‘I know this must seem amusing to you,’ she said stiffly. ‘But I’m finding it anything but funny.’
‘Dammit, will you listen?’ His hands tightened on her and he shook her. ‘If the Tagor so much as suspects that we’ve played him for a fool, he’ll give you to one of his men—or maybe to all of them. He’ll make me watch—and then, when they’re finished, he’ll cut out my heart. Is that blunt enough for you?’
It was blunt enough to turn her knees to water. ‘Oh, God!’
Jake nodded grimly. ‘Exactly. So we’ll do whatever we can to convince him that we treat this marriage as seriously as he does.’
‘Dammit, Jake, how do we do that?’
‘We make it obvious that we’re happy as hell about tonight’s little shindig.’
‘How? Do we laugh all the time? Do we go out there skipping? I don’t understand what you expect—’
‘I’ll show you, then,’ he said, and he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
It took no great imagination to figure out what he was doing. His kisses were deep, almost bruising. When he was finished, her lips would be pink and swollen, her cheeks flushed. She would look like a woman eager for the marriage bed.
Jake drew back a little and looked at her. ‘You’re not co-operating,’ he said softly.
‘I don’t have to,’ she said a little unsteadily. ‘And I don’t want to…’
He gathered her closer and kissed her again, and still she stood immobile in his arms.
‘Kitten,’ he whispered. ‘Kiss me back.’ His mouth moved along her cheek, to her ear, and a tremor went through her. ‘We have to be convincing, remember?’ Her eyes closed as his tongue brushed the sensitive skin behind her lobe. ‘How will it look if my bride is cold as stone?’
‘I’m not—I’m not…’ She whimpered softly as his hand swept over her, across the curve of her hip, up over her midriff, and cupped her breast.
‘You see?’ His voice was hoarse and low. ‘It isn’t so difficult to pretend to feel desire for me, kitten, is it?’
‘Jake. Jake, don’t…’
She groaned into his mouth as his hand slipped inside the deep neck of the jellaba. His fingers were hard and rough against her flesh; she felt her nipple leap to his touch, felt the answering leap of flame deep within her womb.
Jake’s breath sighed against her skin. ‘Yes, kitten. That’s the way.’
Outside, in the darkness, the sound of the drums quickened, until their pulsing beat matched the race of Dorian’s heart. Her hands crept up Jake’s chest, to his shoulders; she moved blindly against him, and her mouth opened to his kiss.
The women came bursting into the tent, laughing as they wrenched her from his arms. The dour-faced one who had supervised her bath and her meal peered into Dorian’s flushed face and clapped Jake on the back.
‘She says that you look like a woman ready for her man,’ he whispered as they took her from him, and Dorian knew that he was right.
* * *
They took her to the women’s tent, where she stood trembling while her attendants stripped her of the jellaba and rubbed her skin with scented oil. They brushed her hair until it gleamed like pale gold, and while they fluttered around her they laughed softly and nudged each other.
Dorian had never been the kind of girl who’d spent much time thinking about marriage. She’d assumed, if pressed, that she’d fall in love some day and marry, but it had all been hazy, the kind of misty stuff that would come with the future and wasn’t quite as important as the present.
But she knew what her wedding day would be like. The church would be decorated in yellow and white. Her father would give her away while her mother looked on with teary eyes; the girls she’d grown up with would be her bridesmaids, and all the people who’d ever mattered in her life would be waiting to see her come down the aisle.
Certainly, she’d never imagined a wedding like this. To be given away by the Tagor when he’d just as soon give her to any—or all—of his men, in a place of dark tents and wine-red carpets, where the guests were as likely to carve each other up as toast the happy couple, was beyond her wildest dreams.
‘Tastavai, bobska, tastavai.’
‘Turn around,’ they were saying. They were saying other things, too, the kind of off-colour jokes bridesmaids might make, she was certain of it. Well, at least that crossed cultural barriers. There were sexy jokes, and bridesmaids, there was a bride—and there was a groom.
‘Bobska. Vrostovia, simsaja, eh?’
Someone handed her a pair of wispy silk underpants and she stepped into them. A bridegroom, she thought. Jake. Jake was to be her bridegroom.
‘Bobska. Tsisenjai.’ She looked up, bewildered. One of the women clucked her tongue impatiently. ‘Tsisenjai,’ she said, and she grabbed Dorian’s arms and lifted them over her head.
Jake. Jake. She was marrying Jake…
Her heart skipped a beat as they slipped a cotton gown over her head. Hands moved lightly across her body, smoothing the gown at her hips, then working at its rear closure. One of the women bent and placed a pair of delicate leather sandals before her, and Dorian stepped into them. At last, her attendants stood back and nodded their heads.
‘Da, bobska,’ one of them said softly.
Someone put a hand in the small of her back and propelled her through the curtain to the rear of the tent. The tub was empty now, and beside it stood a standing oval mirror. Giggling, the women urged her towards it.
Suddenly, the last thing Dorian wanted was to see herself in her wedding gown. She shook her head as they pushed her forwards.
‘I’m sure this is the latest in wedding finery,’ she said with forced lightness, ‘but it doesn’t much matter to me what I look like. For all I care…’
Her eyes met her reflection in the mirror, and she fell silent.
The gown was beautiful by anyone’s standards. It was made of white eyelet, with a low, off-the-shoulder neckline that emphasised the curve of her throat and breasts. The sleeves were short and puffed, and the bodice fitted snugly at her waist before becoming a swirling, ankle-length skirt.
A lump rose in Dorian’s throat. ‘Oh,’ she said softly. ‘It’s—it’s lovely.’
One of the women stepped forward and placed a slender wreath of pale yellow and white flowers on her hair. She smiled and said something, and Dorian knew she must be asking if the bride was pleased with how she looked.
‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘oh, yes. I look—I look—’
To her horror, her eyes filled with tears. She looked like a woman on her way to the arms of her beloved. But that was a lie. What was going to happen in the next few minutes wasn’t real, it had nothing to do with love…
‘Bobska.’ The dour-faced woman leaned forward and pressed her cheek to Dorian’s. ‘Oskavit,’ she said, and Dorian could only hope that it had been a traditional offering of good fortune.
She was going to need it.
* * *
It was quiet when she stepped from the tent, and very bright despite the hour. Bonfires ringed the encampment, and an ivory moon hung in the sky. A balalaika whispered a poignant song into the night, and ahead—ahead, a carpeted path stretched towards the brightest fire of all, where the hulking shape of the Tagor waited.
Dorian’s heart began to pound. She couldn’t go through with this, not even if it meant—
‘Kitten.’
She caught her breath as Jake stepped out of the shadows. He was smiling, and it was a different smile from any she’d ever seen on his face before. It was tender and welcoming, and when he put out his hand she hesitated only an instant before she took it. His fingers laced through hers and he led her forwards through the darkness and towards the Tagor.
She moved slowly, her sandalled feet whispering against the soft carpet, her eyes on Jake’s face. No, she thought, this was not the wedding she’d imagined would someday be hers. But it was her wedding. Hers, and Jake’s.
He had been dressed for this occasion, too, in a silk
y black shirt, leather vest, and close-fitting woollen trousers. His boots had been polished until the dust of the trail was not even a memory.
He looked both civilised and barbaric—he looked like the Jake Prince who’d picked her up along the road a lifetime ago and he looked like the man who would be abdhan. But most of all, most of all, he looked like…
Her heart thudded. He looked like the man she had fallen in love with.
No. It was out of the question. They were adversaries; they’d been that from the start and they still were. Hadn’t she wired ahead and arranged to turn him into a headline? Hadn’t he carefully kept his identity secret from her?
But all of that had nothing to do with the simple truth. She loved him, she loved Jake Prince or Jack Alexander or the next abdhan of Barovnia—she loved him in whatever guise and identity he chose, because no one part of him was indistinguishable from the others.
He was an adventurer and a man who sat behind a desk, he was a dreamer and a doer—and she loved him. And, because she did, she could not go through with this sham. It was bad enough to go through with a pretend marriage to a man who meant nothing to you, but, when you loved the man, how could you participate in such a lie and ever face yourself—or him—again?
She came to a stumbling halt just as they reached the Tagor. ‘Jake,’ she whispered urgently, ‘I can’t do this!’
‘You can, kitten. You must!’
‘No. Jake, no. Please—’
The Tagor spoke. Jake nodded and turned to Dorian. ‘He asks if I have lied to him. He says if you have no love in your heart for me, you must tell him so now.’
Her throat constricted. ‘Jake. Tell him—tell him…’
Jake cupped her face and gave her a gentle kiss. ‘Don’t lose your courage now,’ he said softly.
His voice was as loving as his kiss. But she knew it was only meant to deceive the Tagor.
The Tagor! In her selfishness she had almost forgotten him. Her glance flew to the chieftain. He had changed his clothing for the wedding, but everything else about him was the same as she remembered, especially the stern, unyielding cast of his swarthy face.