He tilted his head and looked at her. “You keep the bed. I will continue to sleep on the floor.” Then he lowered his voice, softened it. “Last night, you made it clear I needed to keep my distance.” He felt suddenly humbled, remembering the lesson she taught him when she bit his finger. “I’ll respect that.” He paused, looking for the words. “But you also showed me that you’re not helpless. You wouldn’t be here if you had a better option.” He studied her face. “I think you may need me more than you want to admit.”
She took a breath and looked away, past him, across the open desert. She brought her hands together before her. “I understand,” she replied, her voice soft, steady. Michel noticed that she twisted her fingers together.
Before he could wonder again about her past—there was so much more than she was telling him that he saw in little flashes on her face—she turned on her heels, her inscrutable countenance back.
“Come,” she said. “I would like to buy some fresh vegetables for your dinner tonight.” Without looking to see if he would follow, she started on the path toward the market.
Michel tucked away the horse’s reins and jogged across the camp to follow her.
As a girl growing up on the banks of the Issyk-Kul lake, Eve was joyous. She loved riding horses across the plains as the wind attacked her. She loved praising the warriors of her tribe with the songs and dances of her people. She loved the history of her ancestors and everything she could learn about the world. She was a proud addition to her culture. Having been the first girl in her lineage for many, many generations, she was exalted as a princess. Even her father, who was so shrewd in his dealings and never afraid of war, conceded to her a special love and protection. Wherever she went, she was treated as a flower, given to the people by the ancestors themselves.
But her threads were long and winding. She realized at an early age that the plains she loved did not hold the stimulation her mind needed. Eve refused suitors and potential matches over and over because she was too busy learning everything she could. She knew she caused trouble for her father. She just never quite understood how to hone her energy, and a marriage would certainly stop her from figuring it out.
She thought of the irony of her choices, how her refusal to marry had led her to this moment as the Turkmenabat market surged with early morning energy. The long strip of stalls cast tall shadows across the dirt road in the rising sun. Merchants called back and forth. Dogs nipped at their feet as they walked. Farmers laid out their produce, fishermen opened their brimming baskets, spilling river fish onto their carts.
“Hey lady!” shouted a local as they walked by. “Fresh chicken!” he said and a burst of feathers squawked and tumbled out of his hands.
Eve smiled and continued down the path, taking note of the stalls she wished to visit. She had accepted Michel’s offer to be his maid, so now she had a focus for this journey. She needed several items for the camp: cookware, medicinal herbs, cushions, and blankets. If she was to organize this journey, she would do so correctly. Michel followed her obediently as they passed through the market.
“There,” she said, pointing to a stall filled with brightly colored rugs. “Come,” she said to him.
“Do we need a rug?” he complained.
“Yes, Michel,” she said over her shoulder, “or do you wish to subject your guests’ feet to the bare floor of your yurt?”
“I just let them keep their shoes on.”
She stopped in the middle of the road to turn to him, aghast. “Insideyouryurt?” This man truly was an animal.
Michel looked taken aback. He stuttered, his hand going to rub the back of his neck. “I…well…”
“A rug,” she said, turning back around and approaching the stall.
She laughed to herself once she knew he couldn’t see her face. This Frenchman, she thought, would make her insane. The French were known for their sophistication and beauty throughout the world, but he might as well have been a bear in a cave.
Eve had French blood. It’s what gave her her unique coloring. She was as proud of this heritage as much as all the other things that made her up. The Western Mongols had mixed readily with Europeans since their great conquest centuries ago, but Eve’s French blood was much more recent. It was her grandmother on her father’s side, Cecile, who brought France to Eve’s family.
Eve had grown up loving Grandmother’s stories of her home and her adventure coming to the Issyk Kul, of how Grandmother fell in love with Grandfather in such a faraway and exotic place. It was through these stories that France became a world beyond, the most exciting place Eve could ever imagine—filled with kings’ courts and balls, politics and universities, the greatest scientists, philosophers, and thinkers of the time.
Eve had always dreamed, in a wistful sort of way, of life in a place like France, with so many more options for her tapestry of life. She never expected the need to escape there, however.
Now here she was with a traveling Frenchman who lived in a yurt with no rug.Absurd, she thought as she selected an acceptable size and pattern from the choices at the stall. She didn’t know if Michel could protect her. She didn’t know if he would keep her safe. All she knew was that being on this path with him was better than the fate that would have remained if she had stayed with the tribe that had kidnapped her. The tribe she had run from.
After making the purchase, she walked over to a nearby vegetable stand, with Michel close by her side, balancing the rug in his arms. After their conversation that morning and seeing how he tried to oblige her, a little flame of affection for him caused her to choose the very best vegetables that night for his stew. She truly didn’t know how far the warriors of the tribe who stole her would come, or how violent they would be if they found her. The thing that worried her most, however, the thing that kept her chest tight, was the growing attraction she felt to the stupid Frenchman who had become her keeper.
ChapterSeven
Michel’s crew remained in Turkmenabat for a week. In that time, he worked with François to complete their business, gathered the men with whom he would travel on the next stretch of road, and built a tentative truce with Eve, now that she agreed to be his hired hand. Helovedhaving Eve around. She furnished the yurt with cushions and blankets to make it comfortable. She made delicious food that filled him with warmth. She packed and organized so efficiently that it could take days off his travel time. Despite the fact that she stayed reserved and didn’t talk much more about herself, she gave him a peace of mind he didn’t usually have on these adventures.
They’d left Turkmenabat early that morning. It would be a trek through open terrain and across several villages to get to Bukhara, an imperial city deep in the Zarefshan River Valley. They were a heavy procession of carts for the collapsed yurts, wagons for the supplies they would need between towns, livestock, horses, and the crew itself, which was made up of porters hired to help move the goods and tradesmen who wanted the added security. These men were used to travel, but many waited for Michel’s protection to go to the furthest cities. Though the roads could be dangerous, Michel traveled with the sanction of France, which offered a certain assurance. It was a great responsibility, but Michel enjoyed the journey and prided himself on having the tactical precision to balance the travel and the trade and keep the routes safe. Every decision, every step, every transaction, Michel made with his home and its prosperity in mind.
However, despite all the planning and preparation, Michel could feel something off with the men. That night, as they settled the camp, he scanned the grassy area. Eve sat by the fire, working to mend a tear in Michel’s pants. The men were scattered around, sitting on their bedrolls, some still eating their dinner, some engaged in a game of cards. Gerald was heckling the new recruits. Michel had worked with some of these men before. The rest were all vetted through François. There was tension brewing with this group, and Michel hadn’t figured it out yet. All through their travel that day, Michel kept a close watch over them, trying to pick off trouble before it began.
He took another pass over the men. When he was unable to spot anything out of place, he went to sit with Eve at the fire.
Eve didn’t look up as he came near, but she spoke. “You put a lot of tears in your pants,” she complained.
“I appreciate your help.” He smiled, even though she wasn’t looking at him. He shuffled through his rucksack to pull out his writing utensil and the bound book he carried with him. He was distracted by the tension in the air, but he needed to notate his progress. He set the book out in front of him and went back to his bag, looking for his pen knife.
