The tale of the dancing girl Read online

  She repeated Nima’s twisting stand as slowly as she could, pushing her bottom right toward the colonel’s face. What could he do about it? The Khan’s words were law: no touching.

  She shook her fanny just as fast, and then as slowly, as she liked, enjoying the sensation of her muscles shifting and tightening. Curling her bottom under and pushing it back. Teasing him. Speaking to him, quite clearly, through the motion of her backside: whatever Colonel Weston thought he knew, he did not know her. And he never would—unless she allowed it.

  Delilah glanced back over her shoulder as she walked away from him, into the crowd of women waiting for her, singing and cheering the ululation. She smiled beneath her veil.

  The colonel no longer appeared amused. In fact, he looked rather…scorched.

  “That went well!” Nima hugged her as soon as they were safely returned to the women’s garden.

  “That was a brush with death!” Delilah laughed like an idiot.

  “Pah! Every encounter with a man is a brush with death,” Nima drawled. Then her eyes popped wide and she covered her mouth. “Oh! How stupid of me!”

  “No. Please. It’s all right.”

  “I didn’t think.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Delilah squeezed her friend’s hand. “I’m not…it’s not so hard anymore.”

  “Good. That is good.”

  It was good. Delilah was tired of being a tragic figure—war widow; married less than a year; traveled so far to nurse him back to health. Such a shame. So brave. So strong. She had wondered for a long time if she would ever again honestly say, “I’m doing well.” But the cliché was true—time had healed. She was quite well, thank you. And determined to stay that way.

  Which meant any sort of relationship with a soldier of any kind was completely out of the question. Never again.

  “I should go. It’s quite late.”

  “Too late.” Nima shook her head. “You must stay the night with us.”

  “No, Nima. The servants will wonder….”

  “They will all gossip about how important you are, to be invited to sleep at the palace. Your status will rise with the sun.”

  Delilah rolled her eyes at that. “You have not been introduced to Mrs. Altinkum.”

  “I predict she will have sweet buns waiting on your return. My guards will take you home as soon as the markets open in the morning. Please, sister. I’ve ordered another mattress to be laid beside my own.”

  Nima slid her arm around Delilah’s waist, leading her down the long hall toward the sleeping rooms. There was a frisson to the contact, a hum of electricity.

  It must be the dance. Dancing always left Delilah bubbling inside. Afterward, she felt as if she might do anything. She glanced back at the curtained doorway. It was foolish to wonder what Colonel Weston’s plans were for the night.

  Foolish and inevitable.

  There would be no relief from the tension her encounter with the colonel had created. Delilah pulled away from her friend’s gentle hands.

  Nima’s sleeping area was more private than most, tucked in the corner off the portico. Thin colorful curtains mimicked a tent’s soft walls, surrounding the area where their mattresses lay. A breeze lifted the silk like the skirt of a lady’s gown, flashing the starry night sky.

  “We’re inside a jewel box.” Delilah crawled across the mattress on hands and knees. Nestled in a layer of pillows, she pulled out the pins that held the crown for her veil. She rubbed her head, finger-combing her hair into a loose braid for sleep.

  Colonel Weston had seen her hair down tonight. The way a man sees a woman before bed. A twist of longing curled inside.

  “A woman is more precious than jewels.” Nima fiddled at her waist and her skirt dropped to the floor. She reached around behind her back and frowned. “Help me with this knot, please?”

  Plopping almost in Delilah’s lap, Nima bent her head, scooping the hair off her neck. The girl was pillows of curves, some soft, some firm. The warmth of Nima’s bare bottom was a shock. Delilah tried to make a space between them, pressing Nima’s arm, squeezing lightly. Her knuckles grazed the woman’s breast. They both inhaled.

  “The silk is frayed, I think.”

  “Yes. Frayed.”

  There was no reason to feel…odd, Delilah reminded herself. Different cultures had different ways. Focus on the job at hand.

  Delilah pulled at the halter’s tie. What a pretty thing a woman’s neck was.

  “You bared your neck to the Khan tonight,” Delilah murmured.

  “Yes.” Nima sounded quite satisfied.

  “Do you…do that every time you dance?”

  “No. Not every time. When I wish to.” Nima tipped her head to the side, her eyes slanting back to see Delilah over her shoulder. “Did you enjoy kneeling and baring your neck for the colonel?”

  The thought of it sent another swirl of nerves spinning through Delilah’s core. She ducked over the knot and whispered into Nima’s ear. “I…I had reservations at first. But actually I found it rather…interesting.”

  The strings released all of a sudden, fabric spilling into Nima’s lap. Her breasts were heavier, rounder looking than Delilah’s. Darker everywhere. It was hard not to look. Nima rolled her neck, luxuriating in the relief of being freed. Falling back against Delilah in a spontaneous sort of reverse embrace, Nima fluttered her eyelashes. “I think this is a meaning of ‘interesting’ you have not taught us.”

  “I…well, I’ll bring my dictionary. Next time.” Delilah hardly knew where to look, much less where to put her hands. Nima’s hair curled over her shoulder, beyond her waist, drawing a dark highlight across her breasts that led all the way to the curly hair between her legs.

  Nima took Delilah’s wrist and carried it around her waist, snuggling closer.

  Was it the color or the scent of her skin that reminded Delilah of spice? The shocking urge to lick one of those curves and see if they tasted of nutmeg and cinnamon popped into Delilah’s head. Weston and all his black-eyed looks had put her in the most perverse state of mind. She really must….

  “I am still so warm from the dance,” Nima declared. Unselfconsciously the woman rubbed her hand beneath the weight of her breasts, wiping the shine off her skin. “I shall sleep like this, I think. Are you warm also, sister?”

  “Warm? No.”

  “Still. You won’t want to sleep in your dancing clothes.”

  “No. I mean, yes. Of course.” Delilah finally turned away. Her Western clothes were waiting on a pillow along the wall. “I’ll just…excuse me?”

  Almost reluctantly Nima leaned forward, allowing Delilah the space to crawl across the mattress to her clothes.

  She turned her back to undress, feeling self-conscious and clumsy. And a little nervous. There must be a more graceful way to handle this. What did she have to be afraid of, after all?

  Delilah found her slip and dropped it over her head. The thin fabric didn’t hide much, but the thought of sleeping with Nima completely naked was…disruptive.

  “I wonder if they’ve all gone home yet.” Delilah tried to steer the conversation to less awkward waters. “The men.”

  “‘They?’” Nima stretched out on her side, pulling a gold-and-pink embroidered cushion under her head. She patted the bed beside her. “Don’t you mean ‘he’? More important, whose home would he have gone to?”

  The words were out before Delilah thought. “I asked him not to…. Not that he listens.”

  “He still comes to your home!” Nima sounded happily scandalized. Even in the dim light, Delilah could see Nima’s eyebrows rise. “Without a chaperone?”

  “I don’t let him in!” Delilah tried to push the little bubble of pleasure this confession brought her into something more appropriately guilty. She curled on her side facing Nima and pressed her face to the cool silk of a pillow. “He waits on the street for me to…wave.”

  “Wave.”

  “From the balcony off my bedroom. He waits until I come out and wave go
od-night to him.”

  Nima smothered a low, knowing chuckle. “I think the colonel is outside your window right now, howling at the moon.”

  “No.” Delilah pictured it, her heart beating fast.

  “Without a doubt. He hunted you with his eyes tonight.” Nima caught a strand of Delilah’s dark hair on her finger and smoothed it behind her friend’s ear. She smiled when Delilah tightened her shoulder in ticklish protest. Nima rolled closer, the tips of her bare breasts creating little sparks against Delilah’s skin as she whispered into Delilah’s ear. “Colonel Weston tested the Khan’s patience for the touch of your hair.”

  It was hard to breathe; the air felt thick. “He is quite…stubborn.”

  “He is smitten.”

  “‘Smitten’? Who taught you the word smitten?”

  “The Khan respects him. He is a man of merit.”

  “He is a soldier.”

  “Soldiers make fine husbands.”

  Delilah rolled away onto her back and stared up at the deep blue painted ceiling, gilded in six-point stars. There was beauty everywhere in the Khan’s palace. “I beg to differ.”

  “Strong, brave, honorable.”

  “Precisely. Honor demands they serve king and country first.” Delilah folded her arms across her chest. “I will not come third in any man’s affections again. The man who wears the king’s uniform is not for me.”

  “I wonder, sister, are you afraid of love?”

  “What? No. Absolutely not. Love is…fine. For other people.”

  “You said you were only a girl when you married. Sometimes a young girl does not appreciate the love of a husband. There is fear—” she paused, waiting for Delilah to make some leap of understanding “—for the love of the body?”

  “Heavens, Nima. I hardly think…”

  “Your body wants Colonel Weston. Does it not?”

  “What!” Delilah squeaked.

  A voice from the room beyond the curtains hissed, “Shhhhh.”

  Nima’s expression dared Delilah to deny it. “I thought so.” Her smile was sweet and a little frightening. “Sometimes a woman needs help finding her passion.” She rolled forward, her breasts falling into curves and shadows, close enough for Delilah to feel the warmth of her body. “A wise woman can be a guide to the power of a woman’s body…. I can help you.”

  Delilah swallowed. Was the girl speaking metaphorically?

  “Knowing your own power will make things easier when you are with Colonel Weston.”

  “I have no plan to be with Colonel Weston.” Delilah flipped to her side, her back to Nima.

  “Ahhh, but he has a plan to be with you.”

  The feather touch of fingertips startled Delilah, trailing from her shoulder to elbow to wrist.

  “Let me help you. Let me teach you this.”

  “Teach me what?”

  “Close your eyes, sister. Think of your colonel. Watching you tonight. Watching you from the street below your window. He waits for you. As soon as you are ready…” Nima slid closer, pressing herself to Delilah’s back, warm and soft. Delilah jumped. The thin silk of her slip was no barrier. Instead, it magnified each gliding touch.

  “Shhh. Think of his hand touching you, like this. The heat on your skin. Can you feel it?”

  Delilah swallowed. Nima’s hand crept over the rise of Delilah’s hip across the fall of her waist. One prancing fingertip at a time, she began to gather the hem of Delilah’s slip in the valley of her thighs.

  Delilah caught her breath. What was happening? She ought to stop this.

  “His hands burn they are so warm. He will cool you, like this.” Nima swirled the wet tip of her tongue from Delilah’s bare shoulder up the arch of her neck. A soft breath of air ignited Delilah’s skin in rushing waves. It was impossible not to move, to ripple with the feeling rushing up her spine.

  “You like that.” Nima’s voice was all satisfied smiles. “You like what he will do.” She licked again, inhaling deeply, her nose tucked behind Delilah’s ear. “How delicious you are, my sister. The colonel’s mouth will water. He will want more of you. Here…. here…. here.”

  Squirming, Delilah turned her head and twisted her hips, as if to move away, but somehow ended up giving Nima better access to the length of her neck, the tender place between her legs.

  “Oh. Oh my…what are—”

  Delilah couldn’t stop her hands clenching, opening. The one tucked beside her thigh grasped the satin of her slip. The other hand hovered over Nima’s busy fingers, afraid to touch, hesitating to push her away.

  “Nima. No. You…What are you doing?”

  “Does it feel good?”

  It was difficult to admit, but “Yes, yes. I…it feels very…oh.” The word caught on her little inhalation as Nima’s other hand came to rest lightly over Delilah’s breast. What had been a small warmth, a light tingle Delilah was barely conscious of suddenly overflowed into the cup of Nima’s palm. Her nipple hurt, her breast ached. She arched into the feeling and Nima sighed.

  Sensations warred with thoughts. It was odd. It was overwhelming. Delilah needed to pause, consider the situation. But she wanted this coiling heat to continue wrapping itself around her spine, tighter, hotter. Her bottom flexed, seeking friction, resistance. Nima scooted closer, cradling Delilah with her thighs and stomach.

  “Ahhh…good. That is good. Don’t be concerned. It is rhetoric.”

  “What?” Delilah shook her head. “Rhetoric?”

  “Remember our lessons?”

  What a distraction the woman’s fingers were!

  “Virtue can be taught. And there is virtue in pleasure. Yes?” Nima ended each sentence with little nipping kisses. Earlobe, neck, Delilah’s body was a map of new kingdoms. Nima’s breasts cushioned Delilah’s shoulders as the woman’s fingers slid farther down the path of mystery. “Pleasure,” Nima hummed. “Your body knows.”

  Delilah couldn’t stop the little gasp of embarrassment. She was slick with desires, unwelcome and obvious.

  “See how wise you are?”

  Nima’s fingers were making it worse. Or better.

  “Wise?”

  “Rhetoric. Logic. All become absurd given our beautiful illogical bodies.” Her words tickled Delilah’s nape. “And our loving, unruly hearts.”

  “No. I will not have a man in uniform. Not again.” The thought of Weston, intruding into her mind while Nima’s finger intruded deeper in her body, wrenched Delilah’s spine into a bowstring of desire. “Oh…oh my.” Delilah’s words tripped out of her throat, clumsy, almost painful. “What is that?”

  “The pearl of wisdom,” Nima hummed. “It grows luminous with the right attention. Shhh, listen to your body now.” Nima’s fingers tripped light, then firm, over hidden places of unbearable beauty, slipping in and out and around. “Go inside, Delilah. Let the dance take you.”

  A current took hold, pulsing like the metronome of rhythm within the dance, pulsing along Delilah’s nerves, pulling everything tight and—popping with a bright spark of feeling in the center of everything.

  It took a moment to regain her voice. “What…what was that?”

  Nima’s laugh drifted across Delilah’s ear, frothy as bubbles. “Another kind of dance, dear sister. Did you like it?”

  “Well…yes,” she whispered. Every muscle continued to hum the beat. “I’ve never…how did you do that?”

  “Practice. All you need is practice.”

  “Are you…you’re teasing me.”

  Nima snickered, very pleased with herself, and Delilah squirmed. The woman’s breath on her neck tickled like a thousand feathers.

  “You are a very quick student, sister.” Nima whispered her esses, obviously enjoying Delilah’s wiggle to escape. Tightening her embrace, Nima rubbed her chin along Delilah’s cheek. “When the colonel comes for you, you will be more than ready.”

  Delilah shuddered involuntarily, lips parting, her eyes drifting shut. It was a delicious, vulnerable sensation.

  N
ima’s fingers quieted immediately, playing a softer version of the same music that lulled Delilah into a sigh.

  “Yes. Perhaps…just a little more…practice.”

  This time Nima laughed aloud.

  “Shhh!” came the whisper from beyond the curtain.

  They buried their giggles against the sweet warmth of woman’s skin.

  Delilah drifted home the next morning in the company of a guard she hardly noticed. A cloud of tranquility followed her right through the day’s calendar of the usual appointments and straight into three courses of formal dinner at the ambassador’s home.

  She’d half expected the colonel to open the door when she arrived. He was often a guest at the ambassador’s table. But she was shown to her seat without a glimpse of him.

  A little longer, then. She’d wait a little longer. Because Delilah knew, sure as the sun would set in the evening, the colonel would be waiting tonight, outside her window.

  The thought created a frisson of something almost like fear. Almost.

  What else might he do…if she let him in?

  Involuntarily, Delilah remembered the feeling of Nima’s clever hands drifting down her body, instructing her on all those pearls of wisdom designed to lull a body to beautiful, boneless distraction.

  Would the colonel touch her the same way?

  A memory took her onto the dance floor: the colonel’s hand in hers, warmth seeping through the thin crocheted web of her glove. His other hand was on her waist, the tips of his fingers tucked in the dip of her spine, not guiding her so much as stroking her through the motions of the dance.

  She shifted in her seat.

  “I say, Mrs. Smith-Jones! Would you mind passing the sauce?” A man with a handlebar mustache sitting to her left waved a hand in front of her face. “I say, is the woman deaf?”

  “I don’t believe so, Howard,” mumbled the gaudy woman on the far side of him. “She’s translator to the Khan.”

  Delilah blinked the vision away. The warmth between her legs was harder to dismiss. She passed the silver bowl of yogurt and spices to her left. “Your sauce, Officer.”

  The clack of boots on tile was nothing unusual during the meal. Waiters and junior officers were coming and going on both sides of the long dining hall, but the particular cadence of the approaching gait froze Delilah like a statue. She refused to look.