“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 neverbuya 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.
ChapterTwo
Every two years, Michel took a journey through Eastern Europe into Western Asia. He kept to a meticulously planned route that took him across the Mediterranean, into Damascus, Bukhara, Samarkand, up to Kashgar, and then to the edges of the mountainous steppes north of Tibet. He had contacts in each of the major cities and friendly acquaintances in the little towns scattered between the cities. Some, like Veronica, were French expats who had built their livelihoods on the trade Michel funneled to them. Others were trusted locals, eager for business.
These contacts would arrange meetings with town merchants and officials, organize travel parties from one city to the next, prepare lodging, horses, wagons, and supplies, and communicate between each other on Michel’s behalf. In the sixteen years he had been taking this journey–with his father at first but leading it on his own for some time now–Michel and his father had established a solid network of trade and a safe route for merchants.
This was, however, the first time Michel had ever done the route with a woman.
They had been traveling East of Merv for three days since he had brought her into his company. His current crew of twenty-five men was coming out of the high desert and into a flood channel of the Amu Darya River. The mountain runoff for spring was just starting, which cut the red sand and created pools of water to feed the blue-green desert bushes around them.
Michel glanced over at the perplexing woman, hoping to catch some expression on her face other than the irritation that had developed just before she joined his party. She had not said a word, nor had she as much as acknowledged him or anyone else, since he put her on a horse in Merv. He’d tried to talk with her, but there was no reason for her to know French, and she didn’t respond to any of his Mongolian either. Veronica told him the dialect she’d spoken was from much further East—a dialect Michel did not know. Still, because his eyes rarely left her, he’d noticed her perk up during certain conversations. Directions, names of cities, where they were going, and where they would stay. She understoodsomething, he’d determined. But otherwise, the woman seemed incapable or uninterested in even basic communication. She hardly ate. Never made a sound. When they camped each night, Michel put her in the small tent he used when traveling between cities, and he slept just outside, frustrated at his inability to communicate. He couldn’t help her if he didn’t know where she needed to go. And, more critically, these roads could be dangerous. He couldn’t ignore his duties to keep her safe.
“Up ahead,” Michel called to the crew. He indicated a thicket of low oleasters and tangled licorice roots where the men could take a rest and give the horses a chance to forage.
The high heat of the desert was a few months off, but it was still warm, and Michel looked forward to the cool water. Once they reached the little oasis, the woman hopped from her horse, as competent a mount as any of them, if not more so. It was no surprise given her heritage. Then she disappeared into the brush that obscured the bank. He laughed to himself. For someone who claimed Michel owned her, she certainly never waited for permission. He felt a pulse in his chest as he watched after her. He took a quick scan of the men to be sure everyone was accounted for before following her to the water.
