Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Her hand, where he kissed it, still tingled.
The rest of her flooded with gratitude as they fled the scene where they had been attacked.
Michel had said it was common for such attacks. That the hill tribes didn’t like intruders but would concede to let them pass after a good tussle. She believed that to be true. This attack, however, meant something more.
The tribes had been alerted that she was missing.
Individual tribes and clans roamed the region, carving out different slices of territory as they went.
They still intermingled. She knew how the lands, the clans, and the affiliations worked.
She also knew her father would be looking for her, but her father would use intelligence and his own guards or kin to find her.
He wouldn’t trust another tribe to capture her.
No, it would be the tribe that had kidnapped her that alerted the hill tribes.
They would share her disappearance and perhaps the tale of her husband's murder to rouse the outer tribes to bring her back.
Perhaps they offered a ransom. Perhaps they wanted her dead by the time she was returned, so they had no blame.
The fact that she was the daughter of the Khan afforded her some protection, but the clans were fierce and independent and would have their own feelings about a woman who escaped a marriage.
Her father may be Khan, but there were old laws her people followed.
Such laws did not favor a woman who killed her husband, whether she had wanted the marriage or not.
Eve loved her home. She loved her people. The Issyk Kul was her heart, her life, her garden. But she couldn’t deny the things that forced her to escape.
And now, there was a Frenchman at the center of her world.
They came up to the outer borders of Bukhara, slowing the horses as the road narrowed into the reaches of the city.
Her horse was near his again, and she felt herself wanting his closeness, feeling more reliant on him by the second.
She did not know if he understood when they said to kill the men and seize the woman.
She thought it would be a slaughter, that she would be taken, that it would all be over.
She had seen some fight in Michel among men that were like him, but those attacking were her people, the most ferocious warriors the land had ever known.
Michel fought savagely to protect her. He took two, even three men at a time, and then still had his eye on her. He smashed the face of the one who attacked her before the man had even closed his grip on her. Eve had to call Michel off before he ripped the man to shreds.
She hadn’t expected it.
But, yes, it did impress her. The feeling of having a protector again, after having been alone, stolen, attacked, and sold, caused the quilt of her emotions to unfold and unfurl, with threads of affection reaching for the man who had put himself between her and the danger that threatened to lay her bare.
Now, as they came into Bukhara’s walls, she wanted to show the Frenchman her gratitude.
A few hours later, Eve sat on the floor of the yurt, knees beneath her, ready to prepare Michel for sleep like she had done the night before.
When they had come into town, Eve had insisted that the men go to the bathhouses to clean the fighting from their bodies.
Eve had done so as well, and upon return to their camp, she was refreshed as she prepared a quick dinner for the men and a medicine broth for those with cuts and scrapes.
Now, she waited for Michel, listening to notes of his voice outside the yurt while he discussed the attacks with the town officials.
Many feelings stirred inside her. Gratitude, yes, she could identify and understand that one.
A desire to be near him, yes, that too, though she had already been feeling that.
Relief. Affection. Attraction. These emotions felt very connected to her body, her lips, her lower belly, the insides of her thighs, other places deep inside her.
She could not understand where the emotions ended and the physical sensations began, though they all seemed to be telling her to touch him.
She straightened the towels on the mat beside her.
The feelings throbbed through her along with a new one: fear that Michel would decide she was not worth the effort.
That fear just served to sharpen the other emotions, to make her needier, and to make it all the more important that she express her gratitude to him right now.
She heard his voice outside the tent as the cadence changed, signaling that the town officials were leaving.
She stirred the broth she had made for him one last time and adjusted her shift around her waist. She bit her lip to hold it all back, but his voice had caused her to flush.
She took breaths to calm herself, the flutters in her belly making it hard to be patient to have him near her.
He came in and stood at the entrance, watching her as he pulled off his boots. “I have washed already. You don’t need to do this tonight.”
“A cleansing towel before bed will give you settled sleep,” she said. “And you must drink this broth to help heal your wound.” She indicated to the seat with her head as she took the bowl in her hands. “Come,” she said, holding the bowl up for him to take.
Michel finished removing his trappings and came over to her. “It’s just a scrape,” he said. “It’s not bad.” He sat and took the medicine and leaned back in the low chair while he watched her. He raised the bowl to his lips. Then he grimaced and pulled back. “This smells terrible.”
“Drink it in one gulp,” she replied, kneeling before him, eager for him to finish so she could touch his skin.
He gave her a wary look but complied. “Yuck,” he said. “That’s more painful than the cut.” He set the bowl down and smiled at her. “I do appreciate it, though, how you take care of me,” he said. He let his eyes run over her. Then he cleared his throat and looked away.
“I’m happy it pleases you,” she said, scooting up between his legs.
She leaned up until they were nearly eye to eye, with Michel just a bit taller in this position, pressing herself into his chest. He breathed in through his nose at their closeness.
Part of her wanted to just give herself over, to see what it was that Michel would do to her, to experience the things that she had heard other women whisper.
She had never had these signals from her body, these urges to touch and to please.
The new sensations shook her. She didn’t like not being in control of her body. So she would take control of his.
She took the towel and dipped it in the basin. She ran her fingers through his hair and then washed the warm water over his forehead and his cheeks. His lips parted, and she knew his desire to have her, the smolder in his eyes casting spells in her belly.
“Eve,” he ground out. He gripped her biceps, letting his thumbs run over her naked skin. “It’s difficult to be this close to you without trying to kiss you.”
Her body responded, arching against him. She wanted to let him devour her and to use her in whatever way he wanted. All she did was lean forward and whisper back, “Not yet,” against his lips.
Michel held her a moment longer, then sank back with a growl.
In that moment, she realized that she loved to tease this man.
She unhooked the buttons of his shirt and pushed it back over his shoulders, drawing it off and holding it before her.
She watched him as she brought it to her nose, inhaling his scent deeply, like an incense, an intoxicant.
Taking those traces of him into her body—deep and raw—caused her to close her eyes and do it again.
She could suffocate in his smell, she thought, breathing him into her.
When she opened her eyes again, Michel was gripping the stool, every muscle straining as he tried to hold himself back. Eve bit her lip.
“I didn’t know,” she said, suddenly overcome.
“Know what?”
She met his eyes. “You are a warrior, Michel.”
Still gripping the seat of his chair, he leaned closer. She felt the heat from him. “Did you really think that I’m just a pretty Frenchman with a title and nothing more?”
She nodded, solemn. “Yes,” she said. “Exactly.”
Michel laughed. “And now?” he asked, smiling, shifting his body, closer still, not touching.
“Remove your pants,” she said.
Michel blinked, her words sobering him. Then he stood and obeyed, undoing the belting and snapping out of the hooks.
He dropped them and stepped out, leaving just his undergarments.
She took his pants and folded them, placing them along with his shirt off to the side.
As he sat down, Michel reached for another towel to cover himself. Eve stopped him.
“No,” she said.
“No?” he asked, as Eve took the towel away from him. His want was very evident in the thin fabric of his undergarments. Eve looked up at him, a thrill inside her.
She took the moistened cloth again and ran it up each leg, outside first, then inside.
She ran the rag up his body again and pressed into him as she did.
She felt his throbbing want between them, pressed into her belly.
Michel leaned over her, breathing quickly, as she looked up at him.
The intensity in his eyes was different.
She used her tongue to wet her lips. Then she leaned forward to wet his lips with her own.
Now Michel’s hand was in her hair, while his other arm, strong and demanding, was around her.
He arched over her, into her, crushing her to him as the kiss came furiously.
Eve let him control her. She felt his body desperate, but his kisses were focused, breaking sensations free like firecrackers all over her body.
She threw her arms around his neck and sank into him, wanting to indulge in all the feelings he could give her.