The Thief and the Desert Flower, page 1
Dedication
To all readers who like an old-fashioned desert adventure. I hope you enjoy the clash of wills between Chala and Kyo. Special thanks to author Darragha Foster for her input.
Chapter One
Grit crunched between Chala’s teeth, infiltrating every pore of her skin. Her mass of brown curls was heavy with dirt. Particles even invaded her lungs, making her cough. A film of grime covered everything in the coach.
“Karachi, this trip will never end!” Her invocation of the deity was caught between a curse and a prayer.
After days of traveling through the desert, she longed for a return to civilization, but dreaded her destination, Rajira, the capitol city of Calwas. The bond she would soon make with a stranger would change the rest of her life. All she wanted was to be back in her own rooms, among familiar things, her friends, pets and diversions. Yet sometimes, as she dozed in the stifling heat of the swaying vehicle, she felt vaguely excited, too. There was a stirring in her belly and between her legs when she imagined what her future husband might be like.
She’d seen a picture of Fordin Brachas, ruler of Calwas. While he wasn’t the romantic ideal Chala and her friends had daydreamed about, he wasn’t repellant. But more importantly, he governed lands that made him a valuable alliance for her father’s kingdom.
Chala pulled her cuorta around her face. The soft fold of fabric shielded her from the others in the carriage. No one could see her trembling lip or glistening eyes. Her maid and confidante, Gen, would understand such fears, but her chaperone, Madam Britta, would remind her a princess was born for this kind of union and she should be happy to have made such an important match.
Like the lowest scullery maid, Chala had duties to fulfill. Daughter of King Mica Leandros and Queen Tiah of Gendera though she may be, she was still bartered goods. There should be more parties, dances and fun in her life before she submitted to her destiny. She was too young for this!
The carriage rolled down a sharp incline, lurching from side to side. The creak of the vehicle, the jangle of horses’ harnesses and the occasional shouts of the caravan drivers had become so familiar Chala scarcely heard them any longer. But suddenly a new sound broke the monotony—yells in a foreign tongue and many pounding hooves.
The carriage ground to an abrupt halt, nearly throwing her off the seat. Gen screamed and clutched Chala’s arm.
In the seat across from them, Madam Britta’s eyes flew open. “We’re under attack!”
The carriage door was wrenched open. Sunlight blinded Chala. A dark-clad arm reached inside, seized Britta’s skirt and hauled her toward the opening. A deep voice shouted in a language as rough and gritty as the desert sand.
“Out! Now!” the voice commanded in thickly accented Genderese.
Britta seized her handbag. She hit the man’s arm, breaking his grip.
“Stop! You may have our jewels and that is all.” She reached to unclasp her necklace, her eyes warning the other women to do the same.
This can’t be happening. Chala’s stomach churned. She could barely breathe the choking, dry air as she pulled off her rings, bracelet and gold choker and put them in Britta’s handbag. The older woman thrust the bag toward the open door.
A brown hand seized the bag. “Out!”
Madam Britta descended almost regally from the carriage while Gen tripped on the hem of her gown as she stumbled through the door.
Chala gripped her gem-studded brooch in her fist with the sharp pin protruding between her fingers, her heart racing, sweat drenching her gown. Every instinct told her to cling to the safety of the carriage for as long as possible. She felt strangely calm and distant, too busy calculating how she might save herself to be as terrified as she might be.
“Come out,” the voice barked.
Remembering who she was, Chala injected every ounce of royalty she possessed into her calm reply. “No! You have what you came for. Now leave us alone.”
The robber cursed in the language of the desert nomads as he invaded the carriage. Silhouetted in the doorway, his body looked as though the bright day had ripped apart to show a piece of midnight sky. His hair was black and long, his clothes dark and his skin brown leather. Only his teeth were white, like snapping wolf fangs. Although the carriage was spacious enough for four to comfortably travel, the man seemed to fill the entire space.
Chala pressed flat against her seat, arms crossed protectively over her chest. She didn’t scream, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing her fear. But her heart thundered loudly in her ears and she felt faint.
Glittering black eyes scanned her body. He reached toward her hair and snatched out a jewel-studded comb she’d forgotten. Her hair tumbled down, several locks trailing over her face.
After examining the comb, he thrust it into his jacket pocket. “You have money?” He stared hard at the folds of her dress, as if he could see through them and expected to find gold coins hidden on her body.
“I don’t carry money.” She gazed straight into his eyes. Her mother had taught her that good eye contact and an impartial tone were important in establishing one’s authority over the lower classes.
He reached toward her bodice. Chala slapped his hand away from the rose satin. The brooch cupped in her other hand was slick with sweat, but she waited, saving it in case her situation grew even more desperate.
“I assure you, I have nothing that would be of any interest to you.”
The white wolf teeth flashed. She imagined he would lunge forward and take a bite out of her. Chala wasn’t naïve, despite her sheltered upbringing. She understood the meaning of his smirk, and her fear mounted.
“I check.” He grabbed her upper arm, his strong fingers digging into her flesh. He reached for her skirt with his other hand, gathering the yards of fabric until the hem was up to her thighs.
She tugged her gown away, attempting to smooth it back down. No fear. Don’t ever show fear. Chala glared into shining black eyes, only a few feet from hers. She smelled leather, sweat and a foreign spice. Her body was rigid, the muscles tensing hard enough to cramp. She felt his gaze would burn her to a cinder and the ashes would blow away in the desert wind to mingle with the sand.
“Not hurt you. Want money.” His tone was as polite as if he were a friend invited to tea and asking for a small loan, but beneath her skirt he touched her thigh, stroking upward toward the juncture of her legs.
She squirmed against his other hand pinning her shoulder to the seat. Chala grabbed his wrist through the fabric of her cuorta and squeezed, trying to prevent his fingers from roaming any higher.
He leaned closer, his warm breath tickling the side of her face, and his gaze dropped from her eyes to the neckline of her gown. Pulling free of her grip, he drew his hand from beneath her skirt and reached to touch the top swell of her breasts with a light brush of fingertips.
Her skin tingled as if fevered. Her nipples tightened. An odd, aching sensation settled between her legs. Her breath caught at her body’s strong reaction to the man’s touch. She was torn between repulsion and a strange, hungry feeling.
Setting his palm flat against her chest, he splayed his fingers wide and remained silent, unmoving, simply feeling her skin and the beating of her heart. The weight and heat of his hand were almost comforting. She stilled, waiting to see what would happen next. Maybe, now that he realized she had no money, he’d simply go away.
His gaze lifted from her breasts to her face. For several long moments, they stared at each other. From outside the carriage came the sounds of whinnying horses, men’s shouts and Gen’s wailing, but the uproar seemed a world away from this intense, silent moment. Only the robber’s breathing disturbed the quiet. His gaze flicked to her mouth, settled there, and he leaned slowly forward.
Chala wouldn’t have believed her heart could beat any faster, but when his breath tickled her lips, the pounding in her head became deafening. His hard body pressed against hers. His warm lips covered hers. She snapped out of whatever trance held her and twisted her head to the side, breaking the pressure of his mouth on hers. Lifting the hand with the brooch, she drove the pin into his cheek and raked downward.
He cried out and released her, his hand rising to the side of his face.
Chala wriggled from underneath him. She tried to scramble away, but his leg on the folds of her gown anchored her in place. He grabbed her arm and jerked her back down onto the seat.
“Lagro!” He growled and wrapped a firm hand around her throat, not squeezing, but keeping her from moving.
Chala drove the brooch pin into his hand. Even though there was nowhere to escape to even if she got free of him, she wouldn’t give in without making an effort to protect herself.
Shinje curses rattled like gravel from his mouth, but he didn’t let go of her throat. Grabbing her other wrist, he squeezed until her bones creaked. She gasped and opened her hand, dropping her only weapon.
No. Not her only one. Chala brought her knee up, trying to strike her assailant between his legs, but again her skirts restricted her. She squirmed and struck at his face with her free hand, but he held her fast.
He flipped her onto her stomach, her face pressed into the seat, and pulled her arms behind her. His legs bracketed her body on either side, pinning her down, as something coiled around her wrists, binding them together.
“Stop!” he ordered when she continued to buck beneath him.
Chala hadn’t wasted breath on screaming, but she was winded and gasping from her struggle. She stopped moving and inhaled deeply, reassessing the situation. She couldn’t free herself or run away. It was best to conserve her energy for whatever happened next. Maybe an opportunity for escape would come later.
The man’s weight abruptly lifted off her. He hauled her to her feet and toward the open door of the carriage, beyond which lay harsh white sunlight and sand. He jumped from the carriage, spanned her waist with his hands and swung her to the ground, then kept her close to his side, gripping her shoulder.
She squinted in the sunlight and took in the scene before her. Some of the caravan drivers, attendants and bodyguards were stripped to their underclothes. They lay face down on the ground with their hands tied behind them. Others sprawled where they’d been slain, blood staining the sand beneath their bodies. A few of the robbers removed boots, belts, weapons and clothing from the corpses. Gen and Britta were stripping off their gowns in the shadow of the carriage while an armed assailant looked on. Other men loaded plunder from the caravan onto packhorses and several argued over possession of Britta’s purse.
Chala’s captor pushed her against the side of the carriage and glared at her. “Stay!” he ordered as if she was a dog or a servant.
He strode across the sand toward the fighting men, sand kicking up from beneath his boots. He grabbed the purse from one of them and spoke a few sharp words. The pair fell silent.
Chala glanced at the other two women. Gen sobbed as she passed her gown to the robber. Madam Britta looked at Chala, her eyes signaling her shame at not being able to protect her mistress. Chala shook her head. It’s all right. It’s not your fault.
She looked back at the band of robbers. They wore fabric in shades of brown or tan that blended with the sand. Their exposed faces and hands were as tan as their clothing. They wore no beards or moustaches and their hair was long and black, braided with strips of cloth, tied back in thongs or flowing freely.
The horses’ manes were also braided with colorful fabric ribbons. Better dressed than their riders, the animals’ tack boasted silver discs that flashed in the sun and made a soft tinkling as they moved. Thick pads woven with intricate designs took the place of saddles and no stirrups hung against their flanks.
“Ai-yup!” Chala’s assailant called. The men’s talking subsided. He rattled off a string of commands, occasionally gesturing at the captives. He could have been ordering decapitation or advocating for their safety, and both would have sounded equally cruel in that harsh language.
“Don’t kill them!” Chala cried out. None of these people would be in this desolate wilderness if it weren’t for her. She hadn’t imagined there would be danger along the road as they escorted her to her husband.
The robber glanced at her, but continued talking. When he was finished, one of the men walked toward Gen and Britta, pointing and jabbering. He reached for Gen, seizing hold of her arm and jerking her roughly toward him. Gen whimpered. Her white shift fluttered. She was as pale as the garment.
“Kaitan!” A knife flew from the leader’s hand and buried in the other man’s shoulder. “Ajora!”
The man cried out, released Gen and grabbed at the knife embedded in his flesh. There was a sucking sound as he withdrew the weapon. The blade glistened and a wet stain bloomed on the shoulder of his shirt.
“Ajora,” the head bandit repeated. He walked toward the other man and stopped a foot away, staring into his face, holding out a hand for the knife.
The man glared back, snarled a few words, but surrendered the knife, then he turned to head toward one of the horses.
Facing the rest of the band, the leader spoke again. His hands wove gracefully through the air, embellishing his words. He concluded his speech, and the nomads abruptly began to move out. Those already mounted wheeled their horses and cantered away. The rest leaped onto their steeds with graceful agility and spurred them, leading the packhorses alongside.
The man with the knife wound paused to gaze at the leader and said something that sounded like a warning before he turned his horse to gallop after the others. A cloud of sand from the churning hooves filled the air. Chala coughed and pressed her mouth to her shoulder as she struggled to breathe.
When the riders disappeared over a rise in the land, all that remained was the dark bandit and the huddled group of captives. He clicked his tongue and a chestnut horse, which had been standing nearby, came to him. Grasping its reins, he led the animal to where Chala stood and stopped in front of her.
She didn’t want to face his keen eyes again, but Chala lifted her chin and met his gaze. Her jaw hurt from being clenched and her chest ached from the continued pounding of her heart. How long could it race like that before she dropped like a winded deer chased by a hunter?
For a long moment, he studied her face. Blood welled from the jagged scratch her brooch had made across his cheek, trickled down his jaw and dripped onto his shirt. What did he have in mind? If he was going to kill them all, it seemed he would have had his men do it. Chala couldn’t wait another second to find out his intentions. She just wanted it to be over.
“Go ahead.” Her voice was hoarse. “Do whatever it is you’re going to do.”
He nodded once, as if she’d released him from indecision. Reaching into a saddlebag slung over the horse’s hindquarters, he pulled out a water skin, which he tossed on the ground by Britta. With the blood-slicked knife in his fist, he faced Chala.
“Leave her alone!” Madam Britta started to scramble to her feet, but, with her hands bound and with her long skirts hobbling her, she fell back on the ground.
Chala drew a deep breath and closed her eyes as the robber dropped to his knees before her.
Her eyes flew open and she looked down at the top of his head. His hair was a glossy black that swallowed the light like a night sky consuming the daystar. He nudged her legs apart and gripped the folds of her skirt. Driving the knife into the fabric between her legs, he ripped the blade through both skirt and underskirt, all the way from thigh to hem.
Although the air that blew beneath her skirts was hot, Chala’s flesh felt chilled. The thin fabric of her drawers offered no protection, and she almost expected him to slice them off her next.
He grabbed her hips and turned her around. The knife entered her skirt once more, shearing the material from just below her buttocks to her heels. The torn garments flapped around her legs in the stiff breeze that never ceased blowing across the desert.
Behind her, she heard him rise. There was pressure on the rope binding her hands before they were suddenly free. She brought her arms forward and rubbed her sore wrists.
He seized her upper arm and pulled her toward the horse. Sheathing his knife in his boot, he swung onto the horse’s back and reached for Chala.
She stepped back. “No.”
He moved the horse closer and leaned down, snapping his fingers. “Come.”
“No!” She sidled a few more steps toward Britta and Gen.
“Lagro,” he cursed then pointed at Gen. “I kill her.”
Gen’s eyes were huge and her hands pressed to her mouth. Chala studied the face of the girl who’d been her companion since childhood. She looked at Britta, the chaperone she’d sometimes detested for hampering her fun, but whose steadfastness she now respected. In that instant, she believed she’d never see either of them again.
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she reached toward the bandit’s outstretched hand. His grip was like a band of steel around her wrist. He hauled her off her feet and onto the horse in front of him. Her split skirt got trapped beneath her, and for a precarious moment she thought she might tumble off. But he helped her get her leg over the padded saddle and slipped his arm around her waist. His body behind her was as solid and unyielding as a wall—a living, breathing wall of flesh.
The horse’s warm sides heaved against her legs, muscles flexing as the animal moved forward. Her captor guided the horse to a wagon where two of the caravan’s horses were tethered, the rest having been taken by his companions.
He leaned to untie one horse and looped the rope around the pommel of his saddle between Chala’s legs. The stolen horse fell into step alongside them. They rode past the men lying in the sand, beginning to struggle to their feet as they realized they weren’t going to be killed.
