4
Three days. Three days Nightshade had to endure pretending to be weak and hurt and helpless until she was ready to yank out her hair and scream with frustration. She was skating a thinning line of tolerance, nearly unable to keep up the pretense of pain in the wives’ presence. Weakness was a flaw. A failure. It was something she abhorred and now she’d immersed herself in the act of frailty.
And as if that weren’t enough, Merc had failed to show. So much for him being the deadliest, most skilled soldier on Earth. Good thing she wasn't Sleeping Beauty because by now the dragon would have eaten her whole. She was going to escape tonight, with or without the man.
But her dragon wasn't a monster – not in the fairytale sense – it was Sheik Amir.
Nightshade kicked an empty bowl across the floor, savoring the loud thud as it slammed into a leather trunk. She’d spent her meager free time going through the trunk of weapons, stashing a few here and there in strategic locations. She'd even managed to get a decent change of clothes, not that she had been allowed to leave the tent to scope out the tribe.
Sarah rushed in with a bundle of clothes in her arms, Mary right on her heels, the tent flap snapping shut behind her, moving faster than Nightshade had seen her move in her entire stay. Rose came in right behind her, clutching a folded privacy screen, which she quickly set up in the corner.
Sarah tossed her bundle on the mattress and then shooed Nightshade behind the hastily erected screen. Curious, she obliged.
“Bring it in. Quickly.” Mary clapped her hands and two men dressed in typical Middle Eastern garb labored inside, each clutching the handle of a heavy copper tub.
They dropped it in the middle of the room and left. Next, a row of men entered, carrying buckets of steaming hot water and pouring them into the tub. The procession took nearly ten minutes, after which Nightshade was left alone with the wives once more.
Sarah gestured for her to come out from behind the screen as Rose uncorked a dark green bottle and poured a sweet-smelling liquid into the water. Mary made a grab for the ties on her gown, but Nightshade easily ripped out of the older woman's grasp.
“Don't be silly, girl. He's tired of waiting for you. We must bathe and prepare you.”
Nightshade stared the older woman down. Mary gestured to the bathtub, but Nightshade slowly shook her head and pointed to the door. “Privacy.”
Mary kept gesturing like she hadn't spoken, not that she could understand Nightshade anyway. Nightshade gestured for the women to leave, and after another silent war, Mary threw up her hands with a disgusted sigh and stormed out of the tent. All it took was a glare, and the other two wives scuttled out behind her.
The steaming bathwater called out her name. The tepid bowl baths she’d had during her stay were just enough to knock the smell off, but left her feeling dirty. Nightshade quickly shucked her nightdress and eased into the tub. The hot water stung her back at first, but she quickly adjusted, reveling in the sweet scent of flowers.
Although she wanted nothing more than to stay there until the water turned cold, she didn’t want to be caught vulnerable. She forced herself to soap and wash her hair and body and get out, quickly drying off and wrapping the large bath towel around her.
Mary must have been listening just outside the tent because she rushed in a second later, Sarah and Rose right behind her, each carrying satchels.
“Definitely smells better.” Mary sniffed the air.
Rose dropped her satchel on the ground. “Yes, the Sheik will definitely be pleased.”
“She's so pale,” Sarah said.
“Like a ghost. Men, Allah forbid I ever understand them,” Mary said.
“But if it means we're not in his bed anymore, I'll make her the most beautiful ghost on the planet.” Rose reached into her bag and pulled out cases of cosmetics.
Nightshade scowled at the girls. Number one, she didn't wear makeup. Number two, they were talking about her like she was a slab of meat as opposed to a human being. Well, they had another thing coming. She’d be gone by nightfall, even if she had to slit the Sheik's throat and rescue Merc herself.
She yanked the garment from the bed and held it up for inspection, surprised at the silky texture of the sapphire blue material. The first piece she tilted right, then left, looking for the missing material.
Mary took the garment, held it over her generous bosom, and Nightshade realized it was a top of some sort. A top that would only cover her boobs.
The pants she lifted next, holding them high to peer through the matching transparent material. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What did she say?”
Nightshade tossed the pants on the floor, toeing them across the room. Rose gasped and dove for them as if they were precious jewels. “Those are silk!”
“I can’t believe she doesn’t like them,” Sarah said.
Mary snatched the pants from Rose. “She might not like them, but if she doesn’t put them on, I’ll call in Muhammad to hold her down while I dress her myself.”
Merc shook his head, trying to clear it of the thick fog of pain and disorientation. The days melded together in one long never-ending train of torture. He’d lost his ability to distinguish what was real and what was a figment of his imagination.
