Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga #3)(47)

Lada traced one finger over Mehmed’s bottom lip, then down his chin and neck to his chest. She jabbed it there, hard enough to hurt. “You always have other choices. And you never choose my side.”

Mehmed grabbed her finger, clutching her hand. “Because I want your side to be at my side.”

“That will never happen.”

“Then we are at an impasse. I cannot let your aggression stand. It sets a dangerous precedent for the other vassal states.”

“Then give up Wallachia as a vassal state.”

“I cannot.”

Lada withdrew her hand, lifting a single eyebrow and letting disdain drip from her voice like grapes on a vine. “Here I thought you were the sultan. Emperor of Rome. Hand of God on Earth, or so all your missives have informed me. Were the titles lies along with everything else?”

“If I give up ground anywhere, I risk losing it everywhere. You of all people know how tenuous power is. Can we not compromise?”

Lada narrowed her eyes. Nicolae had told her she could and should negotiate. He whispered still, ghostly, in her ear. For once, she listened. “How would we compromise?”

“I will agree to forgive past debts in exchange for a renewed treaty.”

“Never.”

Mehmed sighed, lifting his eyes to the ceiling of the tent. “I will agree to forgive past debts in return for Bucharest and new terms of vassalage.”

“You can have no land.”

“Ah, but you did not say no outright!” He smiled slyly at her. “You sign new terms of vassalage, I do not meddle in your country, you do not harass my borders or the borders of any of my vassal states.”

“I will never give you boys for your Janissaries again. And I have no money—and if I did, I would spend it fighting you.”

Mehmed laughed. “I did not ever say you had to actually give me anything. All I ask is that you sign the terms. Just sign them, allow me to leave with a treaty that is respectable and shows Europe we have an understanding, and that is the end of it.”

“Really?” Lada leaned even closer, as though she could read him like a battle plan. Radu would have known if he was sincere. Lada did not. But she found herself hoping. “You would give up the taxes, the soldiers, everything my land has to offer?”

“Right now all your land is offering me is swamps, poisoned wells, and the plague.” He paused. “Thank you for that one, by the way.”

Lada grinned, elation coursing through her. “I know how much you value a clean camp. I wanted to make things interesting for you.”

“So you agree?”

Lada knew Mehmed would be a fool to follow through on such a disadvantageous agreement. And Mehmed was no fool. But if he left, it would give her time to organize. To muster more support. To rise to enough power to truly challenge him. Maybe he would never come back. Maybe their agreement would stand, and she would have saved her country from decades of conflict. She doubted it. But Nicolae pushed from the grave not to pass up this opportunity.

Lada leaned close, studying Mehmed’s dark eyes, his full lips. Remembering the taste of him. “I will come back tomorrow night to sign it. And then you will take your men and leave my country.”

“We are agreed.” Mehmed took off her Janissary cap, sighing as her hair fell free. “You know, the last time I was here, you told me you would kill me if I set foot on your soil again.”

“Fortunately for you, you have proved useful.”

He lowered his face to her neck, brushed his teeth along the skin there. “Let me show you how useful I can be.”

Their actions held all the tenderness of a battle, and twice the passion. Lada had pretended what Bogdan offered was enough, but this, with someone who was truly her equal, who understood her as no one else ever could, lit her body on fire in a way she could not experience elsewhere.

Mehmed put a hand over her mouth to keep her from crying out. She bit him, and he shuddered before collapsing beside her on the rug.

“Marry me,” he whispered, an arm thrown over his eyes, his chest still heaving.

Lada yanked her clothes back on, replacing her boots and shoving her hair under the Janissary cap. Then she leaned down and put her lips against Mehmed’s ear. “I would sooner kill you.”

She left the way she had entered. But this time she was the one leaving him betrayed, not the one broken by betrayal. Because there was another reason she had agreed to his terms. It meant the Ottomans would stay in this camp, in this position, for one more night.

And she had options if Mehmed reneged on their agreement.

She walked through camp as though in a dream, happier and more relaxed than she had felt in months. Perhaps years. Nicolae would be proud of her. She had made the smart decision. The decision that bought her time to build, to get stronger. To continue to create the Wallachia her people deserved.

Voices speaking in Wallachian caught her ear. She stopped. One of the voices pulled on her heart. It was a voice of her childhood, of hiding in barns, of venturing onto thin ice. Of tears and then of cold distance. A voice she had needed on her side.

She found the tent and paused outside, leaning close to listen.

“The Basarabs—those who are left—will support us,” said a man she did not know.

“I suspect the Hungarian king will as well,” Radu said. “Perhaps not outright, but when Aron is on the throne, Matthias will not be a problem.”