Jewel of Persia (33 page)

The Persian tugged her a little closer. “I saw her first, friend.”

Zechariah’s lips turned up in a cold, hard smile. He reached out, palm up. “Shall I see you home, Esther?”

She put her fingers into his. “I would appreciate it.”

The other man relinquished her elbow with an exaggerated sigh—and a glint of resentment in his eye. “I see. Well, a man cannot be blamed for trying when he comes across such astounding beauty.”

Zechariah made a noise that crossed doubt with threat and tucked her hand into his elbow. Hopefully he did not notice the way her fingers trembled. “Come, dear one,” he said. “Let us go home.”

The Persian said nothing, but she did not miss the way he measured Zechariah’s height and form before spinning back into his house. Would he have challenged him had Zechariah not looked so strong?

This was ridiculous. She had never so much as seen the man before—what made him think he had any claim to her, any right to stake one?

Zechariah led her quickly around the corner. “What are you doing here without escort?”

And what made
this
man think he had a right to judge her, when
he
was the one who had told her to take her cousin a meal? She jerked her hand free and stormed ahead of him. “It is a perfectly respectable area, and I can hardly expect Martha or Jonah to leave their tasks because of my whim.”

He caught up to her in a single stride. “You could have brought Eglah. She may be no bigger than you, but there is strength to be found in numbers.”

Esther halted and spun on him. “I should not need a companion to walk a reputable street in the light of day, especially in a year when so few men are in Susa. Tell me, Zechariah, why do those who remain think they can have their way on everything?”

He looked at her as if she had sprouted a tree from her ears. “That is surely not aimed at me—all I did was rescue you. Which, I might add, you have not thanked me for.”

“I would not have been here to need rescuing had
you
not told me to get out of the house more.”

Now he looked amused, the infuriating man. “You say you are in my debt for my perfect timing? Nonsense. I am only glad I could help.”

“Why did I even listen to you? You are as much a fool as that Persian, thinking your will ought to make a thing so.” She marched toward home again.

Zechariah chuckled and kept pace. “I too am glad we could resolve it so easily, by my mere presence. Though I would not have minded smashing his face in, in defense of my—”

“If you call me your sister again, I will smash 
your
face in.”

He laughed and pulled her to a halt. “I was going to say ‘friend.’ Esther, this is unlike you.”

She focused her gaze on the house beyond his shoulder. “Nothing ever works as I think it should.”

“Such is life. Do you think mine is what I thought it should be?”

For a moment, she just stared at him. “Because you are not a soldier? Yes, Zechariah, you are so cursed. You have a successful business. Talent and skill with both wood and weapons. A slew of friends who look up to you, female eyes on you everywhere you go. However can you get through the day?”

“Sarcasm.” He tilted his head and blinked at her. “Do I know you?”

The fight went out of her, and her shoulders slumped. “I wonder that sometimes too.”

“Esther.” He touched her cheek to bid her look at him—something he had done often enough over the years. This time when she met his gaze, she could almost convince herself she saw awareness in his eyes. Almost. “One over-aggressive dolt should not ruin your special day. Take it as affirmation of the beautiful young woman you have become.”

She attempted a smile—he did, after all, remember it was her birthday—but it fizzled out quickly. “It is not only that, though it is a perfect example. When he approached me, I had no clever words to save myself. Why can I not be like Kasia? You ought to have heard her that day the Persian man approached her, right before her death. She was witty and smart. She was fearless, while I cowered behind her.”

His thumb brushed over her cheek and set her heart to hammering. “You were a child, Esther, and Kasia . . . she was too reckless for her own good. It is better to escape quietly where you may.”

“Her recklessness earned her admiration and respect, and the man let her go—with a romantic story no less. My cowering did not help with escape at all.”

“You did not cower.”

“Sometimes I feel as though I live my life in fear, Zech. You would not understand that.” She turned away, fearful even now that she would see distaste in his eyes, and started for home again. “Always afraid those I love will leave me. That I will not be what I ought. That when the days of my life are fulfilled, I will have no story to tell.”

“Esther—”

“Kasia may have died too soon, but still she
lived
. She had suitors eager to marry her even though she had no dowry. She had a stranger who fell a little in love with her after one interaction.”

“And she had fears.” Zechariah leapt into her path. “She feared letting you down. She feared not being able to show you that life could be full, even with loss shadowing you. I imagine when she was being carried away, she feared how devastated
you
would be.”

She sucked in a breath only to heave it out again. Unbidden, memories crashed through her. Kasia, outside in the kitchen that last day, joking about suitors. Kasia, searching her house for Esther’s bracelet. Kasia, so full of life and love for others.

Kish, face ashen as rain poured over him, with the news that Kasia had sneaked off to the river and had not returned. The panic, the fear, the tears that rivaled the monsoon.

Zechariah the next morning, telling her to face reality. Holding her, drying her tears, fetching the silver bracelet for her. As if that mattered after losing the only true friend she had ever known.

His fingers encircled her wrist now, as if the same images flashed before his eyes. “You never wear your mother’s bracelet anymore.”

“It was broken,” she said, gaze on his hand. It practically swallowed her wrist, and the skin was work-roughened. Nails chipped, cuticles uneven. Scratches marred his knuckles. Strong hands, honest hands. Oh, for them to hold her every day. “That was why it fell off.”

“So get it repaired.” His voice was a low thrum, like the creak of wood warming in the sun.

“Then it would not be the same bracelet my mother gave me.” And she would remember that last day, full of hope and fear, every time she put it on.

He put a hand against her cheek, again urging her face up. She wanted to resist, knowing he would see how much she loved him, how much she wanted what he refused to give. But she looked up—and forgot how to breathe. His eyes had never gleamed so intensely for her before, he had never gazed at her like this, then glanced at her mouth. Surely he did not mean to kiss her—it must only be her overwrought imagination, so desperate for his attention. He had made his feelings—or lack of them—clear many a time.

But they could change. He could realize she had grown up. Surely it was possible that this one thing might go right for her.

He swallowed, then released her and took a step back.

And that, she supposed, was the answer to that.

~*~

Zechariah mentally cursed himself and took another step back for good measure. Still he was unsure what had happened. Memories had crowded him, and her pain, so sharp even after two years, had pierced him through. But never before had that made her seem like anything but a sister.

It was not
her
. It could not be her—it was only that his mind had already been on dangerous matters, his senses already heightened. That was all.

He cleared his throat and fought the urge to sprint away. “Come, we should hurry. I am late.”

Her brows drew together, and she lifted her hands to clutch her elbows. Her basket swayed. “What were you even doing here, Zech? You are not dressed for work.”

He bit back an angry defense and smiled. “I have a few measurements to take. Since there will be no labor involved, I thought I ought not drag shavings with me.”

Her casual nod said she saw no reason to question him. But the caution in her eyes said she had noted the shift in his behavior.

Jehovah have mercy, if he were not careful he could destroy her along with himself. Why had no one ever warned him that giving in to one sin would tempt him to others? He did not want to think of Esther like that. He would not. No matter how soft her skin, no matter how forcefully it struck him right now that her face was absolutely flawless.

He would
not
.

She looked away. “I can get myself home without incident from here.”

A responsible friend would disagree and insist on seeing her home. But then, a responsible friend would not be every bit the threat to her that the stranger had been. Given his thoughts at the moment, she would be safer without his company. “Very well. I will see you at the festivities tonight.” Hopefully his grin looked as unconcerned and teasing as ever. “I have been working on your gift for months.”

Her usual sweet smile curled her lips up, and she glanced at his face before turning away. “Have a good day. And Zechariah—thank you. For stepping in with the Persian.”

He only trusted himself to nod, then he turned and hurried past the street he had found her on, to the next. Onward to the house that had become far too familiar and the back entrance that soured his stomach every time he used it.

But the moment he stepped into the chamber, shame lost its footing. Ruana sat on her bed waiting for him. “There you are—I expected you a bit sooner.”

He pulled his tunic over his head. “I ran into a friend who needed help.”

“Always the hero. Now it is my turn to be saved—from my longings. I have missed you.”

“It has only been a week.” But he pulled off his shoes and hurried to the bed.

Best to lose himself quickly, before he could think too much on how unheroic he felt.

Twenty-Five

Malis, Trachis

Xerxes paced to the end of the tent, then back again. His every muscle felt hard and tense, his blood running hot. He glanced at the scout he had sent out five days ago then at Demaratus, who still sat with infuriating surety.

Arrogance, nothing but arrogance. Three hundred men. Three
hundred
men stood before the walls in the pass they called Thermopylae, refusing to budge. He spun on the scout. “Tell me again what you saw.”

The man moistened his lips. “The Lacedaemonians stood along the wall, their weapons and armor at their feet. They exercised nude, then brushed their hair.”

“Brushed their hair.” Xerxes glared at Demaratus.

The Spartan smiled. “If they are going to die, they want to look their best.”

“And die they shall, if they do not move from the pass. I have given them four days.”

Damaratus sighed and his smile faded. “I warned you that the Spartans would fight. But once you get through them, you will encounter no other resistance.”

Why, then, did they even bother? There was no question that they would be killed. “So be it. Send out the Medes and Cissians—and bring any prisoners back to me alive.”

“There will be no prisoners.”

Xerxes ignored him and left the shade of the tent. The summer sun beat down, but with less intensity than his men were accustomed to. To them it would be like the finest of spring days. And this battle would be little more than an exercise.

Three hundred men. Absurd. “Zethar, have my throne set up on the hill so I can watch the battle.”

“Yes, master.” His eunuch turned halfway, then paused. “Will the king still be dining with Kasia this morning?”

He looked at the hill that would give him the best viewpoint, at the troops that would have to be put in formation and marched to the pass. There was time. “I suppose.”

Her presence might soothe the building anticipation. Then again, it could just as easily do the opposite. The round of her stomach was hard to ignore these days. And the more frustrated she got with him for refusing to acknowledge it, the more frustrated he got with her for not seeing why he needed to.

They had already lost four hundred ships in the Hellespontine winds, crucial supply vessels among them. The Egyptians’ camels had been hunted by lions in the pass near the canal at Mount Athos. Fifteen more ships had been captured by the Greeks. He must ensure as few other losses as possible.

Yet when he ducked into her tent she was, as always, on the floor in prayer. “Kasia, get up. I have no time for this today—the Medes and Cissians even now prepare to march on the pass.”

She rose immediately—but the shadow in her eyes said his tone grated. Well, that was only fair. Her continual insistence on praying to a God that cared nothing for his campaign grated on him.