Catching the front of her shirt in his fist, he leaned close to her face, and when he spoke, his breath caressed her face. ‘‘I do not share what is mine. And you are mine; make no mistake about that. Mine forever.’’
‘‘Forever is a very, very long time.’’
‘‘An eternity.’’ Unseen and unanticipated, he swept her into his arms, and in a symbolism that wasn’t lost on Karen, he strode to and through the opening in the tent.
Welcome home, my bride."
Yes. He’d laid his claim to her, and treated her like a bride, but a bride from the days when men captured their women and held them by force until they trained them to be docile.
He would have a hell of a wait. ‘‘You might want to keep an eye on your bride, or she’ll stick a knife between your ribs.’’
‘‘Every relationship has its small difficulties to work out.’’ He let her slip down and onto her feet.
‘‘Wow.’’ In all her years of roughing it, Karen had never seen anything like this. Two LED camp lanterns hung on hooks up by the ceiling and shed a white light on the tent’s spacious interior. The outer shell would attract no notice at all in any American camp-ground, but inside . . . a sumptuous handcrafted wool carpet covered the floor, and huge tapestries hung along the walls. To insulate against the cold, Karen supposed, but also to lend the richness of their beauty to a wanderer’s abode.
Yet a man—a raider—had seized what he liked. When she faced one direction a graceful tree of life grew on a green background. Another direction and a medieval knight pranced across a field. One wall was a modern rendering of a blue lake at twilight, and the other a graceful arch with pink roses spilling onto a path. The carpet was a glorious Kashmiri rug in cream, burgundy, and black.
‘‘I guess the term ‘feng shui’ means nothing to you, huh?’’
‘‘I’m not into Chinese food.’’
Was he being funny? She couldn’t tell, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to laugh.
The rest of the furniture was as much of a hodgepodge as the tapestries—there were two chests, a French provincial desk, an ergonomic desk chair, a coffee table with cushions tossed around it for casual seating, or maybe for dining, Karen didn’t know which. She didn’t care. For there was also the bed. . . .
Ah, the bed.
It was nothing more than a queen-sized mattress set on the floor on a bed frame without legs, with a brass headboard and footboard and a canopy of mosquito netting. The posts shone as if someone polished it daily, a narrow leather holster was strapped to one upright bedpost, pillows billowed flirtatiously, and the whole glorious contraption should have whispered of
sin and seduction.
Instead it shouted
rest and relaxation.
‘‘What kind of mattress is that?’’ she asked.
‘‘A Sealy.’’
She groaned with pleasure quite unlike the pleasure she’d experienced in his arms. ‘‘My God, how did you get it up here?’’
‘‘What do you care?’’ He took the collar of her coat and tried to lift it away.
She wrapped her arms more tightly around herself and glared.
He tugged. ‘‘Take off your coat before you lie down.’’
‘‘No.’’
In an elaborate gesture he removed his hands. ‘‘I was playing the gentleman.’’
‘‘That ship has sailed.’’
For a moment she thought he was going to laugh. ‘‘You remind me of . . .’’
‘‘Of what?’’
‘‘Home.’’ He gave her a push on the shoulder. ‘‘Go to sleep. I have to find out what’s happened with that shipment that’s coming through today.’’
She stumbled to the bed, flopped sideways across the mattress, and promptly slid into sleep. . . .
She stood on the edge of the cliff, the blue sky surrounding her. The wind blew hard, tumbling her hair around her face. She tried to back up, to get away, but her feet were too heavy. Then the ground shook. The stones rumbled. The edge gave way. She hurtled toward the ground. . . .
Her own scream brought her back to a wavering consciousness.
Heart pounding, she opened her eyes—and stared into his. Into Warlord’s.
He crouched on the bed, holding her. ‘‘Was it your nightmare? Did you fall?’’
‘‘Yes.’’ She shuddered, and woke completely. ‘‘Yes.’’
His arms felt like safety, but that was a deception. For he watched her without expression, and now, without a doubt, he knew her weakness.
He would exploit her weakness.
‘‘Do you want me to stay?’’ he asked.
‘‘No.’’ She pushed away, out of his embrace, and closed her eyes, rejecting him.
He could not seduce her with gentle words and comfort. She would not be his compliant bride.
She listened, heard nothing. Furious that he lingered so near, she snapped, ‘‘Get out, damn it!’’
No one answered.
She opened her eyes.
She was alone.
She heard footsteps. He was in the tent. As he moved closer she carefully freed herself from the blankets and prepared to leap.
And she heard Mingma’s soft voice say, ‘‘
Namaste
, Miss Sonnet.’’
Karen’s eyes sprang open. She came out of the bed in a rush. ‘‘Mingma? You’re here? He captured you, too?’’
‘‘Miss?’’ Mingma’s brow knit as she stared in puzzlement. ‘‘What do you mean, capture? He bring me for you.’’
Karen thought she must be more disoriented than she’d realized, because that didn’t make sense. ‘‘Where’s the warlord?’’
‘‘Warlord is gone.’’
‘‘Gone from camp?’’ Karen grinned with savage pleasure. ‘‘What time is it?’’
‘‘The sun will rise soon.’’
‘‘We can get away.’’
‘‘No, miss.’’
‘‘Don’t worry. I’ll make the plans.’’ Karen pushed her hair out of her face. She was good at planning, good at taking advantage of opportunity, and she needed to escape now, first thing, while this warlord guy was out drinking with his buddies and celebrating his new concubine.
Mingma
tsk
ed and shook her head as Karen tugged at the pair of men’s jeans that sagged around her hips—Warlord’s jeans. ‘‘That is not attractive. Warlord requested I find you new clothes to wear.’’ With a smile, she gestured at a blue-green georgette skirt and midriff-baring shirt intricately worked in gold-threaded hand embroidery. ‘‘He says bring only the finest and most beautiful, and I do.’’
‘‘That’s a pretty fancy sweat suit.’’
‘‘Sweat suit?’’ Mingma cocked her head at Karen’s sarcasm. ‘‘I don’t understand ‘sweat suit,’ but the color is like your eyes.’’
‘‘Great. Just what I always wanted.’’
‘‘Will you wash your hands and face before you eat?’’ Mingma gestured toward the hammered-copper pitcher and bowl.
‘‘God, yes. Thank you.’’ Karen splashed the cold water on her face, vanquished the last of the cobwebs, and felt a rise of confidence.
‘‘Will you change before you eat?’’ Mingma stepped close and tried to tug at Karen’s shirt.
‘‘No! I’m not wearing
that.
’’
‘‘You don’t like it?’’ Mingma actually looked hurt.
‘‘It would be hard to hike in. Are all the men gone?’’ Karen didn’t wait for an answer, but opened the tent flap and looked.
The thin, gray premorning light spilled into the long valley, and from up here she could see it all—the cliff on one side, the gorge on the other, and the narrow bottleneck of an entrance on the far end. On the flat valley floor a dozen men slept in bags and tents, and two sat hunched over, cleaning their rifles. One of them glanced up at her, then glanced up toward the other end of the valley. Following his gaze she saw a guard sitting high on a rock, rifle in hand. Looking more closely, she saw other guards stationed strategically at lookout points, dressed in camouflage and holding an impressive array of firearms.
‘‘This isn’t going to be easy.’’ Karen stepped out and scanned the mountains around them. ‘‘We can’t fight our way out, so we’re going to have to be crafty. I wonder if these guys are open to bribes.’’
Mingma stepped out beside her. ‘‘You want to leave?’’
‘‘Of course I want to leave!’’
‘‘Why do you want to leave Warlord?’’
Mingma didn’t understand. Obviously. So, in a voice gravelly with fury, Karen said, ‘‘Because the bastard brought me here against my will, that’s why. To use me like . . . like a whore.’’
‘‘Not like a whore. Like a wife. It is an honor.’’
‘‘An honor? To be forced to have sex with an ignorant, brutal raider?’’
‘‘But is he not your secret lover?’’
‘‘What?’’ Stiff with shock, Karen swung on Mingma.
‘‘Is he not the lover who heard your tears, who slipped into your tent at night to make you forget your sorrow?’’
‘‘You knew?’’ Karen stood, her hands slack at her sides.
Mingma
knew
.
‘‘It is not good for a young woman to sleep alone.’’
Karen covered her hot cheeks with her hands. ‘‘Did
everyone
know?’’
‘‘No, miss. The men you could hire were not good. Only the laziest would work in that evil place. Warlord keeps the best for himself.’’ Mingma turned her solemn brown eyes on Karen. ‘‘I am the best, so he hire me to care for you.’’
Karen stared at Mingma, at the woman she thought she knew, and realized her jaw hung open. Snapping it shut, she then asked, ‘‘When? You mean today?’’
‘‘No. When you come to Mount Anaya. Warlord, he saw you in Kathmandu, and he know right away he would make you his.’’
‘‘Did he now?’’ Warlord had been watching her on the train, and she hadn’t noticed. She’d been too busy fending off a pass from Phil. At the time she’d thought Phil was the worst lecher she’d have to contend with in Nepal. What a fool she’d been—about everything.
‘‘When he realized where you were going, he came to me. He said you would need someone to protect you. So I bring my lucky bells and hang them on your tent, and powerful soil from the god on Everest and spread it under your feet. Morning and night I say the prayers of defense from the Evil One, and at night I add sleep weed to your dinner so you not hear the cries from the mountain and go crazy and seek those who are lost.’’ As if she expected praise, Mingma smiled and bowed.
Karen did
not
smile. ‘‘So you worked for him. You
always
worked for him. You came because he’s paying you.’’
‘‘Yes, miss.’’
In less than twenty-four hours Karen had seen death, faced evil, embraced life, and discovered that her lover, her rescuer, was a warlord.
The
warlord. Yet this betrayal hurt her more than anything she’d seen or faced. ‘‘I trusted you,’’ she whispered.
‘‘Of course. As I trust you. We are sisters.’’ Mingma seemed so calm, as if she didn’t know she’d deceived Karen.
‘‘No. Sisters don’t hurt each other.’’
‘‘I have not hurt you. I have cared for you and watched over you when your lover could not.’’
‘‘For money!’’
‘‘Miss, I have a son, sixteen years old. Here, the schools are not good. So I send him to your United States, and pay for him to live with an American family and prepare for college. He is smart. He does well.’’ Mingma glowed with pride. ‘‘So I pay.’’
‘‘You pay for his life with mine.’’
‘‘No, miss. Warlord is the best soldier here. He holds control.’’ Mingma showed her clenched fist. ‘‘He will keep you safe.’’
‘‘I don’t want to be safe. I want to be gone!’’
‘‘He wants you here. Why should your desire be held higher than his?’’
They were talking in circles.
Karen seethed with frustration. ‘‘Fine. You’re his creature. So stay away from me.’’
‘‘But, miss, I have your breakfast.’’
‘‘Put it outside the door. I’ll get it when I get my appetite back.’’ Karen ducked back into the tent and stalked across the plush rug.
Mingma. Mingma had betrayed her.
She hadn’t seen that one coming. And why not? She’d worked in construction as a project manager, where every con man and wastrel flocked to her jobs in the hopes of cheating the stupid little woman. She’d learned the hard way not to trust anyone.
Yet Mingma had slipped under her guard.
Thank God her father would never know. Thank God . . . yeah, because if she didn’t break out of this prison, she’d end up being some wacko warlord’s plaything until he tired of her, or until the end of her life, and those two events might coincide closely.
There had to be a way out of here. No self-respecting wacko would leave himself without an escape route.
He’d placed the tent high on a platform against a cliff. Warlord was too canny to have done that by accident.
She lifted the heavy tapestry that covered the back wall, and examined the weather-resistant tent fabric.
There.
A seam snaked up from the floor to a spot about halfway up the wall. Karen knelt and ran her fingers along the length. The work was done as an afterthought, the seam basted together by clear, strong nylon thread. She tried to tear it—impossible. A knife, something sharp . . . She ran to the holster strapped to one of the uprights on the headboard.
Empty.
Glancing around, she grabbed a gold-plated serving tray off the table and used the edge to saw through the thread above the knot, then slipped the stitching free. She spread the material and looked out.
As she suspected, the platform jutted out a few inches beyond the tent, and just beyond in the cliff she saw the beginning of a path that wound into the mountains.
Yet . . . she looked down. The path was six feet from the platform, and the drop was twenty feet onto sharp rocks—a fall guaranteed to break her bones.
Warlord couldn’t jump that. Could he? He had to have some sort of temporary bridge. She knelt and groped under the platform, looking for something to span the distance.
Nothing.
She glanced inside the tent for a loose board that would hold her weight.
Nothing.
She didn’t dare wait any longer.
Mingma would be back soon to try to convince Karen to dress in the harem clothes and play the coy maiden to Warlord’s conquering warrior.
Bullshit.
Karen wouldn’t do it.
Again she measured the span with her gaze. She stood on the edge—and almost jumped.
But like a sliver of glass, some sharp, bright thought cut her concentration.
The icon. She had to take the icon.
And her coat, of course. It was stupid to think of escaping into the Himalayas, even in the summer, without a coat.
Hurrying to the camouflage parka, she slipped her arms into the sleeves and belted it around her waist. Irresistibly she slid her hand into the pocket and pulled out the icon.
The Madonna stared solemnly at her.
‘‘I’ll save you,’’ Karen vowed, and walked back to the hole in the tent. She slipped through and stood there, the breeze lifting her hair. She stared at the lip of the path six feet away.
She’d done a lot of climbing in her life. She’d jumped crevasses with raging streams below. She knew the length of her legs, and she knew her limits.
From a standing start . . . this jump was impossible.
She wrapped her arms around her waist and swallowed the bile that built in her throat.
She would fall.
She’d dreamed this a million times.
She would be horribly hurt, crippled, her bones shattered, her internal organs bleeding uncontrollably.
Her breath hitched, and her eyes filled with tears.
She was being dramatic. She was a coward.
But she was
afraid
.
On the other hand, if she stayed here, she’d be the plaything of a monster.
Jump.
So she jumped.
She stretched out like Superman, hands forward, trying in midair to propel herself onto the path.
She missed. She landed with a bone-crunching thump on her face and chest. Her legs dangled, wheeling madly. She slipped. Grabbed at the grass. Caught herself. The clump of grass broke. She slipped again. She was going down. . . .
Her foot found a rock lodged solidly beneath the overhang.
One hand caught the branch of a shrub.
She wanted to scramble up.
She forced herself to slow down, to balance herself, to concentrate. . . .
Gradually she inched her stomach onto the path. She flung her leg up onto the ledge. She rolled . . . and she was safe. Safe.
She took a long breath, the first one since she’d jumped.
Safe? No way. Somehow, some way, Warlord would come after her.
Magnus crawled forward along the rock at the edge of the cliff, his gaze fixed on the regiment below. He settled next to the man to whom he’d sworn his allegiance.
Warlord rested on his belly, watching the movement of troops through the valley. He liked to keep an eye on them as they marched around, officiously and ineptly patroling the long, narrow river valleys and murderous peaks where the mercenaries held reign.
Magnus wasn’t afraid of him. Not anymore. No reason to be. The scratch along his cheek had healed, stitched by a skilled physician in Kathmandu. He seldom woke anymore from the nightmare of a big cat’s weight on his chest and its hot breath on his face. He almost never thought of that night when he’d first realized the old, scary legends his poor mother had whispered in his ear were true, and monsters roamed the earth. Because, in the end, he knew he was already damned by his sins, and he’d rather die by Warlord’s hand—or paw—than live like most men did, chained to a desk or a dock, and ground down by poverty.
Yet for all his loyalty to Warlord, he still kept a few careful inches’ distance from his master. In a low voice he said, ‘‘The army’s bloody casual about that payroll shipment.’’