SILK AND SECRETS (24 page)

They emerged in the clear only a couple of hundred yards from the circle of justice. Dust stung Ross’s eyes so that he could barely see the goal, but blindly he kicked Rabat into a gallop, relying on the stallion’s training and instinct to take them to the circle at top speed. Needing to clear his vision, Ross lifted one hand from the goat and used the tail of his turban to wipe his eyes. And in the instant that his grasp on the carcass was less secure, another pair of hands seized it.

Once more it was Dil Assa, his black eyes wild with jubilant fury as he dragged the
boz
onto his own horse. Immediately he spurred the bay in an attempt to escape, but before he could succeed, Ross retaliated, stretching across the intervening space to grab one of the goat’s hind legs. His muscles knotted with strain as he tried to wrench the carcass back, but Dil Assa held a front leg with equal stubbornness, refusing to let go.

The two horses thundered toward the goal side by side, for neither of the men would yield in their grisly tug-of-war. Other riders surrounded them, yelling and striking with their whips, but Ross was aware only of Dil Assa and the savage struggle for primacy between them.

To break the perilous stalemate, Ross locked one leg around the high cantle of the saddle, then slid down the far side of the horse, using his weight to get the extra force he needed. Something had to give, and with shocking suddenness, it did. The goat surged over to Ross, and he lost his precarious balance. He almost pitched off his mount under the hooves of the pursuing riders, but once again the saddle horn saved him.

As Ross heaved himself upright, he saw that the animal’s front leg had torn away in Dil Assa’s hands, leaving the main carcass in Ross’s possession. Shrieking with rage, Dil Assa heaved the foreleg at his opponent and made another attempt to seize the
boz,
but it was too late. They had reached the goal.

As Ross flung the ragged carcass into the quicklime circle, shouts of
“Hallal, hallal!”
rose from the spectators. That quickly turned into a chant of, “Khilburn, Khilburn!”

When Ross raised one arm in acknowledgment, the crowd went wild. Fierce, primitive exultation surged through Ross’s veins. Though he had played team sports in school with great success, no team victory had ever given him such pure, arrogant satisfaction in his own prowess. Rabat was equally exhilarated, and pranced and curvetted in a triumphant stallion strut.

Ross had noted earlier where Juliet watched with Saleh and Murad, and now he looked for her, instinctively wanting to share his elation. It was easy to pick her out, for she was a tall, slim raven among the colorful Turkomans.

For a moment their gazes met. He felt an odd jolt, but the distance was too great to read her expression. Then she turned her head sharply away. Perhaps she was upset that he had forgotten his intention to glide through the match without risk. Whatever the motive, her gesture served to bring Ross back to earth. As his mania ebbed, he was grateful to find that his sanity seemed intact, though he also became aware of just how hot, tired, and bruised he was. His chest heaved with exertion, and his ribs ached with every breath he drew.

The
bozkashi
master trotted over to Ross from his place on the sidelines, to perform one last ritual. While the clamor made it impossible to hear his words, the master’s beaming face was easy to read when, with a flourish, he pressed a small object into Ross’s hand.

Ross had not realized that the winner would receive a prize. He glanced down to find that he was holding an ancient gold coin that an Oxford professor of antiquities would kill to possess. From the looks of the Grecian profile on the face, the coin might date back to the days of Alexander the Great. His own scholarly instincts were aroused, but now was not the time to examine his prize, so he simply nodded graciously and shoved it into a pocket.

Now that the match was officially over, people began streaming onto the field to offer congratulations to the
bozkashi
players. Someone offered Ross a brass ewer of water, which he accepted gratefully. He tilted his head back and poured half the contents into his mouth, then splashed handfuls of water on his face and neck to rinse away the yellow dust.

It had been a hard-fought match and there was plenty of praise to go around, but Ross was the hero of the hour and everyone wanted to shake his hand and offer some comment.

Not quite everyone. As he shook still another hand, Ross realized that it wasn’t just his sanity that had returned, but the British rules of sportsmanship that had been drilled into him when he was a child, rules that had found fertile ground in his natural temperament. He looked around for his primary opponent. Dil Assa was only a short distance away, surrounded by his own circle of admirers and commiserators. Moving Rabat slowly so that no one would be injured, Ross worked his way over to the Turkoman.

Dil Assa scowled at him with undiminished vigor. “You were lucky, ferengi.”

“I was,” Ross agreed promptly. “If it were not for this splendid horse”—he stroked Rabat’s sweat-foamed neck— or for the chance that made the front leg or me
boz
weaker than the rear, I would never have won.“

“But still you have come to gloat.”

“Not at all.” Ross offered his hand. “In my country, it is traditional after a heated contest to shake hands with one’s honored opponent.”

Startled and uncertain, the Turkoman looked at the proffered hand. “Am I your honored opponent, ferengi?”

“Aye.” His hand still extended, Ross added, “I have a name, you know. It’s Khilburn. And you, Dil Assa, have the distinction of having made me lose my temper more completely than I have ever done in my life.”

The Turkoman gave a sudden crack of laughter. “Then I have achieved a small victory today, though I would have been wiser to leave you to your lethargy.” He took Ross’s hand and shook it hard. “You ride well for a ferengi, Khilburn.”

Ross laughed, feeling as buoyant, in a different way, as when he had thrown the goat into the circle. “To say that a Turkoman rides well is as unnecessary as to say that the summer sun burns or that water is God’s gift to his children.” He released his opponent’s hand. “But I will say that it was by watching you that I learned how the game should be played—with fierceness and joy.”

Dil Assa smiled and leaned over to pull off Ross’s turban. Then he removed his own wolf-edged cap and plopped it down on his opponent’s blond head. “If ever you return in the cool season, Khilburn, we will play again. And if, God willing, that happens, you will ride as a
chopendoz,
a
bozkashi
master.”

As honors went, Ross decided as he returned the smile, the sweaty, bedraggled cap surpassed anything that Queen Victoria might bestow on him.

For Juliet, watching the
bozkashi
match was a very mixed experience. Though she did not wholly share it, she was able to understand the enthusiasm of the other onlookers, for the game was intense and dramatic.

At the same time, she was glad that Ross did not throw himself wholeheartedly into the match. While
bozkashi
seemed more likely to produce injuries than fatalities, there was a very real chance that players might fall and break their necks or be trampled to death. There was also the possibility that Dil Assa would take advantage of the tumult to dispatch the hated ferengi.

Then Ross and Dil Assa clashed and her husband became a different man. She had always known that he was a superb horseman and had effortless physical mastery at everything he tried; even so, she had trouble believing what was happening before her very eyes. Ross was like an ancient Norse berserker, glittering with danger as he stopped at nothing to achieve victory. When he jumped his horse into the middle of the pack, she forgot to breathe until she saw that he had come through safely. Later, when he and Dil Assa engaged in that insane struggle over the goat while galloping at lethal speed, her heart pounded so loudly that it drowned out the roar of the crowd.

Then Ross threw the
boz
into the circle of justice and Juliet went wild herself, jumping and shouting as hysterically as any of the men around her. It was not only the excitement of the game that moved her, but a deep, primitive pride in her man, for in spite of all that separated them, he was still her husband, and she exulted in his accomplishment. It she had been close enough, she might have hurled herself into his arms in joyous celebration.

Then he looked across the crowd and their gazes met with an impact that coursed through her body like a physical blow. Ross seemed wild and menacing, not at all the civilized man she had loved and married. Certainly he was not the considerate, coolly detached companion of these last weeks of travel.

But it was not just the fact that he seemed a stranger that jarred Juliet. There was something intensely, dangerously sexual in Ross’s eyes, and it aroused a matching response in her.

She bit her lower lip as she observed his lithe, sweat-saturated body. He was pure masculine animal, so powerfully male that she felt herself dissolving inside with involuntary female response. If they were alone, she would be ripping his clothing off, as wild as any jungle creature yearning for her mate.

Their gazes held for only an instant before Juliet turned away, but it was an instant that left her shaken. Throat dry, she made some inane comment to Saleh. A jubilant Murad was already pushing his way through the crowd to his master, but Juliet stayed with Saleh and the camels. The last thing she needed was to be closer to Ross.

Doggedly she tried to analyze the reasons for her reaction, in the hope that understanding would dissipate her unruly desire. Ever since their paths had crossed back in Persia, she had been continually aware of how attractive Ross was. But today was different, she realized, because the warrior wildness she had seen in his face was closely akin to the passion he had shown in the intimacy of their marriage bed. Seeing that intensity again, of course she had responded with matching desire.

Unfortunately, understanding her reaction did not dissipate the effect.

Juliet tensed when she saw Ross ride over to Dil Assa; she had no faith that the khalifa’s command would keep the Turkoman in check, and Dil Assa had just suffered a very public defeat. Then the two men laughed and shook hands. She smiled behind the safety of her veil.

Leave it to Ross to make a friend out of an enemy. Mo doubt such behavior was good for the benefit of his soul; better yet, under these conditions such maturity was also very practical.

Soon the crowd began to thin as people headed for their homes, though they would be talking about this
bozkashi
match for years to come. Ross dismounted and handed the stallion’s reins to Dil Assa. Then, after saying his farewells, he and Murad walked over to join Juliet and Saleh.

“Well played, Khilburn,” Saleh said, rising to his feet. “You will become one of the legends of Turkestan: the ferengi who became a
bozkashi
master.”

Ross laughed. “I must admit that I rather enjoyed the match.
Bozkashi
has the excitement of English fox hunting, with the advantage that the animal is already dead. I never quite saw the point of dozens of hounds and horses chasing one little fox.”

The wildness had gone from Ross’s expression, but he still looked like the romantic conception of a pirate. His damp white shirt was open halfway down his chest, exposing tawny curling hair, and the wolf-trimmed cap on his golden head was quite dashing, in a barbaric way. Though a dark bruise was forming on his left cheekbone, Juliet was glad to see that none of the whiplashes had seriously damaged his face. Scarring there would be like defacing a work of art.

As she studied him, she had the ridiculous thought that Ross had twice the shoulders and half the hips of the average man. Then she blushed. Thank heaven for the tagelmoust.

Having her husband within touching distance was making Juliet weak-kneed and soft-headed, so she turned away before she disgraced herself. He must be hungry after expending so much energy in the match. Silently she handed him a piece of flat bread and a chunk of goat cheese.

“Thank you.” In a soft voice that Murad could not hear, Ross added, “Sorry I forgot my resolution to behave with proper British restraint. I hope you didn’t find the match exciting to a fault.”

When Juliet tried to reply, she found that her voice did not want to work. After clearing her throat, she murmured, “I wouldn’t have minded more boredom, but at least you survived more or less intact.” Then her gaze fell to his hands. They were scraped and bruised, with several bloody lacerations. “Perhaps not intact enough.”

He flexed his fingers and grimaced. “Messy and uncomfortable, but nothing broken.”

Juliet had brought clean scraps of cloth in case bandages were needed, so she dug out a square of cotton and moistened it. Then she took his right hand in hers and cleaned away the blood and dust. Falling into the role of nurse steadied her and made it possible to touch him dispassionately, though she was acutely aware of the warmth of his fingers where they lay across hers.

When she finished with Ross’s right hand and released him, somehow his fingertips slowly stroked across her palm with such sensual effect that she almost jumped from her skin. So much for being dispassionate. She gave her husband a suspicious glance, but he was conversing with Saleh and Murad and paying no attention to her ministrations. That erotic caress must have been an accident—but she took care that it didn’t happen again when she was cleaning his left hand.

Juliet frowned at what she found under the dust and dried blood, for several of the deeper cuts were still bleeding and needed further treatment. She glanced at Murad, who was about to extinguish the small fire they had used to make tea during the match. “Leave the fire.”

Burnt hair was a classic and effective treatment for small cuts. Juliet would have been happy to use her own, but whipping her coppery tresses out from under the tagelmoust would do her disguise no good, so she took her knife and trimmed a handful of the long black hair that curled beneath her camel’s long neck. Then she laid the hair on one of the fire rocks and placed a coal on top so that the strands flared into brief, pungent flame. After the burned hair had cooled into delicate ash, she scooped it up, then went to Ross, who was watching her curiously.