Her mouth tightened. God, how she ached to tell him all that and more. Jake Prince was a man with no heart and no feelings. He was a robot, damn him; that was why he could keep such a killing pace.
But why would she give him the satisfaction of telling him what he already knew? He knew he held all the cards until they reached Kadar; she had to follow where he led and do what he ordered, her only comfort the knowledge of what she would write when she finally got to a typewriter.
Jake Prince, a barbarian in a barbaric land, gives new meaning to the word ‘uncivilised’. If Jack Alexander has any plans to bring Barovnia into the twenty-first century, he would be well-advised to oust Mr Prince from his circle of advisers…
And if that’s what Jake was, then Alexander was a fool.
‘Come on, Oliver. Your feet are dragging.’
Dorian looked up. Jake was standing on the road ahead, glaring at her, his hands planted firmly on his hips.
More than her feet were dragging, but she’d be damned if she’d let him know that.
‘What’s dragging is these sandals. Do all the women in this God-forsaken place have feet the size of ox carts?’
‘Be grateful I got you sandals at all.’ His gaze raked over her. ‘And get that shawl up on your head.’
‘It’s wool. It’s too warm to wear in this sun.’
‘Get it on. You’re supposed to look like a peasant.’
‘I am sweating to death under this thing,’ she said when she reached him. She yanked the shawl from her shoulders. ‘Look, if you don’t believe me.’
Jake smiled coldly. ‘What’s the matter, Oliver? Haven’t you ever worked up an honest sweat before?’
‘You don’t know—’
‘But then, you wouldn’t have to, would you? Sitting at a desk all day, wielding a poison pen, isn’t very taxing.’
‘I see. Now I’m going to get a lecture on the honesty and decency of physical labour.’ She glared at him as she shoved her damp hair behind her ears. ‘Well, before you get carried away, I suggest you consider what you do for a living as opposed to what you might be doing.’
His face darkened as he caught her shoulders. ‘What in hell is that supposed to mean?’ he demanded.
‘You’re hurting me!’
‘Answer the question, Dorian. What did you mean?’
‘Just that I doubt very much if being an adviser to a man like Jack Alexander improves the condition of the world any more than my work does,’ she said as she twisted in his grasp.
He stared at her for another few seconds and then he dropped his hands to his sides. When he spoke, she could hear a faint weariness in his voice.
‘Just get that thing on your head.’
‘Come on, Jake. We haven’t seen a soul. Anyway, you didn’t worry about what I was wearing before.’
‘There were no alternatives before. Now pull the shawl up.’
‘But—’
‘Dammit, woman, are you a slow learner or just a fool?’ He took a quick step towards her until they were only inches apart. ‘Good wives are not argumentative. And ones who are mute are not argumentative at all.’
‘That’s ridiculous. There’s no one here to—’
Jake reached out and caught her by the wrist. ‘You are my woman, Dorian,’ he said in a harsh whisper. ‘And women know their place here. Do you understand—or must I give you a lesson?’
Tears of rage and frustration glistened in her eyes. ‘I hate you, Jake, do you know that?’
His smile was grim. ‘Hearing that just about breaks my heart. Now, get that scarf up over your head. Further. Further, dammit.’ When it hung down over her forehead, half covering her eyes, he nodded with satisfaction. ‘Keep it that way,’ he said, and he swung away from her and set off towards the mountains again.
She stared after him, hating not just him, but his long-legged stride and the dirt and the itchy shawl, too.
‘You just wait until I file my first dispatch,’ she called out. ‘You just wait…’
Jake didn’t bother turning around. Why would he? Her threat was meaningless. They were miles from a telephone or fax machine. Besides, he’d said he would censor whatever she tried to send out, and the more time she spent with him, the more certain she was that he had the power to do it.
For the time being, at least, he was in command.
Grim-faced, she marched on.
* * *
The road grew narrower. It began to slope upwards, the angle increasing steadily. Dorian was breathing hard now, even panting a little, and her legs ached. Jake had to know that she was pushing herself to the limit and beyond, but he didn’t slow down or give any quarter.
That was OK, she thought darkly. She could keep it up as long as he did, and if she needed anything to keep her going all she had to do was remember what he’d said about being his woman until they reached Kadar. And if that didn’t do the trick, remembering how he’d kissed her certainly would.
Her mouth still felt the imprint of that kiss. It had been bruising, even degrading. It was a kiss that had had nothing to do with passion and everything to do with dominance. It had been a graphic, almost brutal reminder of her status.
She was a woman, dependent for her survival on a man she barely knew, in a place that time had forgotten.
Well, she had a message for Jake Prince. He could swathe her in wool like a badly wrapped package, he could treat her with disdain, he could pretend that they’d both fallen into the thirteenth century—but she was still herself inside, where it really counted. She was Dorian Oliver, and she could handle whatever he dished out.
Suddenly, it became important not just to follow ten paces to the rear, as she had all morning, but to match Jake stride for stride. Her footsteps quickened until she was at his side. Jake gave her a quick glance and if she hadn’t been breathing so hard she would have laughed aloud at the look on his face.
‘You’d be better off behind me,’ he said.
‘I’m better off right where I am,’ she puffed, and she slogged along beside him, gritting her teeth and letting her hatred for Jake give her the strength to continue.
And it worked, even after her legs turned to lead and her lungs to flame. It worked, even when Jake plunged off the dirt road on to a twisting trail where the brambles and tree branches seemed determined to draw blood from any patch of exposed skin. After a while, she had to drop back because the trail was only wide enough for one, but that was just as well.
She was completely exhausted and disorientated. Her eyes focused singularly on the path at her feet while she tried not to think about her aching muscles, thirst, and…
‘Bognia dovitch?’
The guttural voice startled her and she went careering into Jake’s back. She collected herself, stood on tiptoe, and peered over his shoulder.
Ahead of him—oh, lord—ahead of him were two of the biggest, most wicked-looking men she had ever seen. They wore trousers and shirts similar to Jake’s, but theirs were encrusted with filth. Knives with sharp, curving blades gleamed in their waistbands.
Her eyes went from the fat one with the piggy face to the tall, broad one with the moustache. Quickly, she covered her face with the shawl so that only her eyes showed.
‘Saletsa?’ Pig Face said, and, although she had no idea what the word meant, the way he was looking at her terrified her.
Jake said something to the men in that same rough tongue, and then he reached back and grasped her wrist, snarling something guttural to her as he dragged her up to stand beside him. She shook her head and all three men laughed.
Dorian’s heart fluttered. The sun was dipping towards the horizon, but she knew that wasn’t why she suddenly felt so cold. She looked past Jake. Pig Face was grinning at her. She cast her eyes down, glad to be wrapped in concealing layers of dark wool.
The conversation went on and on, and she needed no translator to warn her that parts of it were about her. Jake was laughing as much as the strangers were; she caught her breath
when his hand left her wrist and moved casually over her body.
‘Shnoi voritch,’ he said, and she knew that he was staking claim to her.
‘You are my woman, until we reach Kadar.’
The words that had so angered her hours before were her only solace now. But—would the deception work?
Jake barked a command at her, put his hand into the small of her back, and shoved her forward. Pig Face laughed as she brushed past him, her eyes cast obediently towards her sandals. Jake barked again and she came to a halt, waiting, trembling, watching out of the corner of her eye as he and the strangers grasped each other’s forearms. The two men strode off, vanishing down the trail, and Jake moved up towards her.
‘Gastia,’ he snarled as he elbowed past her, and she fell in dutifully behind him.
She made no attempt to catch up to him this time. Instead, she shuffled along, eyes downcast, trying to breathe past the lump in her throat that was her stomach, trying not to look back over her shoulder to see if Pig Face and his friend had really vanished. Time dragged by, an hour, perhaps more, until finally, finally, Jake stopped and turned around.
‘Wait,’ he said softly.
She watched as he trotted down the trail. There was nothing but silence; then, just when she’d almost given up hope, he reappeared.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘They’re gone.’
‘Gone?’ she whispered.
Jake nodded. ‘Yes.’
A sob of relief burst from her throat. ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. ‘Jake—Jake…’
He caught hold of her. ‘It’s all right, kitten,’ he said softly. ‘Everything is OK now.’
She wanted to answer, to say something clever—one of the one-liners she did so well—but all that came out of her was another sob. Jake looked at her for a long moment, his dark eyes sweeping over her face, and then he sighed and drew her close to him.
‘Come here,’ he said gruffly.
His arms tightened around her and she burrowed against him, seeking the warmth and strength that were so much a part of him. She was safe now, she would be safe so long as he held her.
How could that be? the journalistic sceptic within her whispered, but Dorian was too drained to care.