“And now the caldin,” be said when I held the imad in my hand, his fingers making brief, easy work of the sash knot. I dropped the imad and pushed the caldin down past my hips, then kicked it off onto the floor. I was nearly frantic in my rush to obey, and the laughter in his thoughts came as crashingly as a flood of freezing water.
“And just so quickly will you obey in future,” he grinned, reaching across me to take the imad and throw it after the caldin. “Even should every l’lenda who follows me be about, you will not hesitate nor disobey. Your body, though at present too slim, will not displease them. It certainly does not displease me.”
I closed my eyes and put an arm over them, the burning red of humiliation covering me completely. I knew how pleased he was with the way I looked, but I could tell he was even more pleased with the way he had made me obey him.
What he’d said about stripping me in front of his men was meant to add to my humiliation, not to be taken as a serious threat. On Rimilia the concept would not be a threat, merely a matter of things-as-they-were. Men and women bathed together without shame, and women bathed while men stood guarding them. Despite everyone else’s views, I had never quite gotten to the point of nonchalance over the matter, and Tammad knew it.
“How lovely a woman is in the sight of a man,” my tormentor continued, suddenly putting his hand on my thigh. I gasped and tried to pull away, but his fingers tightened, holding my flesh prisoner. “The softness of her body is a constant delight, designed to stir him beyond all control. Your body stirs me like no other, Terril mine. Open your eyes and look upon he to whom you belong.”
Slowly, reluctantly, I moved my arm away from my face and opened my eyes, blinking back the bright spots dancing in my vision. Haloed in the midst of them was Tammad, a man who never worried about appeasing a woman.
“Woman, you are mine!” he said, his expression and thoughts fierce. “No man of my world may claim you without facing me with swords; no man of your worlds may deny me for they are nearly all darayse. Once we found happiness together, and I mean to see it so again. Think only of achieving such happiness, for in no other way will you find peace. There are none to take you from me, as you now so obviously hope, none to return you to your former life. You are mine and will remain so.”
“You forget about my government,” I said in a rush, hurrying to get the words out before my throat closed up. “There aren’t so many Primes around that they’ll give one up without a fuss. What if they send troops after you and—and-sh-shoot you down?”
I stumbled over the words as I said them, but not because of what Tammad’s reaction might be. The possibility of the giant barbarian being shot down was not as remote as it might be, and no one deserved that, not even him.
“Your government wishes to deal with me,” he answered, scorn in his mind for the entire transaction. “Once before they granted me your body, to be used as I wished the while you used your talent. Think you they will deny me now, when I have the leadership they wished me to have? Prime or no, you are no more than wenda to them, Terril. One benefit accruing to a man who is victorious is the wenda of his choice. You are my choice.”
“That isn’t true!” I cried, looking up at him where he sat so close above me. “Last time they made you promise to return me! This time they won’t let you take me at all!”
“My word was given only for your comfort,” he said, sadness in his tone. “The Murdock McKenzie, and through him, the Rathmore Hellman, knew I meant to keep you and they did not attempt to dissuade me. It was no more than misunderstanding that the Murdock McKenzie allowed your departure before I might arrive to reclaim you. Because of your words to him, it was his belief that I had tired of you. When he learned that this was not so, he brought this vessel for my use. Though he stands as father to you, hama, he will not refuse my wishes.”
“I won’t believe it’s all so one way,” I said, shaking my head against the certainty in him. “My people won’t give me up without an argument on no more than your say so. I’m worth more to them than a simple item of trade to sweeten a bargain. I’m a Prime—and I’m one of them.”
He sighed as he looked down at me, his mind unangered by my arguments, his light eyes serious and sympathetic. He wasn’t bothered by what I’d said simply because he was convinced it wasn’t true.
“For your sake do I wish there would be need to do battle with your people for you,” he said, leaning down beside me to put his arms around me. “I would gladly face whatever battle there was, yet there will be no battle. When this occurs, do not despair, hama. Recall the fact of my love, and know that you go to people who will make you one of them. Those who live by constant bargaining may know no loyalty—for, in the presence of loyalty, bargaining comes a poor second.”
I stared at the understanding in his face for a moment then turned my head away, knowing he was letting me keep my hopes of rescue after all, just to show me how wrong I was. He was absolutely certain that my people would let him walk off with me, but I couldn’t believe that. I was a native of Central and would not be abandoned, not after all the years I’d worked for the Amalgamation. No group, not even a government, could be that insensitive.
I intended spending a good deal of time listing in my mind all the reasons why the barbarian was wrong, but it didn’t work out that way. One minute I was thinking defensive thoughts and the next, almost to my shock, my body was registering gentle tease-kisses and feather-light caresses. I turned my head back to look at the barbarian, trying to understand what he was doing. Out and out rape was his usual style, without finesse and without exception, but suddenly he seemed to be in a teasing mood, his shaggy blond head bent over me almost casually, with passion nowhere to be felt.
“What are you doing?” I asked, stirring uncomfortably at the way his fingers trailed slowly up and down my thighs, backdropping the touch of his lips near my breasts.
“I merely amuse myself,” he answered in distraction, seemingly lost in thought over something else entirely. He wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing, as though he were engaged in the equivalent of doodling or some such. I didn’t care much for his concept of self-amusement, but it was certainly better than rape.
Or so I thought to begin with. After another few moments of it, I was considerably less certain. He lay beside me across the bed, his right arm beneath me and holding me to him, his left hand free to move all over my body, tracing, trailing, tickling and teasing. Not once in all the movement had he touched me intimately, not once had his lips pressed themselves to my breasts, and yet, despite these lacks, my flesh had begun to burn and quiver, the movements of my discomfort growing sharper and more demanding. I didn’t understand what was happening, but I didn’t have to understand it to dislike it. I stood it for as long as I could, then simply had to say something.
“Can I—get up now?” I tried, hoping he’d miss the unevenness of my voice. “I’m—tired of staying in bed.”
“No,” he answered in the same distraction, not even slowing the rhythm of his movements. His mind was still directed elsewhere, his body uninterested in what his hands and lips were doing. I could feel the heat of his closeness, underscored by the strange, male smell of him, increased by his constant touch on my body. I closed my eyes and swallowed a moan, then tried to pretend I was elsewhere.
In less time than it takes to form the thought, I discovered pretense was impossible. I was being held by a man I’d had sex with many times, a man who usually overwhelmed me with his desire, a man who bad taught my body to feel the same desire. He was doing no more than playing with a toy now, but the toy was growing frantic for the way he usually touched her, for the way he drew instant fire from her. I moved against him deliberately, hoping for a forceful response, hoping to direct the movement of his hand, feeling the sweat break out all over me when the ploy failed. His broad hand moved across my belly, stroked down the top of my right thigh, rose slowly on the inside of the same thigh—then shifted to stroke down the top of my left thigh. I shivered and pressed to him again, intending to meet the hand that now rose on the inside of the thigh, spreading my knees and moving my hips downward—but the hand was suddenly gone from where it had been, moving, instead, over my right side. I moaned in frustration and disappointment, aching and sweating, at a loss to know what to do.