clothes Rabia had folded neatly on the edge of his pallet.
If anyone visiting accidentally saw him in the house, they would see a man in traditional Pashtun dress, with a loose-fitting shirt that reached his knees, called a qmis , and a vest that covered the shirt and pants, a shalwar . He tied the trousers with a string and then, with the rest of his energy, slipped his bare feet into the chaplay , or thick leather shoes. Then he rested again.
Several minutes later, he’d regained enough strength to deal with the pagray —a turban—and the long strip of cotton cloth that Rabia had taught him to wind around his head and leave one end dangling.
Finally, he reached for a long, wide piece of cloth and draped the chadar over his shoulders. Then he lay back down, angered by his weakness and pumping heart but looking like a proper Pashtun man.
Like a man, he thought grimly, lost between a world he had forgotten and a world where he didn’t belong.
Like a man confused about a woman who was a part of that world.
Then he drifted into another fitful sleep.
Chapter
11
R abia startled and slapped a hand to her breast when she realized the askar had joined her in the cooking room.
“You are up and walking,” she said when she had regained her composure.
“Barely. I feel like a toddler taking his first steps.”
“Toddler? I do not know this word.”
He made his way to a low bench in the corner of the room and eased down onto it. “A baby. Learning to walk.”
“You are no baby,” she said, then immediately regretted it when his gaze held hers for a long moment.
She quickly turned back to her stove and the meal she was in the middle of preparing. But she could not stop the thoughts of that moment by his bed several days ago, when he had kissed her hand. Or thoughts of the way she had held him during the withdrawal tremors, the way she had bathed his face and cooled his brow when it felt as though he were burning up with fever.
Memories of her hands on his feverish skin, of his warm body pressed against hers, of his face pressed against her breasts as she had held him in the dark and willed him through the worst of it would not leave her alone.
Her face flushed hot, and not from the heat of the summer day or the cookstove. It was not acceptable to be thinking of him that way. She had already broken many Pashtun laws because of him. Every time she was alone with him or touched him, she went against her tribal customs. Every time he met her eyes and she did not look away or spoke to him without being spoken to, she violated another law.
Now was not the time to be reminded that she was a woman who had once lain with a man. This was not the man who should remind her.
Her hands trembled as she reached for her special and treasured blend of spices to season the small piece of lamb she had managed to barter for. To even think such things was a sin. To act on those thoughts would bring shame to her and her father and her people.
That was why she had worked hard to keep her distance from him when possible. She did not attend to him as she once had. She let him bathe and dress himself. She allowed him to test his physical limits, even as she knew his struggle was difficult.
It had taken him a full week after the opium was out of his system to be able to walk from one end of the small social/sleeping room to the other. Another few days before he ventured out of the room.
Now, today, he sought her out in the cooking room.
From now on, it would become more difficult to avoid him.
She wondered if he had been thinking about the samethings she had. Then she realized he had become very quiet, and she could not resist looking back over her shoulder at him.
His dark eyes studied her with a heat and intensity that had her spinning quickly back to her cooking and praying for forgiveness and strength.
H E MADE HER nervous. He was sorry about that, but he was also tired of avoiding her. No easy task, given the size of the
If anyone visiting accidentally saw him in the house, they would see a man in traditional Pashtun dress, with a loose-fitting shirt that reached his knees, called a qmis , and a vest that covered the shirt and pants, a shalwar . He tied the trousers with a string and then, with the rest of his energy, slipped his bare feet into the chaplay , or thick leather shoes. Then he rested again.
Several minutes later, he’d regained enough strength to deal with the pagray —a turban—and the long strip of cotton cloth that Rabia had taught him to wind around his head and leave one end dangling.
Finally, he reached for a long, wide piece of cloth and draped the chadar over his shoulders. Then he lay back down, angered by his weakness and pumping heart but looking like a proper Pashtun man.
Like a man, he thought grimly, lost between a world he had forgotten and a world where he didn’t belong.
Like a man confused about a woman who was a part of that world.
Then he drifted into another fitful sleep.
Chapter
11
R abia startled and slapped a hand to her breast when she realized the askar had joined her in the cooking room.
“You are up and walking,” she said when she had regained her composure.
“Barely. I feel like a toddler taking his first steps.”
“Toddler? I do not know this word.”
He made his way to a low bench in the corner of the room and eased down onto it. “A baby. Learning to walk.”
“You are no baby,” she said, then immediately regretted it when his gaze held hers for a long moment.
She quickly turned back to her stove and the meal she was in the middle of preparing. But she could not stop the thoughts of that moment by his bed several days ago, when he had kissed her hand. Or thoughts of the way she had held him during the withdrawal tremors, the way she had bathed his face and cooled his brow when it felt as though he were burning up with fever.
Memories of her hands on his feverish skin, of his warm body pressed against hers, of his face pressed against her breasts as she had held him in the dark and willed him through the worst of it would not leave her alone.
Her face flushed hot, and not from the heat of the summer day or the cookstove. It was not acceptable to be thinking of him that way. She had already broken many Pashtun laws because of him. Every time she was alone with him or touched him, she went against her tribal customs. Every time he met her eyes and she did not look away or spoke to him without being spoken to, she violated another law.
Now was not the time to be reminded that she was a woman who had once lain with a man. This was not the man who should remind her.
Her hands trembled as she reached for her special and treasured blend of spices to season the small piece of lamb she had managed to barter for. To even think such things was a sin. To act on those thoughts would bring shame to her and her father and her people.
That was why she had worked hard to keep her distance from him when possible. She did not attend to him as she once had. She let him bathe and dress himself. She allowed him to test his physical limits, even as she knew his struggle was difficult.
It had taken him a full week after the opium was out of his system to be able to walk from one end of the small social/sleeping room to the other. Another few days before he ventured out of the room.
Now, today, he sought her out in the cooking room.
From now on, it would become more difficult to avoid him.
She wondered if he had been thinking about the samethings she had. Then she realized he had become very quiet, and she could not resist looking back over her shoulder at him.
His dark eyes studied her with a heat and intensity that had her spinning quickly back to her cooking and praying for forgiveness and strength.
H E MADE HER nervous. He was sorry about that, but he was also tired of avoiding her. No easy task, given the size of the
Similar Books
