He would have none of that. His motion inside her was deep, small, controlled, inciting yet not satisfying.
Her breath rasped in her lungs. She fought her way forward on the bed—and he let her— until she could pull herself up onto the brass bars on the headboard. Her cheek, her shoulders, her breasts, her belly rested against the cold metal, and still he remained below her, thrusting up into her body in those slow, hot, forbidden motions that made the lightning spread along each nerve. She no longer called him names. She begged him. ‘‘Please, Warlord. Please. Deeper. Now. Faster.’’
‘‘No.’’ His voice trembled as he fought his desires. ‘‘You wait. You yield. You call me your master and then I’ll let you come.’’
She was frenzied with lust, but she hadn’t lost her mind. ‘‘I won’t.’’
He pulled almost all the way out. He leaned against her back and whispered in her ear, ‘‘One of us will win. Both of us will suffer.’’
‘‘I don’t give a damn if we both die.’’
He laughed, his amusement vibrating from his chest to her back, his breath lifting the hairs on her neck. ‘‘But what a sweet death it will be.’’
Chapter Twelve
What was it Warlord had said? Every time you think of pleasure, you’ll think of me.
He’d made good on his threat. Karen had no idea how long she’d been confined in Warlord’s tent. She no longer knew if it was day or night. She knew only that she waged an endless, constant, sensuous battle to keep her pride . . . and if something didn’t happen soon, she would give him what he wanted. She would yield. She would call him master. She would be not Karen Sonnet but Warlord’s slave.
Because no matter what they were doing, she thought of pleasure. When he fed her the meals Mingma fixed them, she watched his long fingers and thought how skillfully they feathered along her spine. When he talked to her, she watched his glorious lips and remembered how they felt as they moved against her mouth in long, leisurely, damp kisses. When he walked away from her, she watched the firm, concave muscles of his butt and remembered how his cheeks felt under her palms as he thrust in and out and in and out.
And when she stared at the bracelets he had placed on her wrists, she thought them beautiful. . . . Oh, God. He had drugged her with sex.
She hated him. She hated this place. She hated herself and her own weakness.
Today, as every day, she woke with a single thought—she had to get away. She had to escape before winter set in, for then she would be trapped forever.
Normally in the morning she heard nothing but Mingma’s soft murmur speaking to Warlord, and the wind as it whistled a mocking tune. But today she lay very still, listening to a strange man speak from a position just inside the door. ‘‘Ye’ve got to come out, man. There’s trouble breaking out among the ranks. The last raid went so well it left some of the men hungry for more. The others are nervous, worried about the reports of trouble.’’
‘‘Which group are you in, Magnus?’’ Warlord’s smooth, menacing drawl raised the hair on the back of her neck.
Karen heard the sharp sound of fist against flesh, and flipped over in shock.
Magnus was short, stocky, balding, with bandy legs and a wide stance. He had a thin red scar on one cheek, and he was missing the little finger on both hands. He held his fists close to his chest like a boxer in a prizefight waiting for a fatal blow.
Warlord was a head taller, barefoot, dressed in his half-buttoned jeans. He was staring, narrow eyed, at Magnus, and wiping the blood from his mouth. ‘‘Shall I kill you now, or should we go outside?’’
‘‘Ye’ll not kill me.’’ Magnus lifted his chin at him. ‘‘Ye know I’m in the right.’’
Warlord still stared, poised on the balls of his feet, ready to spring. Then gradually, deliberately, he relaxed. ‘‘All right. Talk to me.’’
‘‘Two weeks ye’ve been in here, man, shaking the tent night and day.’’
Karen stealthily pulled the covers over her crimson face.
‘‘Ye’ve got responsibilities. These men follow ye because ye keep them safe and make them rich. But riches will do them no good if the rumors are true.’’
‘‘What rumors?’’
‘‘That the enforcers, the ones the militaries hired to get rid of us . . . that they’re led by another like you.’’ Magnus lowered his voice, but she could still hear him. ‘‘A beastie who wanders the mountains in animal form.’’
Magnus thought Warlord was a werewolf? Oh, brother. Warlord really had him conned.
‘‘Benjie and Dehqan disappeared while on patrol, and I found a trail of blood headed toward the army camp just over the border. I got close enough to hear screaming down there. They were racking someone. Then Benjie showed up here.’’
‘‘Unharmed?’’
‘‘Hale and hearty. He said Dehqan decided to head home to Afghanistan.’’
‘‘You don’t believe him.’’
‘‘Not for a minute. No one does. He’s jumpy as a cat, and Dae-Jung caught him signaling into the mountains with a mirror.’’
Karen peeked at the two men. They stood with their heads together, intent on their discussion, and while she didn’t know for sure who Magnus was, it was clear to her that Warlord respected and liked him.
‘‘He’s betrayed us,’’ Warlord said.
‘‘No doubt about it,’’ Magnus answered.
‘‘Benjie’s always been the one to take the easy road. I wonder what they promised him?’’
‘‘Money.’’
‘‘No. Respect. That’s what our foolish Benjie craves.’’ Warlord thoughtfully dabbed at the blood on his split lip. ‘‘Very well. Bring him to me. Let’s see if I can convince him to give me a different version of the events.’’
‘‘Down by the fire pit?’’ Magnus asked.
‘‘Oh, yes. Definitely down by the fire pit.’’ Warlord clapped Magnus on the shoulder. ‘‘Bring him in.’’
When the Scotsman left, he was whistling.
Warlord opened a chest, pulled out a long-sleeved T-shirt, and dragged it over his head. He tucked it into his jeans, buttoned up, pulled out a studded leather belt, and slipped it through the loops. Seating himself, he pulled on wool socks and heavy black boots that laced up his calf. Reaching into the chest once more, he extracted two sharp, slender knives and slipped them into his boots. He stood and shook his jeans down, then strapped a large holster around his chest and a smaller one around each arm. He placed a Smith & Wesson 952 in the larger holster, Kel-Tec P-32s in the smaller ones.
The man was gunning for bear.
He pulled on a loose black coat, checked his weapons, then glanced at Karen.
She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.
So of course she didn’t hear him approach, didn’t know he was there until he whispered in her ear, ‘‘I won’t be long, darling. You’re tired. Stay in bed.’’
She sat up so fast she cracked him under the chin with her head.
He laughed and rubbed his battered face. ‘‘It’s not my day.’’
‘‘This is real trouble, isn’t it?’’
‘‘What makes you think so?’’
‘‘Magnus hit you. You don’t let anyone hit you unless . . .’’ Turning her head, she looked up into his face—the pale skin covered by the heavy beard and surrounded by the wild hair, the strong nose, the supple lips, and, dominating the whole, those black, black eyes.
‘‘Unless I deserve it?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Do you know what I love best about you?’’
‘‘I’m not stupid?’’ she said tartly, but at the same time she lightly touched the split in his lips.
He corrected her. ‘‘I used to lie on my stomach above the construction site and watch you.’’
‘‘You watched me?’’ That explained that prickly feeling she used to get at the back of her neck.
‘‘I couldn’t tear my eyes away. You work hard. You’re smart.
You’re stubborn. You shine with an inner light, and I hated what you were doing to me, making me realize what I’d become, changing me against my will. I’ve had other women, but I remember only you. You fill my mind. You fill my soul.’’
Damn him. How dared he try to enchant her?
‘‘It’s a little late for sweet talk.’’ She turned her head away. ‘‘Are you going to kill him? That Benjie?’’
‘‘It depends on how much he’s willing to tell us and how fast he gives out the information.’’ Warlord sat back on his haunches. ‘‘Why? Do you feel sorry for him?’’
‘‘No. Not if he’s betrayed his comrades.’’
‘‘You don’t think much like a woman.’’
‘‘How does a woman think?’’ She froze him with a steely cold gaze.
‘‘Women are always all’’—he wiggled his fingers and made his voice high and girlie— ‘‘ ‘Ooh, don’t hurt him.’ ’’
‘‘You’ve been watching too many old movies, the ones where the female always falls down and twists her ankle while trying to escape. ’’ She bared her teeth in a feral smile. ‘‘Try Kill Bill. It’ll give you a new appreciation of just what violence a woman is capable of.’’
‘‘You’re such a pretty woman. Such a strong woman. A construction manager.’’ Leaning over her, he slid his fingers through her hair. ‘‘What made you decide to become a construction manager?’’
Like she was going to tell him about her early private hell. ‘‘What made you decide to become a ruthless warlord?’’ she countered.
His fingers never paused, and his eyes gleamed like obsidian. ‘‘I have a natural talent for murder.’’ Yanking her hair, he tilted her head back and kissed her deeply.
She tasted his blood on her tongue and—
The first grenade flew from his hand in a beautiful arc through the bright blue Tibetan sky, right into the convoy, and landed in the lead Jeep. The little pissant of a driver screamed; then the explosion rocked the pass and blew the Chinese general into a million pieces of chicken chow mein. In the moment of shocked silence that followed, Warlord smiled with bone-deep delight; the mean son of a bitch would never again beat a woman to death and firebomb a nomad settlement in retaliation for offering hospitality to an American.
Then the Chinese soldiers sprang into action, spraying the rocks with bullets. His men returned fire. The narrow pass rang with shots. The smell of gunpowder stung his nose, and still he smiled as he fitted the bayonet to his weapon, charged down the hills, and spitted the yellow bastards until blood spattered him from head to toe.
A bullet struck him in the back. Pain exploded in his lungs. He staggered. Dropped to his knees.
But no one on this battlefield could kill him.
Twisting, he looked up at the guy pointing the pistol at him.
Victor Rivera was an older mercenary. He was taking advantage of this opportunity to rid himself of a raw young American interloper. He was from Argentina. And the word he screamed when Warlord speared his gonads was pure Spanish profanity—and the last word he would ever speak.
Warlord lifted Victor’s genitals on the tip of the bayonet. Blood dripped down his rifle onto his hands, and into the sudden silence he roared, ‘‘This is my enemy! Who else is my enemy?’’
The Chinese gaped, then broke ranks and ran.
Rivera’s mercenaries moved in.
Warlord laughed, pulled Rivera’s pistol from his belt, and shot the lead man in the head.
He was going to hell.
No—he was in hell.
With a gasp Karen returned to the present. She was in Warlord’s tent. Warlord was gone. She lay prone on the bed. Her heart pounded, shaking her chest. Wildly she lifted her hands and looked at them. They weren’t covered with blood. She looked down at herself. She wore a loose, pale, sheer nightgown, unstained by gore.
Porcelain clinked softly. Mingma knelt beside the low table, arranging the breakfast dishes and pouring tea into a mug. The scent of her tobacco wafted across the tent. Everything was . . . normal.
Yet Karen was not. She had been somewhere, seen something she should never have seen.
She had tasted Warlord’s blood; then she had seen a terrible event long past, and seen it through Warlord’s eyes. ‘‘Where is he?’’ she demanded.
Mingma looked up, and Karen’s expression must have been alarming, for she stood and backed away. ‘‘He left. Said to let you sleep.’’ She gestured at the food. ‘‘Breakfast?’’
Karen sat up and cupped her head in her palms. What was happening to her? How could she be in Warlord’s mind? In his past? Had she truly, finally gone completely crazy?
‘‘Miss?’’ Mingma touched her shoulder.
In a violent gesture, Karen knocked her hand away. ‘‘Don’t touch me.’’ She hadn’t forgotten Mingma’s betrayal, and right now she didn’t need some supernatural acid trip to smell trouble brewing. No matter how sincerely kind Mingma seemed, if the Sherpa had been willing to sell her out to Warlord, she would be willing to sell out Warlord to whatever forces were brewing. Not that Karen cared about him, but she knew he protected her, and in a camp of one hundred men surrounded by hostile territory, protection was a commodity to be valued.
Lifting her gaze to Mingma, she said, ‘‘Step out and tell me what’s happening out there.’’
Mingma walked to the tent flap and lifted it.
Karen heard a high, thin scream.
‘‘Benjie,’’ Mingma said.
‘‘Won’t he talk?’’
‘‘He is afraid.’’ Mingma stared out into the camp, then scanned the horizon.
‘‘Afraid of Warlord?’’
‘‘I think . . . afraid of the Other.’’ Mingma’s serenity was cracking.
‘‘What Other?’’
‘‘The men speak of the Other, a mercenary who will wipe Warlord away and hold this territory forever.’’
Karen spied the opportunity she’d been looking for.
She stood. She pulled on a robe. She knelt by the table and began to eat. ‘‘Leave me.’’
‘‘Miss, if you try to run again, he will kill me.’’ Mingma’s voice shook.
‘‘If Warlord falls, who will pay your fee? Who will support your son in America?’’ Karen prodded Mingma in her weak spot. ‘‘Shouldn’t you think about leaving?’’
The color drained out of Mingma’s brown face, and she backed away from Karen. ‘‘Miss, you see the future?’’
‘‘Only a fool wouldn’t see this future.’’ Karen ate steadily—she would need the sustenance— and didn’t look up.
Mingma backed away toward the entrance, paused and lingered, then slipped from the tent.
Karen gave a small, pleased smile. Getting rid of Mingma was the first step toward freedom. For the first time in two weeks Karen was alone. Now she could do what had to be done.
She needed her hiking boots. She needed clothes that fit and that she could hike in. Most of all, she needed her coat.
She hurried to his open clothing trunk. Kneeling on the Kashmiri rug, she sorted through his clothes.
And there it was. Her coat. She dug in the pockets, and as her fingers clutched the icon she closed her eyes in relief.
The Madonna was safe.
She pulled it out and sat there, holding the icon in her hand, looking into the Virgin Mary’s large, dark, sad eyes. As she did, the events of that day swam through her brain like a fevered dream. The discovery of the grave . . . the body of the child . . . those eyes, so much like Karen’s, sad, dutiful, and a startling blue-green . . . and the dissolution of the fragile body beneath Karen’s touch.
Then the thunder of the rockfall, Phil’s refusal to leave, Warlord’s appearance . . .
Every moment since had been out of her control. But what other course could she have taken? If Warlord hadn’t pulled her onto the motorcycle, she would have died. Now here she was, a captive to a man who both frightened and enthralled her.
She had never been rel
igious—she’d had no chance, for her father had no patience with Bible-thumpers—but now, in a prayer that came from her heart, she pleaded, ‘‘Mary, please help me find the way home.’’
Home . . . She didn’t have a home. Her father’s dark mansion in Montana was decorated with antlers and brown leather, and although she’d been raised there, she was always on edge, looking over her shoulder, waiting for the next sharp criticism, the next impatient sneer.
So why had she begged the Madonna to help her go home?
‘‘What is that?’’ Warlord’s soft voice spoke behind her.
She gasped out loud—when had she become such a girl?—and brought the icon to her bosom, every instinct commanding that she protect the holy object. ‘‘I found it,’’ she said. Had he heard her?
‘‘Where did you find a Russian icon?’’ Warlord caught her wrist and brought the Madonna into the light. He appraised it with a glance. ‘‘The style looks as if it was painted early in the history of the Orthodox Church.’’
‘‘How do you know?’’
‘‘In Russia, before the Soviets—and during, sometimes—the icon was the heart of the family, venerated above all things. They’re the Gospel in paint, and kept in the beautiful corner, the krasny ugol, the red corner.’’
‘‘The red corner?’’ What was he talking about?
‘‘In the Russian culture, red means beautiful. ’’ He spoke with the calm certainty of an expert. ‘‘These icons, especially icons of the Virgin Mary, were considered miracles. Every pose, every color had meaning, and there are folk legends of evil and good fighting for possession of the icons.’’
‘‘What do the legends say?’’ More important, how did he know? She had lived through weeks of strange events, but this was perhaps the strangest, that this creature of mystery and shadow should converse with such knowledge about the Russian culture.
‘‘You know, the usual. The devil makes a deal with an evil man. To seal the pact the evil man offers to give the devil his family icon, a single piece of wood painted with four different images of the Madonna. But his mother refuses to let her son take the icons. So he kills her, washes his hands in her blood, and while he drinks to celebrate closing the deal, the devil divides the Madonnas and, in a flash of fire, hurls them to the four ends of the earth, where they are lost.’’ Warlord stared at the icon as if he recognized it. ‘‘Hmm. Lost for a millennium now.’’