Bliss River Page 11

  "Oh, I know they will," Georgie said furiously. "Just not you."

  Oh, she knew they would, did she? She knew they would. The queen knew everything about men's randy de­sires, and nothing about her own, damn her to eternity. And sure as hell, not about his.

  "Absolutely right, naked lady, just not me."

  He stomped off into the darkness, leaving her alone by the fire, her body both cold and swamped with a different kind of telling heat.

  One more day. And he was not as unmoved by her nu­dity as he pretended. It was more than obvious that his penis was erect all the time now.

  That was good. She could work with that.

  And if she could get her hands on him, just burrow be­tween his legs ... anything was possible.

  She got hot just thinking about it. Charles Elliott was not a saint. He wanted her, clearly. He was just better able to control his animal nature than most of the men she had known.

  So she would have to push him a little more. Get him even more excited, even more inflamed. Make it worth his while to keep her with him.

  Lord, she hadn't thought it would be this difficult.

  She didn't know where he slept that night, but she slept alone in the tent. And in the morning, when she heard him moving around, she awakened, wound the sheets around her body until she was wholly covered, and emerged from the tent looking as proper and submissive as a wife.

  He handed her an orange without a word. But nothing more needed to be said after yesterday. He knew what she was. He knew she was naked under her carefully concocted covering, and he knew she would walk naked through the marketplace at Sefra if that was what it took to get what she wanted.

  He was almost of a mind to detour around Sefra. To keep her cloistered so that no other man could ever have the opportunity to feast on her nakedness.

  The thought brought him up short. That was damned possessive thinking for a man who was resisting that very thing.

  And there was still a long way to go. Bypassing Sefra would be folly when he could sell the ponies there for enough to buy provisions and the wherewithal to cross the Kalahari and make the port at Dar el Rabat. Two weeks at the most on camelback, and then by boat to Cameroon, Sierra Leone, and England.

  The only question was, with her, or without her?

  At this point, he would travel no faster either way. And she was almost obsessive about getting there with him or without him. And she would, too; he just didn't want to figure out how.

  But the how would haunt him ...

  Damn it. Damn her. Damn the Fates. Damn her naked body under those shrouding sheets. It was all he could think about. She had done her work well, his rank lady. She had proven he was not a martyr, not a statue. That his will would never win the battle with his penis. And that he was no different from the men she knew in the Valley; he could be just as easily seduced by the thought of poling a willing naked woman.

  Especially this woman, and those breasts. He was sali­vating over those nipples and areolae in the most covert way; he wanted them so badly he could taste them. He wanted to take them deep into his mouth and pull at them and lap at them one and then the other until she couldn't take the hot rhythm of his sucking anymore.

  He wanted . ..

  Almighty heaven, she had unleashed a storm of wanting and desires that had been too long suppressed.

  But not yet, not yet. It wouldn't do to give in to her too quickly. That much he understood about her. It would be better to wait and see what else she had in store for him, if last night was any indication of the lengths to which she would go when thwarted.

  He was a patient man. He had waited many years to exact revenge; he surely could wait another night, another two weeks.

  And then and only then, the khanum could have every­thing she wanted. But only what he was willing to take, and only on his terms.

  She would have to try harder. Sefra was barely a half day away. They would rest that night at the oasis at Ket-semet, and this would be her last chance to win him over. To make herself sensually indispensable so that he would take her anywhere.

  Except that walking around naked didn't seem to ac­complish that. Threatening to walk around naked in Sefra had brought much more of a response.

  He did feel possessive about her, she thought. And somewhat responsible. She aroused something in him, even if he didn't wish to acknowledge it. Otherwise, he wouldn't have stormed off that way last night. -

  But he was the kind of man who wouldn't like to be ruled by his carnal needs. He would ruthlessly clamp down on any sign of weakness in that regard. And she aroused that weakness in him. The fact that she knew it made him resist her that much more.

  Oh yes, that made sense. She had caught him terribly off-guard the first night she had gone to him in the Valley.

  He hadn't expected her, or how experienced she was, how knowledgeable of a man's body, a man's needs.

  And now, he was on the borderline of coveting her. Of feeling flaming jealousy at the thought of her naked with any other man.

  She must feed that, she thought. And incite his lust for her in any way she could. That wasn't going to be easy if he didn't respond to her nudity. She would have to watch him carefully this night. Something about her had pro­voked his fury last night. Something had gotten him that worked up, that angry.

  Maybe something as simple as his desire.

  A man who was ruled by his penis could be molded like clay. But a man who fought his carnal instincts must be hammered and hewn into the fantastic lover he surely must be. And that was the challenge.

  To find the weak point, and push it hard. To discover his secret need and make him want it beyond all reason.

  And she had to accomplish all that in one night on the road to Sefra.

  She must be crazy. She could do as she had threatened: find a half dozen others who would gladly volunteer to take her England.

  At what cost? she wondered. How many nights on her back with men for whom she was nothing but a fast con­venient fuck? That was a high price to pay. But that was what women in the Valley had always been: a convenient place to take pleasure in and then walk away from.

  Why have scruples about that now?

  She didn't need to ponder that question as she perched precariously on her pony, leading the mule and gazing at Charles Elliott's rigid back for the dozen or so miles to Ketsemet. The answer was simple: England was not the Valley. There were rules and morals and constraints she knew nothing about, or even whether she could conform. And she did not want to buy her trip to that new life in Valley currency.

  It sounded excessively high-minded, and totally mean­ingless when she took into account her plan to seduce Charles Elliott.

  She would always be a child of the Valley, she thought. And she knew only one way to get what she wanted.

  Another purple-hued sunset drifted down toward the horizon through the palm fronds at Ketsemet, which was nothing more than a circle of palms surrounding a well-spring of fossil water and host this night to the lumbering caravan they had come across the previous day and one or two other travelers.

  There wasn't much room for a carnal takeover here, Georgie thought, as Charles cooked some millet and dates and she hunkered down near the fire, contemplating her next move.

  There was literally nothing she could do with so many people around, except crawl into the tent and undress. That would be a blessed relief after the heat of the day, even though the temperature would drop at night.

  Tomorrow, everything would change, and there wasn't a thing she could do about it, or a weapon she could wield to force him to alter his plans.

  Just for a moment, she thought of cold-bloodedly shoot­ing him so he, at least, could not continue the journey. But to what point? She would be no better off than she was now, and her options would still be the same.

  She had had no idea how hard life would be just this far outside the Valley, and how much planning and scheming was involved to get along. What would it be like in Eng
land?

  She glanced up as Charles handed her the plate, heaped with the cooked grain and some of the leftover rabbit. Nothing like the meals she was used to. She heaved a sigh and dug in with her fingers, while Charles ate from the pot.

  "I'll get some water for tea," he said when they'd fin­ished. "Maybe a bucket for a washup because I won't have you anywhere near that pool."

  Ah? "Why is that?" she asked carefully.

  "Because one doesn't know what you'll take it into your head to do," he answered grimly, "and who I'll have to kill in the aftermath."

  A-ha! She ducked her head in a properly submissive manner. "Even if I promise to behave?"

  "I don't believe you know the meaning of the word," Charles growled and set off in the darkness.

  Yes! There it was, in that grudging distrust of her. Why else would he be so adamant about where she went and what she did?

  These male signals she understood. He was weakening, which was saying a lot for a man like Charles Elliott. Something was causing him to shift his position. Some­thing about her, something sexual.

  Something he did not want to admit, even to himself.

  It just remained to find out what it was. What about her was affecting the strong-willed Charles Elliott to the point where he would set aside his misgivings about her?

  This was what she understood: that covert pricking up of a man's sexual interest. He probably hated himself for caving in. He probably hated her.

  No matter. It was much easier to deal with him on that level. Charles Elliott was now the devil she knew.

  She wondered what revelations the night would bring.

  Chapter Ten

  He brought water, hauling it back to their camp in one of their three goatskins.

  "You can sit behind the tent, where you will be shielded by the bushes and no one will see you. But be careful of the thorns."

  Yes, he most definitely did not want anyone to see her. Georgie rose up and stepped to the rear of the tent. He followed a moment later behind her, just as she began to disrobe.

  Deliberately?

  There was only the intense moonlight that flooded the landscape by which to bathe, and hazy drifts of smoke from the nearby campfires.

  And there they stood, she utterly unabashed by her nu­dity, he in grim disapproval. And yet he'd suggested it. He'd wanted it, he needed it, for whatever reason.

  These were the subtle signs of a man in heat.

  "Am I to have no privacy?" she asked.

  He raised an eyebrow. "A show of modesty at last?"

  "If that were so, you would not be here. You may watch, if you wish."

  He wanted to just walk away, to leave her wet and naked in the bushes, and if there were consequences, then there were consequences.

  That was the way of the desert. Choices made; conse­quences accepted. That was the way of life.

  But he couldn't do it, and he hated himself because he couldn't do it. Choice made, repercussions to come. He should have left her in Akka, and now it was too late. And way too late to save himself.

  He poured the water into the cooking pot. "Get on with it."

  She smiled faintly. "I did always like an audience."

  He slammed the pot onto the ground, and it seemed to her that any reference to or behavior that reeked of the Valley set him off.

  It was something interesting to contemplate. She knelt, took a fold of her sheets, dipped it in the water, and began" to cleanse herself.

  There wasn't much she could do with just water but wash away the dust and grime from this part of the jour­ney. But even with Charles Elliott standing there like a statue, the bath was refreshing, the night air cooling her damp skin as she rubbed the cloth over her legs and belly and breasts —

  And felt the air heating up between them, thick and dark with secrets. There was something he wanted; some­thing he didn't want to want. Something about her, her body, her sex.

  It was too shadowy to see his eyes, but she felt them grazing over her naked body, as tangible as a touch. Something he wanted to touch, to possess . . .

  She felt a thrill course through her, and the familiar lan­guid feeling of arousal attack her vitals. This she knew; this she wanted.

  She made her movements slow, deliberate, caressing.

  Anything to rouse his interest and make him reconsider his decision about her. Anything he wanted, anything.

  He watched. Watched those slender knowing fingers sliding the coarse material of the sheets all over her naked body. Watched as she paid particular attention to the sweet spot between her legs, her thighs and belly, her arms, her breasts ... squeezing the cool water over her nipples so that they tightened like buds, hardened, and protruded still farther.

  He wanted to lick off the water; he wanted to rub her nipples with honey and eat them. He wanted .. .

  Woman was ever a man's downfall. And never in his life did he think he would fall so hard for a tart's nipples that he would do anything to have them.

  Even take her to England.

  No audiences for the whore if she were with him. Just an audience of one with particular demands for a long, hard, hot trip in the desert. A man needed a diversion on such a journey, and playing with her nipples would pro­vide him that. And he shared with no man that which was his.

  She wouldn't say no. She'd been looking all this time for a way to get to him, to seduce him. Maybe this moment was inevitable. Maybe he had known even as she was helping him escape the Valley that he would keep his word about taking her to England.

  Maybe he had secretly wanted what she had offered him. And perhaps the vast empty space of the desert was the place to capitulate to his lust for her breasts. There were no witnesses in the desert. No future beyond that day, and that moment.

  That was his weapon, that was his price, and she would barter it for her safety; he was certain of it. And he was going to set the rules.

  "No audiences," he said abruptly.

  She felt a rill of excitement. "Excuse me?"

  "You still want to go to England."

  She blinked, picked up one of the sheets, and tied it around her hips. "You know I do."

  "Then we'll continue on, under certain conditions."

  Yes, yes, yes. He wanted it. Whatever it was, he wanted it badly enough to bargain with her. She could barely keep the excitement out of her voice, but she made her tone wary. "What conditions?"

  "No flaunting yourself anytime anywhere. Modesty at all costs, at all times, except when you're alone with me."

  "And then what?" Skepticism permeated her voice, de­liberately to goad him, to make him come to the point. Except his penis was there already.

  She flexed her hands; she wanted to grab it. She felt a tremor go through her body, her excitement escalating at the thought of him finally inside her.

  "And then you have to give yourself over to me."

  "Oh! And whatever can that mean?" she asked with a touch of coyness. Wondering why he had to play this little game in the first place.

  "It means that I take what I want when I want it. And what I want is your nipples. I want to own your nipples. Not your body. I don't want to fuck you. I just want your nipples naked and available for me at the end of a long dreary day in the desert."

  She was dumbfounded. "Just my nipples?"

  "Just as naked and hard and pointed as they are now to do with as I wish."

  She caught her breath. It was unimaginable that he didn't want to fuck her in exchange for taking her on the rest of the journey. "I don't understand."

  "No, I don't think you do. But I will be just as demand­ing of your nipples as I would be of your body. Think about what that means and about whether you want to give your nipples over to me every day until the end of the journey."

  "No fucking?" she asked faintly.

  "No fucking."

  Was it a relief, or was he a lunatic? What really would she be agreeing to if she said yes to his terms? And how unpleasant could it be to have a man fondl
ing your breasts and nipples every day? How intolerable, really, to feel a man's fingers playing with those rigid tips every night?

  She felt boneless and hot at the thought of it, her juices flowing like honey.

  "What if I want to be fucked?" She had to ask, if only to annoy him.

  "Then it's too bad. You are not free on this journey to do anything but service me with your nipples."

  Her body tightened, her nipple tips got harder.

  "Whenever I want them, kbanum. However I want to use them. And I can be very demanding."

  "I live to see that side of you," she murmured. Of all things—her nipples—the easiest thing to give. She was shaking with excitement. How demanding? She wanted him to make his demands now.

  "Oh, you will, kbanum. I will be the most greedy, the most ravenous lover of your nipples you have ever had."

  She closed her eyes, trying to imagine all the things he would do, could do to her nipples, trills of arousal skein­ing all over her body.

  "And I guarantee you will never desire another lover of your nipples after I have had them."

  He let a moment pass, watching the moonlight play over her trembling breasts. "But that, of course, is only if you agree to those terms to come to England with me."

  She swallowed hard. No fucking. And her nipples in his hands, and untold pleasures guaranteed. Surely this wasn't an onerous price.

  She licked her lips. "I agree."

  "Agree to?"

  She swallowed again, her throat tight, her imagination running riot. "I agree to give you my nipples to do with as you will for the whole of our journey."

  He closed his eyes for the barest moment. "And now you will give over the gun and the knife."

  That startled her out of her erotic reverie.

  "I don't think so."

  "My dear girl, believe me. I want those nipples more than I want to abandon you. Trust me on that. The jour­ney would take no longer without you, and it will be much more pleasurable knowing that it will end every night with my hands on your naked nipples. So let's just act like adults, and give me the weapons. And I will give you what I promised you in exchange."