“Michel,” she began, her chin jutting out.
“Yes?” he urged. It always amused him when she talked to him like a teacher talking to a student.
“I feel you should know something about me.”
Michel turned to face her now. “I’ve been waiting to know anything about you.”
She tucked her chin in and looked down at her hands. “I have never been with a man. Like last night.”
For a second, he felt a swell of pride inside him, thinking she meant her enjoyment. With that, however, came another stab of guilt at taking from her, for his own pleasure. Eve kept going before he could dwell.
“What I mean to say is…” She paused. “I never consummated the marriage with the man who was my husband.” She looked down. “We were only married for a few hours. He died…just before…”
Michel watched her for a long moment. He reached forward to peel one of the hands from the cup she was holding and take it in his. “You were just defending yourself,” he said gently, making the connection. “You should never have been forced.”
“It is not unheard of what happened to me,” she said. “Being stolen. Itisunheard of what happened to him. I’ll be in a lot of trouble if anyone from his tribe finds me.”
She sighed then. When she didn’t continue, Michel spoke.
“I don’t condemn you,” Michel continued, leaning forward. “If that’s what you think.”
He thought he saw relief in her expression. “I just want you to know,” she continued, “that I’m not a widow. In the usual sense.”
“Ah,” Michel said. “I see.” He gave her hand a playful squeeze. “You are telling me to keep my hands to myself.”
“No,” she said. He saw her smiling now, even though she still looked away from him. “I like your hands.” Her voice came softly. “And other things.” She bit her bottom lip. “One good thing that came from being kidnapped is that now I can decide when the time is right. I have that control over my body.”
“I, uh,” Michel said, giving her a nudge. “I hope to be notified when you make that decision.”
She laughed. Then she looked up to him, her eyes sparkling. “You should know, I never felt that kind of desire, none of it, until I met you.”
What a wonder to have come across this person, Michel thought. He felt pride come back at her words, that he had given her desire, given heranything. But more so, he felt fortunate that he had been the one to find her. He could have lived his whole life and never known her. He would kiss her right now. He didn’t care. But just as he started to move, she continued speaking.
“I’m going to tell you my story now, Michel, if you would hear it. Then you can decide if I am worth the trouble or not.”
“That decision had been made already. But please,” he coaxed, “share this story with me.”
She looked around. “Can we have the yurt? For privacy?”
Michel grinned. “I will take pleasure in tossing Terence out. Let Iman watch over him for a while.”
She rose, and he followed. His problems were not solved, his work was not finished, but he felt hope filling his chest that soon he would be able to focus all of his attention on Eve. Because he knew, no matter what she told him, she was the only woman he would ever want again.
ChapterTwenty-Four
Borjigin paced his chambers. The search for his daughter floundered. His men had turned up no information other than a jade necklace she had sold in Carth, the deel she had discarded in an alley, and hundreds of roads she could have taken. Borjigin suspected she had gone toward France. How far could she have gotten on her own without being sighted? He had a constant stream of messengers going to and from his scouts, but it was difficult and slow to communicate at such a distance.
He had to decide how to act: how to find his daughter, how to deal with Timicin. He needed counsel. His wife provided comfort. His father had provided guidance. But in times of deepest contemplation, it was his ninety-year-old mother, Celine, who provided Borjigin with a different perspective. Especially when it came to Eve.
He walked through the halls of the large manor—crafted by his father in the style of the French palaces—and took the steps to her chamber. Celine and her culture had been very influential on his father, his family, and the clan. The great man had done everything to make Celine feel at home. He built not only the manor but the city where many clans settled when they weren’t with the herds. He insisted his sons and their sons spoke French, so she could always have conversations in her native language. Borjigin’s father was also the first in their line to marry only one woman. Borjigin, too, married only one woman. These were blessed unions. Borjigin couldn’t imagine another way.
Celine had flourished, and, likewise, she had embraced the culture. Though she’d been born French and had the look of a westerner, for all intents and purposes, she was a Mongolian woman.
Borjigin knocked on her heavy wooden door, and when she called him in, he entered his mother’s chambers. The furnishings of the room were of their eastern heritage—orange-colored trunks and drawers, an intricate box daybed with brightly patterned blankets—though the finely carved wooden structure of the building itself was in the Western style. Mother sat on a cushioned seat by the fire, mending the waistband on one of her deels. Her white hair was braided down her back. Only light wrinkles showed in her face. Her mind continued to be as sharp as ever.
“Mother,” Borjigin spoke, “you do not have to do the mending.” He came to sit on the traditional rug on the floor before her. The room was lit by the fire, the last light of day coming through the windows. “One of the boys’ wives can do it.”
“No, no,” she said. “It keeps my fingers nimble. It’s good for me.” She smiled, stitching along the pattern. “Now tell me, what do you come here to discuss?”
