The Golden Barbarian

  “Quite rightly.”

  “Why? When members of the Tamrovian court travel, the women aren’t stuck away in a hot, stuffy tent.”

  “You found the tent displeasing?”

  “No.” She looked around the tent. A thick, beautifully patterned carpet stretched over the ground, and everywhere her gaze wandered were colorful silk cushions, intricately worked brass lanterns, bejeweled silver candlesticks. “I’ve seen rooms at the palace that weren’t as luxuriously furnished as this.” She went back to the primary subject. “But I don’t like being imprisoned here.”

  “I’ll consider ways to make it more palatable.”

  “But I don’t want to stay here. Can’t I join you in the evening around the campfire? If the court does not—”

  “The men of your court haven’t been without a woman for four weeks,” he interrupted bluntly. “And your Tamrovian courtiers are tame as day-old pups compared to my tribesmen.”

  Her eyes widened. “They would insult me?”

  “No. You belong to me. They would offer no insult. But they would look at you and grow hard and know pain.”

  Her skin burned. “Your words are crude.”

  “The fact is crude, and you must understand it. I will not make my men suffer needlessly.”

  “You would rather have me suffer.” She scowled. “I would think you’d try to teach your men to control their responses. After all, I’m not that comely.”

  He smiled faintly. “I thought we’d settled the matter of your comeliness last night.”

  She had not thought her cheeks could get any hotter, but she found she was wrong. “Not everyone would find me to their taste. I think you must be a little peculiar.”

  He chuckled, and his face looked as boyish as it had when he’d laughed and joked with his men. “I assure you that my tastes are not at all unusual. You have a quality I’ve seen in few women.”

  She gazed at him warily. “What?”

  “Life.” His eyes held her own, and his expression suddenly sobered. “I’ve never met a woman so alive as you, kilen.”

  Her stomach fluttered as she looked at him. She tore her gaze away from his face to stare down at the patterns in the carpet. “Your women are without spirit?”

  “They have spirit,” he said softly. “But they don’t light up a tent by merely walking into it.”

  The flutter came again, and with it a strange breathlessness. “Pretty words. But what you’re about to say is that I must stay in the tent.”

  “What I’m saying is that I prefer to save your light for myself.”

  Joy soared through her with bewildering intensity. She mustn’t let him sway her feelings like this, she thought desperately. Sacha had said Galen gave whatever was demanded of him. Perhaps he thought this flattery was what she wanted of him. “As I said, pretty words.” She changed the subject as she forced herself to lift her eyes to gaze directly at him. “You look different in your robe.”

  “More the barbarian?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she said quickly.

  “But you thought it.” He smiled bitterly. “I’ve embraced many of your civilized Western ways, but I refuse to give up everything. The material of our robes is thin, comfortable, and the white reflects the sun.” He strolled to the small trunk in the corner. “Which reminds me, you look most uncomfortably hot in your velvet riding habit. I think we must do something about it.” He rummaged until he found another robe like the one he was wearing. “Here, put this on.” He turned and tossed the garment to her. “You’ll find it far more satisfactory.”

  “My habit is comfortable.”

  “And unattractive enough to satisfy me when you’re out of the tent in the presence of my men.” He met her gaze. “But not when we’re alone. Put on the robe.”

  She was to dress herself to please him. She knew wives did such things, but the idea was somehow … intimate. The air between them changed, thickened. She was suddenly acutely conscious of the soft texture of the cotton robe in her hands, the sound of Said’s flute weaving through the darkness, the intensity of Galen’s expression as he gazed at her. She swallowed. “Very well.” She began to undo the fastening at the throat of her brown habit.

  He watched her for a minute before he turned and strode toward the entrance of the tent.

  “You’re leaving?” she asked, startled. “I thought—” She broke off, her tongue moistening her lower lip.

  “You thought I would want to look at you again.” He smiled. “I do. But it was easier last night at the inn, with all the trappings of civilization about me. Here, I’m freer and must take care.” He lifted the flap of the tent, and the next moment she saw him standing outside, silhouetted by the moonlight against the vast dark sky.

  He wasn’t going to leave her. The rush of relief surging through her filled her with confusion and fear. Surely, the only reason she didn’t want him to leave was because she had felt so alone in such a strange land, she assured herself. She couldn’t really care if he went back to the tribesmen by the fire.

  “Dépêches-toi,” he said softly, not looking at her.

  Her hands flew, undoing the fastenings of the habit, and a few minutes later she was slipping naked into the softness of the robe.

  It was far too large for her, the hem dragging the floor, the sleeves hanging ridiculously long. On her small frame the robe looked ludicrous and not at all seductive. She strode over to the trunk and rummaged until she found a black silk sash, wound the length three times around her waist, and tied it in a knot in front before rolling up the sleeves to her elbows. The garment was so voluminous she should have felt uncomfortable, but the cotton was light as air compared to her habit. She ruffled her hair before stalking belligerently toward the opening of the tent. “I look foolish. You must promise not to laugh at me.”

  “Must I?” He continued to look at the campfire across the pond. “But laughter is so rare in this world.”

  “Well, I have no desire to provide you with more.” She stopped beside him and scowled up at him. “I’m sure I don’t look in the least what you intended. But it’s all your fault. I told you that I wasn’t comely.”

  “So you did.” His gaze shifted to her face and then down her draped body. His lips twitched. “You do look a trifle … overwhelmed.” He sobered. “But you’re wrong, it’s exactly what I intended.”

  “Truly?” She frowned doubtfully. How could she be expected to gain understanding of the man when he changed from moment to moment? Last night he had wanted her without clothing, and now it appeared he desired her to be covered from chin to toes. She shrugged. “But you’re right, this is much more comfortable than my habit.”

  “I’m glad you approve.” His mouth turned up at the corners. “I should have hated to be proved wrong.”

  “You would never admit it. Men never do. My father—”

  He frowned. “I find I’m weary of being compared to your father.”

  She could certainly understand his distaste. “I’m sorry,” she said earnestly. “I know few men, so perhaps I’m being unfair. I can see how you would object to being tossed in the same stable as my father, for he’s not at all pleasant.”

  He started to smile, and then his lips thinned. “No, not at all pleasant.” He reached out and touched her hair with a gentle hand. “But you don’t have to worry about him any longer, kilen.”

  “I don’t worry about him.” She shrugged. “It would be a waste of time to worry about things I can’t change. It’s much more sensible to accept the bad and enjoy the good in life.”

  “Much more sensible.” His fingers moved from her hair to brush the shadows beneath her eyes. “I drove us at a cruel pace from Dinar. Was the day hard for you?”

  Her flesh seemed to tingle beneath his touch, filling her with the same excitement and panic she had known the night before. She had to force herself not to step away from him. “No, I would not admit to being so puny. I did not sleep well last night.” She had not meant to blurt t
hat out, she thought vexedly. “I mean—”

  “I know what you mean. I did not sleep well either.” Galen turned her around and shoved her gently toward the tent. “Which is why I pushed the pace today. I wanted to be weary enough to sleep tonight. Good night, kilen.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Presently. Go to bed.”

  She wanted to argue, but there was something about the tension of the back he turned toward her that gave her pause. Still, for some reason she hesitated, reluctant to leave him. “What time do we leave tomorrow?”

  “At dawn.”

  “And how long will it take to get to Zalandan?”

  “Another five days.”

  “Will we—”

  “Go to bed, Tess!”

  The suppressed violence in his voice made her jump and start hurriedly toward the entrance of the tent. “Oh, very well.” She entered the tent and then slowed her pace to a deliberate stroll as she moved toward the curtained sleeping area. After all, there was nothing to run away from when Galen was not even in pursuit.

  She drew back the thin curtain and the next moment sank onto the cushions heaped on the low, wide divan. There was much to say for barbarism, she thought as she burrowed into the silken pillows. This divan was much more comfortable than the bed at the inn.…

  Tess’s curly hair was garnet-dark flame against the beige satin of the pillow under her head. His robe had worked open revealing her delicate shoulder, the skin of which was soft as velvet and even more luminescent than the satin of the pillow below it.

  As Galen watched, she stirred, half turned, and a beautifully formed limb emerged from the cotton folds of the robe. Not a voluptuous thigh but a strong, well-muscled one.

  Exquisite. He felt a painful thickening in his groin as he stood looking at her. He had deliberately provided her with the oversized garment to avoid seeing her naked as he had last night, but somehow this half nudity was even more arousing.

  It was because he was back in Sedikhan, he told himself. It couldn’t be this half-woman, half-child who was causing his physical turmoil. He always felt a seething unrest and wildness when he was on home ground. The memories of his past debaucheries were too vivid to be ignored when he was back in the desert. But the wildness had never been this strong, the urge to take a woman so violent.…

  But he could control it. He had to control it.

  Why? She was only a woman, like any other.

  No, not like any other. She had a man’s sense of honor. She had made a bargain and would keep it. He could have her simply by reaching out a hand. He could put his palm on those soft, springy curls surrounding her womanhood and stroke her as he did Selik. He could pluck at that delicious secret nub until she screamed for satisfaction. He could pull her to her knees and make—

  Make. The word cooled his fever for her. Only a true barbarian used force on women.

  He stripped quickly, blew out the candle in the copper lantern hanging on the tent pole, and settled down on the cushions beside Tess, careful not to touch her. The heaviness in his loins turned painful. He lay with his back to her, his heart pounding against his rib cage.

  He could control it. He was no savage to take—

  He felt the cushions shift. The scent of lavender and woman drifted over him, and he tried to breathe shallowly to mitigate its effect.

  Then he felt her fingers in his hair.

  Every muscle in his body went rigid. “Tess?”

  She murmured something drowsily, only half-awake, her fingers caressing his nape.

  “What”—a shudder racked through him as her fingertips brushed his shoulders—”are you doing?”

  She pulled the ribbon from his queue and tossed it aside. “Wife’s duty …”

  She moved away again, and the rhythm of her breathing told him she was sound asleep once more.

  Wife’s duty? Galen would have laughed if he hadn’t been in the grip of hot frustration. He would like to show her a wife’s “duty.” He would like to move between her thighs and plunge deep. He would like to take her for a ride in the desert coït de cheval, cradling her buttocks in his palms, making her feel every inch of him. He would like to—He forced himself to abandon such thoughts and to unclench his fists.

  He had put his wild days behind him. He could no longer take with reckless abandon. He must think, consider, wait.

  Dear God in heaven, he was hurting.

  “Scream and I’ll slit your pretty throat from ear to ear.”

  The voice was guttural, jarring Tess from sleep. Her eyes flew open, but she could see only a shadowy face above her in the darkness of the tent.

  And the gleam of the steel of the dagger pressed to her throat!

  She was going to die. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t want to die just as life was beginning to be so interesting.

  “Where is he?”

  He was talking about Galen, she realized with a wild surge of relief. Which meant he must not have killed Galen yet. The knife bit into her flesh, and she could feel warm liquid flow down her neck.

  “Where?”

  “Here!” A dark shape appeared suddenly behind her assailant, and she saw the glint of steel as a dagger was held to the man’s throat. “Get off her, Tamar.”

  The man on top of Tess froze. “I can slit her throat before you can draw another breath, Galen.”

  “Why bother? You wouldn’t live to enjoy your victory.”

  The man hesitated, and then, incredibly, he threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “Ah, Galen, you always did have a persuasive tongue.” The dagger moved slowly away from Tess’s neck. “Put away your dagger and we’ll talk. It’s over.”

  “I think my steel is more persuasive than my tongue,” Galen said dryly. “Throw away your knife.”

  The man carelessly tossed the dagger aside.

  “Now, get off her—slowly.”

  “With great regret. I’ve always admired your taste in kadines.” The man swung off her. “Why don’t you light the lantern so I can get a better look at her?”

  “You light the lamp. I want my hands free.”

  “Distrustful bastard.” The man Galen had called Tamar moved toward the gleaming copper lantern hanging from the tent pole a few yards away. “I told you it was over.” A moment after the sound of flint on stone a flame flickered in the copper lantern.

  Tess could see Tamar’s face now. He was young, no older than Galen, with a black beard, cropped close, flowing black hair, and dark eyes. He stood a little above average height, and his handsome features lit with a flashing smile as he turned to face Galen. “Very good, Galen. When I heard you had a woman with you, I was sure you’d be sleeping the sleep of a dead man tonight.”

  Galen shrugged into his white robe, covering his nakedness, the dagger still in readiness in his hand. “You made so much noise cutting through the tent wall you’d have wakened the dead, Tamar.”

  Tamar grimaced. “You were always the panther-footed one, not me.” He chuckled. “Do you remember the night you crept into the harem of that old—”

  “That was the past.”

  Tamar shook his head mournfully. “Ah, how I miss those days. What times we had.”

  “Why are you here?”

  Tamar raised his brows. “Why, I came to see my old friend Galen Ben Raschid.”

  “Why?” Galen repeated.

  Tamar shrugged. “I was curious.”

  “And did you kill any of my men while you were making your way through the camp to satisfy your curiosity?”

  Tamar shook his head. “No one got in my way.”

  “I wonder if you’re lying.”

  “Would I lie to you?”

  “If it suited you.”

  “True, but in this case it’s not necessary. I killed no one.” His glance turned to Tess. “My sentries told me she had red hair.” He studied her critically. “Wonderful skin, but she’s not your usual kadine, Galen. I think I must examine her more closely to see what drew you to her.”
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  Tess scrambled to a sitting position. “Galen, may I be told who this person is?”

  “Her accent is strange,” Tamar noticed. “Have you been raiding outside Sedikhan?”

  “The woman has just come from France. I found her in a café in Dinar.”

  Startled, Tess stared at Galen.

  “I should have known. You always did like the Frenchies.” Tamar strolled toward Tess. “Is she good?”

  “Good enough.” Galen glanced at Tess and then stiffened as his gaze fell on her neck. “You son of a bitch, you’ve cut her.” He strode across the tent and fell to his knees beside Tess and asked her, “Are you all right?”

  Tamar frowned. “What’s wrong? It’s only a little nick.”

  Galen didn’t look at him. “You’ve outstayed your welcome, Tamar.” He touched the tiny cut on her throat with a gentle finger. “Don’t be frightened.”

  “I’m not frightened.” She glared at Tamar. “Why should I be afraid of a man who slithers like a snake in the dark to attack a sleeping woman.”

  Tamar flushed, and his lips took on an ugly twist. “Shall I show you, whore?” He gazed at her defiant face for a moment before he said flatly, “She needs teaching. I believe you must give this one to me, Galen.”

  “When have I ever given you anything belonging to me?”

  Tamar looked at him in surprise. “She is only a woman. We have shared women before.”

  “I’ve not had her long. She still entertains me.”

  “I’ll make a bargain with you. Give me two nights with her and you’re free to travel across my territory with no interference.”

  “It’s not your territory.”

  “It is if I say it is.”

  “Not if I say it isn’t. Words mean nothing.”

  “But blood means all,” Tamar said softly. “And you know how I love the taste of blood.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “But no more than you,” Tamar said. “You go berserk when the battle fever hits you.”

  “Then you should be cautioned about rousing that fever,” Galen said wearily.