“I wouldn’t.”
“I know.” She hadn’t doubted that. “And I’m glad of it. I love it too much. I wouldn’t want to decide between you.”
He nodded slowly. “Why do you love it?”
The intensity of his gaze made her turn her face away. She couldn’t think when he looked at her like that. Her fingers traced the characters on the page. Why was this so difficult to explain? She’d written dozens of stories, millions of words. Yet putting these words together seemed more difficult than writing all of those adventures.
“They just . . . make me happy. Make me feel as if I’ve done something worth doing. Something that matters. Even if it’s only to me and the people who read them. Because they make other people happy, too.”
“That is good reason.”
Yes, but it wasn’t her only reason. And she could have stopped there, but this mattered, too. Helene had said she’d closed herself off. Ariq always spoke of her walls. She had reasons for those, too—but he couldn’t come to know her if she was always hiding and keeping him at a distance.
“And because I’m always afraid—but not when I’m writing. First my father. Then the assassins. Now the ransoms. I always feel so . . . small. As if at any moment I’ll be back in his closet again. Or maybe I never got out.” The words weren’t so difficult now, but coming quickly, each one stronger than the one before. “Even though I went to Fladstrand—even though I’m
here
, halfway around the world—sometimes I still feel like I’m in that little space. Except when I’m writing. Because I always escape. He used to hit me when he found my stories, did I tell you? He tried to beat it out of me. But now I write stories inspired by my brother, who is everything my father didn’t want him to be. I write stories inspired by the woman who shot my father in the head. So with every single blasted word, I beat him. I win. And I
love
that.”
“Then I love it, too.” Ariq’s voice was rough, but he cupped her cheek with a gentle hand. “If ever you need it, I will level mountains to give you a desk. Even if an army is at our door, I’ll hold them off until your ink runs dry.”
She was
never
letting this man go. But her throat was tight, and her words were spent, and she could only nod into his palm.
He glanced down at her story. “And I will love that tale, too. Even if it’s terrible.”
A laugh burst through the block in her throat. “
Are
you enjoying it? You smiled once or twice.”
Which could be very good or very bad. Oh, her heart was pounding again.
“I’m enjoying it,” he said and put her poor heart at ease. “I can hear your voice in it.”
That was awful. “You should be hearing Lady Lynx.”
“Only when she’s speaking. The rest sounds like you.”
She scowled. “Obviously it is not just the title that translated poorly, then. The tone was lost, too.”
“As it often is. I love you,” Ariq said, and even as her overwrought heart bolted against her ribs again, he shook his head. “It is only words when I say it in this language.
Je t’aime.
I don’t feel it in the same way here.”
Fingers laced through hers, he carried her hand to his chest. His heartbeat thudded against her palm.
Breathless, she lifted her gaze to his. “What do you feel?”
“Nearer to meaning is, ‘You are everything to me.’ But even those words seem weak.”
Weak. Yet powerful enough that they quaked through her every time he spoke them. “Then tell me in your language.”
His fingers tightened on hers.
“Bi chamd hairtai,”
he began gruffly—and continued, the words as unfamiliar to her as the characters written on his pamphlet. Yet she understood each one. Each gravelly syllable resonated with every vow he’d made, every promise he’d kept, every kiss he’d given.
Her chest ached unbearably when he finished, the sweetest pain. “Ariq,” she whispered.
His gaze fell to her lips. The steamcoach rattled to life and rolled forward. They swayed on the abrupt stop, her fingers entwined with his, his heart pounding against her hand.
Slowly his head dipped closer to hers. The shadow of her parasol darkened his face, and he spoke in Mongolian again, his voice like a hot rasping lick that teased her nipples to aching points, then slipped lower to burrow between her thighs. Her breath shuddering, she shifted on the bench, trying to ease the pulsing need.
God. This line was so long. She would die before they reached the gate.
When he finished speaking, her head was light and her body on fire. “What did you say?”
“I don’t know half the words in French.” His fervid gaze lingered on her lips. Then he closed his eyes and sat back into the sun. “But I’ll do it all to you tonight.”
Tonight. Fanning her flushed cheeks, she looked ahead. The guards collected papers from the pair of women in the litter.
Hurry,
she silently urged.
She had a language lesson to learn.
***
The mask was stifling, and terrible to breathe through until Ariq showed her how to dampen the filter in the tube. The air inside was cooler after that, but sweat still gathered at the edges of the mask, and the straps pinched her hair. Ariq was a stranger beside her with round glass eyes and an expressionless face, and her world—which had always felt so small—suddenly felt even smaller, contained within her body and a few inches of rubber.
Ariq took her hand as they boarded the balloon that would ferry their coaches and wagons to the quarantine tower at the southern end of the imperial city. Flying through the canyons of towers, proximity scraped away some of the shine that distance had offered. The coral still glowed peach and orange in the sun, stains streaked the sides—from smoke or sewage, she couldn’t tell. Lush gardens grew on many of the terraced levels, but others appeared abandoned, and several of the terraces at the tower bases seemed to be growing mountains of rusted machinery. Clothes and bedding aired from many of the balconies and open windows, and the breeze seemed to flutter them all at once, as if the towers were game birds with ruffled feathers instead of the majestic swans they’d seemed at a distance.
Yet they were all just as astonishing. Rather than smooth, the tower faces seemed carved into different residences and distinct levels. Columns supported each tier, and narrow stairwells connected them. Latticed balustrades surrounded balconies and lined walkways. Intricately designed entrances and roofs stood as if fashioned separately from the tower, yet it was all seamlessly constructed, as if chiseled from a single, enormous piece of coral.
She couldn’t sketch fast enough. Soon Ariq pointed out their destination. Unlike the other towers, the quarantine wasn’t connected to the other buildings by suspended bridges. It stood alone, seawater foaming around the wide coral base.
Their residence was the tier that lay three levels below the top. The balloon docked on a wide terrace overlooking the ocean to the east, the endless expanse of turquoise water.
Was there anything beyond that? She didn’t know. Islands, perhaps, but nothing else until the western edge of the American continents.
But if there wasn’t anything, then every day this tower would be the first in the world to know the touch of the sun. And every sunrise, she would come out to the terrace, Zenobia decided. Every single one.
As soon as his boots touched the terrace floor, Ariq pushed back his mask. Gratefully, Zenobia did, too, breathing in the warm, salty air. A bee droned around a nearby potted palm. She searched for Mara and Cooper, and spotted the mercenaries still on the balloon’s decks, overseeing the unloading of the coaches and wagon.
She looked to Ariq. “What now?”
Regret darkened his expression. “I leave as soon as the vehicles are off. Auger expects me to meet with several clan heads. I will be late returning.”
“Then I will wait up,” she said simply.
Which would have been no hardship at any time, and easier with so much to fill the hours. The terrace led to a columned courtyard than ran through the heart of the tower, with birds nesting in the high ceilings. The living quarters lay on the northern and southern sides of the courtyard, each room large and with wide shuttered windows. Zenobia chose a chamber with a south-facing balcony, but didn’t wait for the attendants to bring her things before exploring the rest.
This wasn’t what she’d expected of a quarantine. Zenobia didn’t know if she could have possibly been more pleased.
Mara was not. The mercenary wore a grim expression when she found Zenobia on the western terrace. “I must show you this.”
She led Zenobia to the edge of the terrace, where a mechanical rooster stood upon a small shelf. Similar clockwork devices had been mounted throughout the courtyard and their quarters. Zenobia had assumed the previous occupants had left them, but looking at Mara’s troubled face, she wasn’t so certain.
“What is it?” The rooster seemed like any other windup, shaped from gears and metal. It might crow, but she couldn’t imagine such toys would disturb Mara so.
“The Empress’s Eyes,” Mara said. “One of the maids lived on this side of the wall before. I saw her winding the rat on the east terrace.”
“Why?”
“It’s the law. They must be kept wound. They must not be moved or turned in the wrong direction. And everyone has them.” Mara picked up the device. Gears clacked when she began winding the key. “I didn’t see it before—but do you remember, on the balloon, by the wheelhouse?”
“The dragon on the rail,” Zenobia realized aloud. “It was one of these, too?”
The mercenary nodded and set the rooster in place again. Uneasy, Zenobia stared at the spindly steel legs, the sharp-edged cockscomb.
“What does it do? Did the maid know?”
Even as Mara shook her head, a muffled
click
sounded from inside the device. They both froze, waiting.
Nothing.
Zenobia didn’t like it. “What happens if we toss it over?”
“We’ll be arrested.” Though Mara looked as if she might risk it. “If it breaks, we’re supposed to immediately report it and have it replaced. Apparently, problems are infrequent. Everyone keeps theirs wound. But now and again the empress’s guards might come to check on them, or to replace them. If the devices aren’t wound and aren’t where they’re supposed to be, the household is taken into custody.”
“Then wind them all,” Zenobia said. “Now is not the time to disregard the rules. Not with Ariq’s town at stake.”
Though she obviously didn’t like it any better than Zenobia did, Mara agreed to see it done—then gave her the side-eye. “Did you really marry him?”
“I think so.” Zenobia lifted her hands. “He asked me. I thought we were pretending so that I’d have the extra protection. I had no idea we could be married without an official. Can we?”
“In the Golden Empire? Yes. Cooper and I did the same—we simply agreed. Since you told the governor yes, that’s all he needed.” Mara pursed her lips. “Though someone like him, a khagan’s son, he could take you as a bride without your consent if he wished to.”
“I
did
say yes. Even if I didn’t know what I was agreeing to.”
“And now that you do?”
Her heart tightened. “I want to give it a try.”
Mara studied her face for a long second before nodding. “You could do worse.”
Yes, she could. Every man was worse when compared to Ariq.
With a few exceptions. She entered the long courtyard with Mara, and saw Cooper at the far end, directing two men carrying a trunk between them. “Are you and Cooper . . . all right?”
A frown creased Mara’s brow. “Why do I suspect that question has nothing to do with his legs?”
“When I last saw you in the smugglers’ dens, you were fighting. About the boilerworm.” And Zenobia was going to slap herself if mentioning it re-created the rift between them.
“Ah.” The other woman suddenly grinned. “Yes, we fought. Then it was done.”
Good. Zenobia let out a relieved sigh.
Mara gave her an odd look. “Do you really think we were in danger?”
“I didn’t know.” But simply remembering how they’d fought made her stomach tighten again. “You
could
leave, if you wanted to. And you were so angry with him. And hurt.”
“I
could
leave, yes—but I never want to. Even when I’m angry and hurt.” Mara laughed a little. “But I see what will happen now. The first time you fight with the governor, you’re going to run.”
“We’ve already fought.”
“And how far did you get?”
“Blast you.” She’d made it to her bedchamber wall, once; the next time she’d reached the side of the balloon basket. “Not very far. But I won’t run again.”
Mara only laughed harder.
XXIII
Though she’d planned to meet Ariq on the terrace, Zenobia didn’t hear his balloon arrive. She was bent over a page and scribbling out character notes when the bedchamber doors opened. His tall form filled the shadowed entrance.
And it was finally tonight.
She sat frozen, her pen suspended over the inkwell. This wasn’t how she’d imagined it. She would meet him on the terrace and throw herself into his arms, and he would carry her through the courtyard and into their chamber. But he was toeing off his boots instead of striding in with Zenobia cradled against his broad chest, and she couldn’t even stand, because her left foot had gone numb from sitting with her heel tucked beneath her bottom for so long.
His greeting wasn’t what she’d imagined, either.
“These are your shoes?” His voice sounded bemused. He must have noticed the wooden sandals she’d left by the door.
“Yes.” With fingers trembling slightly, she dipped the pen into the ink. “Mara and I ventured down to the vendor level to purchase dinner. Those were at another stall, and I realized they would be easier to remove whenever I entered a room than having to stop to unbuckle my boots.”
“Are they?”
“Oh, yes. They come off quite easily. Especially when I’m walking.”
His grin flashed as he stepped up out of the entryway. The glow of the table lantern reached his face, and Zenobia thought it was better that she hadn’t immediately leapt upon him. The creases from the plague mask still marked his skin, as if he’d just taken it off—and he’d been wearing it since early afternoon.
He’d had his
mouth
covered since early afternoon.
“Did you have an opportunity to eat? Or even drink?”
He shook his head, then stopped her when she tried to get up onto her rubbery leg. “One of the attendants is bringing a meal. Have you finished yours?”
In her bowl, thinly sliced broiled eel lay atop a heap of rice. She’d pushed it aside a while ago—not because she was full, but because she’d been distracted by work. “I can eat more.”
“Good.” He knelt on the mat, facing her across the table. Dark eyes met hers.
Zenobia’s breath caught. Oh, she’d been wrong. This wasn’t better—and it wasn’t exhaustion or hunger that had kept him from sweeping in, picking her up, and carrying her to their bed. Just one look told Zenobia he wanted her more than any food, any drink. He’d have ambushed her if that had been his plan.
So this was another tactic. After all this waiting . . . waiting just a little more.
Anticipation shivered through her, prickling every inch of her skin, leaving her breathless.
His hungry gaze lingered on her mouth before alighting on her notes. “Progress?”
“A little. You?”
“Not enough.”
A soft knock at the door prevented her reply, and she remained silent as the attendant set out the steaming dishes. When the woman left, Zenobia said, “I’m sorry.”
“I knew it wouldn’t be quick. And—” Suddenly the muscles in his jaw clenched, then he closed his eyes, shook his head. “I don’t want to fight that battle here. Not in this time with you.”
Her heart swelled and tightened all at once. “They don’t have to be separate. And we are supposed to learn about each other. Our troubles are a part of that.”
“Yes.” A deep breath filled his chest. “But I can’t enjoy a meal when I’m frustrated. I try to settle problems before I eat—and if I can’t settle them, I have to put them aside.”
“Oh.” She smiled and spooned up a bit of her rice and eel, which was vinegary and salty and tasty even when cold—and yes, so much better to eat while in a pleasant mood. “Then I have learned that about you, instead. And what else should I know?”
He couldn’t answer. His mouth was full. So he wouldn’t talk while chewing.
She was pleased to learn that, as well. “There is so much to know. And we might have even more obstacles to overcome than we realized.”
His eyes narrowed dangerously, as if he was already planning to destroy every one. “Such as?”
“So many things. I didn’t even know we
could
be married without an official. Yet we did—and that almost created an enormous misunderstanding between us. I’m likely to offend you without even knowing it.”
Ariq glanced at her bowl. “By eating with your left hand?”
She looked down at her fingers, her spoon clutched between them. It
was
awkward. But she so often worked while she ate, and couldn’t write with her left hand. “This offends you?”
“No.” A smile widened his firm mouth. “Does
this
offend you?”
Using his fingers, he pushed together his rice and fish and swept it through a brown sauce before carrying it to his lips. Except with soup, he rarely used utensils. She’d noticed it before. At first it had seemed odd, but now it was unremarkable.
“No. It’s something I’ve become accustomed to seeing.”
He glanced at her spoon again. “That will be for me, as well. But know that every mother in the Golden Empire would slap your hand.”
“I’ll remember that when we’re with anyone else.” Poor manners wouldn’t reflect well on either of them. “I suppose we’ll make allowances for each other’s customs.”
“Yes.”
Oh, and now she loved watching him eat. Rather than messy, his long fingers were precise, and she imagined his fingertips warm against his lips when he placed his food on his tongue. “Do you have a shrine? Should I set one up here for you?”
His dark eyebrows lifted.
“I saw one when I was at your home,” she explained. “The building at the end of the courtyard.”
“Not mine,” he answered. “My brother’s.”
“Oh.” Well, this was probably important to know. “Do you pray? What do you pray to?”
“God.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You’re a Christian?”
“No.” He laughed, and said something in Mongolian before adding, “The unknowable One, ruler of the Eternal Sky. Are you Christian?”
“Yes. Though not as devout as I should be.” Or as devout as her father had been. “Will that be an obstacle?”
“No. It is all the same.” He washed his fingers and held out his hand. “Let me see yours.”
His touch raced through her like fire. Heart pounding, she held herself utterly still. His grip was firm when he turned her palm over. She tried not to shiver when he traced a circle in the center.
“One God,” he said softly, then drew a line down each of her fingers, from fingertips to palm. “Many paths to reach Him.”
That was lovely, so lovely. But considering the subject, the thoughts that had begun springing into her head when he touched her were nothing short of blasphemous. Cheeks hot, she pulled her hand back, and for a long moment, Ariq studied her with his heavy-lidded gaze.
Then his focus fell to her mouth. “Take down your hair.”
Her breath stopped. She would do it. But first— “Take down yours.”
Without hesitation, he reached for the tie at the base of his topknot and tugged it free. Black hair fell straight along his jaw. The tips brushed the corner of his mouth.
Pulse racing, light-headed, she lifted trembling fingers and began to search for her pins. Each one she pulled out seemed like a leap toward the bed, where her hair would be her only covering.
Blanketed by nothing but her hair and Ariq.
Despite her dressing gown, she felt bare when her hair uncoiled and hung heavy down her back. Her skin prickled and her nipples hardened, as if she stood nude in the wind.
“Your robe,” he said, and his voice had thickened.
“Your tunic,” she whispered.
Holding her gaze, he unclipped the buckles and shrugged it back over his broad shoulders. Her fingernails bit into her palms. So much warm skin. So much powerful muscle. She wanted to touch it all, but she didn’t even know where to start. She stared at him, unmoving, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
He looked at her clenched hands, then her belt, still tied at her waist. “Come here.”
“Come
here,
” she echoed, and it was hardly more than a movement of her lips.
Ariq gripped the edge of the table between them. Carved biceps bulging, he lifted the heavy wood aside and crossed the empty mat to crouch before her.
Concern shadowed his features. His big hand cupped her cheek. “Are you afraid?”
“No.” Amazingly no. “I always feel safe with you.”
Yet still she trembled when his callused thumb swept over her lips.
“Nervous?”
“A little.” A lot. She hadn’t been. Only anticipating. Waiting. But now the time had come and she couldn’t stop shaking. “As if I’m already naked.”
In a fluid movement, he pushed down his trousers and rocked back to drag them all the way off. He knelt before her again, and while she was still staring and gasping, said, “Now we are equal.”
Not remotely. Somehow, she tore her gaze from his jutting arousal and met his eyes.
Though he smiled, his voice was somber. “I won’t take another step without you. When you’re ready, tell me.”
Perhaps because of his concern or because he’d bared himself so easily, her nervousness was already fading. Curiosity took its place.
She glanced down and moistened her lips. “May I touch you?”
“And if it pleases you, take notes.”
That startled a laugh from her. Maybe a sketch, one day. But not today.
Her heart thudding, she scooted closer. Lord, but he was so much taller than her, even when they were kneeling. And so very big. All over. Her gaze traced the sinewy lines of his arms, the broad planes of his chest. Golden lamplight rippled over his abdomen, and as she reached for him, the shadow of her hand melded into the shadow cast by his arousal.
She followed the darkness, flattening her palm against his hair-roughened skin beneath his navel. Ariq sucked in a harsh breath. A quiver raced through the flesh under her hand, and his fists clenched beside his thighs as her fingers trailed closer to his erect shaft.
Zenobia couldn’t stop looking at it. How could such an unremarkable shape be so fascinating? His shoulders, his arms—
those
were remarkable, because even an altered man didn’t pack on so much muscle without a portion of every day spent keeping himself strong so that he could fight, so that he could protect. His mouth was remarkable, because of the way he kissed her and the words he said, and his eyes, not because of their shape but because he looked at her as if she were the most desirable woman he’d ever seen. Other parts of him were appealing by fortunate arrangement, such as the symmetry of his face and the heaviness of his lids and the thickness of his hair, which was a pure pleasure to push her fingers through.
But this. It made no sense at all. “I think women must be mad. Or perhaps it is only me.”
“Why?”
The word was short and rough, as if uttered through gritted teeth. Her hesitation must be an unbearable tease, so she touched him gingerly, the pad of her middle finger at the base of his shaft.
The smooth ridges of his abdomen became chiseled stone. She glanced up, and his features were as tight as his stomach, the shadows as harsh. His pulse drummed at the base of his throat, his eyes burned, and she had to look away, because flame was already licking over her body and his would incinerate her.
“Because I’m going to take this inside me,” she said, desire rising through her like smoke, roughening her voice to a husky whisper. She slid her finger up his length as she spoke—oh, and his penis didn’t feel at all like it looked, not brash and crude, but smooth as silk, and the bulging vein astonishingly soft over all that rigid hardness. “And I
want
it inside me—which is utterly insane. Because it might feel pleasant, but I don’t know for certain. I can’t know until I’ve had you. Yet, just by looking, I feel as if I need you more than anything I’ve ever needed. That’s like looking at a book I’ve never seen before and thinking it will be the best I will ever read. It makes no sense. Especially since this book is so . . . very . . . long.”
He shuddered when she reached the smooth, broad tip. “I won’t hurt you,” he said gruffly. “I’ll make you ready for me.”
“You won’t need to.” Wet and aching, she was already there. “But I’ll never be more vulnerable than when I’m with you. Yet I want to be with you anyway. It must be madness.”
Or hope. Or trust. Perhaps that was the source of this fascination. She wasn’t accustomed to hoping or trusting—and having this part of him so bare and so near represented her decision to do both.
Yet that still didn’t account for how desperately she wanted his length to fill her. And he
would
fill her, thick and hard. Maybe more than her body could take. She couldn’t even completely encircle her fingers around the base, though she tried, squeezing softly and feeling the answering pulse through his hardened flesh.