke to Michel. “What do you plan to do with her?”
“Me?” he asked. “I don’t plan to do anything with her.”
Veronica shrugged. “You bought her.”
“I didn’t buy her,” Michel said, annoyed. “I just got her away from that idiot.” He cocked his head and looked at the woman. “She sure looks mad.”
“You just bought her,” Veronica nagged. “Of course, she is mad.”
Getting frustrated, he spoke, “Veronica, come now. I would never…” he trailed off, trying to make sense of what just happened.
“I would never buy a woman.” He folded his arms and assessed the woman in front of him.
He switched to Mongolian since the woman hadn’t responded to French.
“Tuslamj,” he said. “Help? Do you need help?” Though that was obvious.
“What’s your name?” He reached forward to touch her chin.
She narrowed her eyes at him, this new anger clearly on display. Mon Dieu, he thought, feeling pressure in his chest, not sure if it was just her lovely face or the fact that she seemed suddenly angry at him that caused him to perspire.
Veronica smacked his hand away from the woman and said something to her in a Mongolian dialect that Michel did not know. The woman spoke and shook her head. She had a low, sultry voice. Smooth. She stared at Michel, her eyes never leaving him.
“What did you say?” Michel asked.
“I asked her if she wanted to work here. For me.”
Michel turned to Veronica, a sudden pit in his gut. “What did she say?”
Veronica gave him a discerning look. “She said she was going with you.”
“With me?” Michel blinked. “She can’t come with me.” He turned back to the woman.
“You bought her.” Veronica stepped back. “She says she’s yours.”
“Tell her I was just trying to help…” he trailed off, still looking into the woman’s eyes, a strange, overwhelming feeling of desire to do her bidding came over him.
Michel suddenly felt the sting of his actions.
What had he done? What would he do with her?
Would word spread that he had purchased a woman at a whorehouse in the middle of Merv?
Michel was traveling the old Silk Road, and the route funneled more than trade.
There were enough eyes and mouths to carry this gossip back to his King and all the way to the great Khan in the East.
Just then, Gerald, one of the men in his party, exited the building and came over to them.
“Ey, Michel,” Gerald called, still tucking his shirt into his pants.
“Who’d you find out here?” he said, eyeing the woman next to him.
“She escape?” He tipped his head back to the entrance of the whorehouse and grinned.
“Back up, Gerald,” Michel barked as he put his body in front of the woman, an instinct to shield her from this gawking man, who still reeked of sex and perfume. Michel turned again to Veronica. “Will you help her get home?”
“Where? Here?” Veronica said. “She doesn’t live here. I would have seen her before.”
Michel blinked, realizing he may have created quite a problem for himself. He was having a hard time pulling his eyes away from her, her gaze intense, speaking furious words that her mouth did not vocalize.
“Veronica?” Michel asked sweetly, hoping to charm her.
“No,” the patroness said. “Not with me. Not if she doesn’t work. I run a business, not a school for ladies.”
Michel turned his head the other way and saw Gerald lift his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t mind having a woman with us,” Gerald said, grinning widely like he did.
Michel scowled at him. He looked at the woman who had clenched her jaw and ran his hand up the back of his neck.
The urge to reach out to her, put his arm around her, or do something comforting was overwhelming, but he thought he might end up with a bloody nose like Armin if he tried.
“Will you tell me where you’re from?” he asked instead, softly, hoping to get something out of her.
When she refused to answer, even with Veronica’s translating, he sighed, feeling his heart palpitate at his own resignation. “I guess you’re coming with me.”
That morning had started with Michel declining to go into a whorehouse. Somehow, he had ended up with a woman in his lap anyway.