“Michel!” Eve’s sharp voice cut through his haze.
In a wave of realization, Michel released the man. He scrambled out from under Michel just as their leader called for retreat. A last moment of chaos fizzled in clanks of blades and shouts of men as both sides took their final hits. Then the tribesmen were back up on their horses, riding away just as quickly as they had descended.
Michel watched them disappear back over the hill. He breathed heavily, still feeling the energy coursing in him, causing his hands to shake. The savagery he’d felt startled him. But Eve was his ward now. It was his job to keep her safe. That was his only explanation.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, then touched the cut on his arm. It bled, but the wound was superficial. He stretched uncomfortably and winced.
“Are you okay?” he said, turning to Eve. “Were you hurt?”
“I’m okay,” she said. She appeared shaken, but otherwise intact. “You’re bleeding, Michel. Let me help you.” She made to dismount her horse.
“No, not now,” he said. “Let’s get back to Bukhara.” He took a moment to settle his horse, to check in with the rest of the men, and secure their position once more. Then, before remounting his horse, he put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He watched over the mountain, naked once more.
It was in that moment that Michel realized he might not be able to do the business he had come for and be able to protect Eve at the same time. He hoped he didn’t have to make a difficult decision.
He turned to her. Her expression caused him to lose his breath and stand up straight. Her eyes were wide, and her lips were parted. He had the feeling that if he went to her now and took her in his arms, she wouldn’t smack him or bite him this time.
He walked to her, took her hand, and kissed it. He could do no more in the moment, but with her fingers in his, and their eyes connected, he knew that if he were forced to make a decision…it wouldn’t be a difficult decision to make.
ChapterFourteen
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.Thisattack, 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 tokill 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 wereherpeople, 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.”
