She had known he was coming. She still leaned against the window seat that looked over the courtyard. At his brash entrance she started, but she did not rise.
He stopped inside the doorway, staring at her as he had that long-ago April night. But then she believed that night had been part of a dream, for she barely knew the stranger before her.
His skin was darkened past bronze by the sun; the creases about his dark-fire eyes were deeper than she remembered last. He seemed to have grown taller, and broader about the shoulders; his dark hair was longer, curling over the nape of his tunic. He had just come from battle, she thought, and she did not remain sitting because of intentional disrespect, but because she suddenly felt too weak to stand. She had been in love with him forever, it seemed now. But time had swept away all tentative bonds between them. She still loved him; seeing him made her tremble; her body seemed to melt and throb along with her heart. But she could not run to him. She could not throw her arms around him, and she could not say all the things that she had dreamed she might when she saw him again. She did still know him enough, or remember him enough, to realize that he was angry.
He didn’t want her there. She had traveled across land and water for endless months to be with him—and he didn’t want her there! From the window she had watched a smile like the sun strip the tension from his features when he greeted Gwyneth; she had watched him hug Gwyneth, hold her . . . laugh until Elise had been forced to remember breathlessly how handsome he could be . . .
But his laughter had been for another woman.
Bryan swallowed, wishing he had shut the door so that he might have leaned against it. She was like cool water in the sand-parched desert. Like Gwyneth, she wore her hair loose, the sun-fire locks curled about her in sleek splendor. She wore a costume of some new design: loose trousers beneath a tunic sitting along the legs. The sleeves were a pale aqua, the tunic a darker hue that caught that elusive color of her eyes, which was between blue and green. A spellbinding color—he had lost himself within it long ago, and hadn’t known a minute’s peace since. Her clothing was concealing, and yet to his mind, it concealed nothing. She was slimmer, but still she curved where he longed to touch her, and even as he stood there wanting to berate her for her presence, he had no control over the inner desire that was already pulling her to him, stripping her until he held her naked to him . . .
“It has been a long time,” Elise said, speaking first. She had meant to keep her voice soft, but because of his thunderous look, a note of defiance crept into her voice.
“What is this . . . madness?” he hissed to her.
She shrugged, confused and hurt by his attitude. “Perhaps men are not the only ones to crave to ride to glory. I had an army; I brought it on crusade.”
“You’re not staying,” Bryan said bluntly. His knees were shaking. He turned around to close the door, then noticed that Jeanne was busy in the back corner of the room, shaking clothing out from a travel trunk. Jeanne stopped in her task and looked from Elise to Bryan.
“Out, Jeanne,” Bryan commanded softly.
“Bryan! Jeanne, you needn’t take orders from—”
“Out, Jeanne,” Bryan repeated.
Jeanne glanced at Elise, but obeyed Bryan. Bryan closed the door, and at last leaned against it, praying the solid wood would give him strength.
“Bryan! You’ve been gone over a year! You’ve no right to start ordering my servants about!”
“I’m sure she understands,” Bryan drawled. “Elise, you’re not staying here. I appreciate the men, but you’re leaving in the morning.”
“I am not!” Elise exclaimed, torn between the pain and anger. “I trained those men! I—”
“Elise! It is dangerous here!”
“Dangerous!” She started to laugh bitterly. “There was danger in Cornwall, Bryan Stede, and I handled it quite nicely without you, thank you.”
He lowered his lashes suddenly and his fingers knotted into his palms to form fists. No, he hadn’t been there. He had been traveling on this stupid quest that meant nothing! She had every right to berate him, she had been in danger, but he could not stand for her to be in such a position again, while he was helpless. The whore who had died today . . . she had done so almost beneath his eyes . . .
“Bryan,” she said quietly, “I did not see you ordering Gwyneth to leave.”
“Gwyneth is not my wife. She is a duchess in her own right. I cannot tell her what she must do.”
“I am a duchess in my own right, Bryan!”
“You are also my wife.”
“I’m staying.”
“You’re not!”
“We’ll ask Richard about that, won’t we? I realize that you are the king’s right-hand man, but Richard will want my guard. And they are my guard, Bryan!”
“So you would defy me by going to the king!” Bryan said hoarsely, incredulous and angry.
It was Elise who lowered her lashes this time. She longed to cry out the truth. I love you! I cannot leave you again! But he was rejecting her. She had dreamed that he would sweep her into his arms and tell her how he had needed her, envisioned her during all the lonely nights . . .
He hadn’t even touched her, and he was coldly demanding that she leave.
She answered him tonelessly. “I won’t get in your way, Bryan. But I don’t intend to leave.”
“All right, Elise,” he said. “We will take this domestic dispute to the king. I’ll agree to abide by his decision, if you will do the same.”
She glanced at him again, with her heart pounding. Surely Richard owed her! She would throw herself upon his mercy, and this time remind him bluntly that she was his blood; she had stood up against his enemies, while he had ruthlessly commandeered her husband away. This time, Richard had to listen to her . . .
She nodded swallowing. An awkward silence rose between them.
“You look well,” she told him.
“I look like a sandpile,” he replied. “But you . . . you are too thin. Are you well?”
Elise nodded, miserably wondering how they could be so far apart. “I’ve been very well since . . . I lost the child. Jeanne said that nothing was wrong with me, that with the night in the snow and Percy dying and the manor needing more fortification . . . that it all just became too much.” She gazed at the floor, then at Bryan. “I’m sorry, Bryan!” she said huskily. “I know that . . . I wanted the babe desperately myself. I’m truly sorry!” Tears threatened to fill her eyes. She looked quickly to her hands, then jumped when he at last left the doorway and strode toward her, dropping to his knees at her side and taking her hands into his.
“Elise! I’m not angry about the child! Or maybe I am angry. Angry that I couldn’t be there. Angry that it all fell to you, and that you probably did lose the babe because you were forced to take on too much. What I am worried about is now. I don’t want you here, Elise.”
She offered him a crooked, wistful smile, her fingers aching to reach out and touch his tousled hair.
“Not even for a night?” she whispered.
He heard the whimsy in her voice. It was the sweetest siren’s call. He looked into the liquid aqua pools of her eyes and shudders racked his frame. He lifted his hands and allowed his fingers to tangle in her hair as he held her face between his palms and leaned closer to kiss her. Her lips were honey; they parted at his touch and he hungrily ravaged her mouth, feeling his body throb with the promise of an ecstasy he had awaited in his dreams, waking and sleeping.
She fell from the window seat, kneeling against him. Her fingers raked through his hair and bit into his shoulders. Her soft sobs muffled against his lips; she clung to him in a sweet and willful abandon.
He tried to pull away from her.
“I’m filthy,” he said ruefully. “Covered with desert sand and the grit of battle.”
“I don’t care!” she whispered. “Bryan, hold me! Please, hold me!” She buried her face against his chest again, letting her feather-light caresses cover his warr
ior’s frame. He held his breath, straining to hear her as she whispered again. “Love me, Bryan. Please, love me . . .”
He needed no further invitation, nor could he restrain his own desires further. He worked on his scabbard, and found her trembling fingers assisting his. The sword fell to his side. With lowered eyes she tugged upon his tunic. Together they pulled it over his shoulders. He stood, lifting her with him, and they found themselves locked in a fevered embrace once again.
It has been over a year since you held her! Bryan reminded himself. Be gentle, be tender, take care . . .
But the fire that surged in his blood was strong, and he found himself ripping her strange costume from her, rather than removing it gently. But she didn’t seem to care; her lips were roaming over his chest; she nipped at his flesh, kissed it, teased and swathed it with the tip of her tongue. As he fumbled with her clothing, tearing cloth, she caressed him heedlessly, her nails raking pleasure down his spine. She was suddenly naked in his arms; the hard peaks of her breasts teased him, the arch of her hips sent his mind spiraling to rapture. It had been so long since he had held her breasts in his palms, touched the hard rouge peaks with the ardor of his lips, known the satin taste of her ivory flesh. His palms, rough with calluses, scoured over her, his kisses seared her. But when he laid her down upon the silk sheets of the low cushioned bed, she was up and in his arms again, tearing at his boots, at his hose, until he was as naked as she.
And he found that it was he who was being pressed against the cushioned softness of the low silk-covered bed. She came to him, cloaking him in the spun-gold beauty of her hair, rising above him as the shapely length of her long legs embraced him in a wild and wicked beauty, her thighs straddling his hips. She arched as he reached out to touch her, and as his fingers found her breasts with grazing reverence, he caught his breath with wonder at her perfection. Lithe and slender, curved and sculpted. Her breasts were so high, firm, and full to his hands, her waist so narrow, her hips so fluid and curved and lean . . .
Were he ever to be away from her a hundred years, he knew that he would always dream of her, wait for her, covet her; no woman could ever please him or touch him again, for the greatest beauty would pale in comparison to all that he had found with her. His need for her was deeper than the flesh, a hunger that could be sated, but never completely filled. Hers was a warmth far greater than the heat of passion, yet she touched upon his senses as no other woman ever could.
She made love to him with a wild and reckless abandon. As a warm breeze rustled the gauze of the exotic Arabic bedding, inhibition was lost to splendor. Bryan savored the sweet beauty of her aggressive fever, and tried to pull her back to him when she suddenly went still.
“You’re wounded!” she told him, finding the spot where the sword had rent his arm.
“A scratch . . .” he murmured.
“But, Bryan, it must pain you—”
“’Tis a scratch, nothing more!” He swept his arms around her, dominating now. “I feel no pain except that which you alleviate for me now . . .”
He began to whisper to her, words that made her flush and quiver . . . and die a little more each time with wonder at the sensations that consumed and devoured her. Soon they were a tangle of limbs, kissing, touching, loving, soaring. Never had the fever burned so high, so brilliantly; never did it climax with such sweet, shattering pleasure . . . nor drift so slowly into a gratifying peace, leaving them entwined, murmuring . . . caressing.
But when Elise at last lay completely still, smiling shyly and meeting his indigo gaze, she saw that his eyes were brooding and clouded, somewhat torn, but . . . hard.
He smiled somewhat ruefully. “You still cannot stay,” he told her softly.
“Why?” she whispered in despair.
He shrugged uneasily. “We gain a foothold, we lose a foothold. And, by God, Elise, I am heartily sick of the sight of blood! Fever, snakebite, the heat . . . our men die as thick as the cursed flies around us. Those we trust turn traitor. Always, it is a standstill. Saladin is strong, and powerful. He has a nephew whom I fight . . . almost daily. I hold the ground; he holds the ground. What is mine one day may not be the next. I do not want you here, Elise. I swear that the only way you will ever lead troops is over my dead body.”
She swallowed, afraid to ask too much. She wanted to believe that he cared only for her life and welfare. She did not want to wonder if he kept one of the beautiful mixed-blood women of the port as a concubine; she did not want to ask how he filled his nights. Not now. She wanted only to stay.
“Bryan, I just arrived. I beg you to let me remain . . . a while. I will stay where you tell me to stay; I will not venture near the battle. The men I have brought will follow you; if I were to leave, I would need an escort. The strength of those who came beneath our banner could one day make a crucial difference.”
He did not look convinced. She lowered her lashes and started to press warm, liquid kisses over the faded scars that marred his chest. She shifted slightly against him, allowing the tips of long tresses to tease over his thighs.
“I’ve . . . missed you . . .” she told him huskily, thrilling at the way his breath caught and his flesh quivered.
He lifted his hand to her face, smoothing her hair, grazing her cheeks with his knuckles.
“Perhaps you needn’t leave right away—” he began, but then they were both startled by a sharp banging at the door.
“What is it?” Bryan thundered out.
A tentative voice followed a small silence. “’Tis Wat, milord. King Richard rages about the solar, awaiting word about your battle with Jalahar.”
Bryan swore softly beneath his breath. “Tell the king I am on my way.”
He rolled from the bed, not glancing at Elise as he fumbled back into his clothing, swearing again. “Were I ever to have another chance at life, I would not be favored by a king!”
He paused at the doorway and at last looked back at Elise, scowling for a moment, then allowing a slight grin to tug at his lips.
“For the time being, Elise, I will allow you to stay. But not here. We hold Antioch more firmly. I will take you there. I will not be with you often, as we are most frequently camped in the desert. But if it is your wish, you will stay. For now. You will promise me that you will leave if I do feel it imperative.”
“Bryan—”
“Promise me.”
She smiled very sweetly. “I promise.”
Bryan seemed satisfied. He closed the door behind him, and Elise rested against the pillow while her smile became triumphant laughter.
He would never send her away.
She would see that he could never bear to do so!
XXIV
October, 1190
The Palace of Muzhair
The Coastal Road
He was a man of medium stature, slim, but built wiry and strong. He was a brave man, raised to strength and courage by Saladin, a brilliant strategist. His name was Jalahar, and at twenty-five years of age he ruled over his domains with complete authority beneath Allah. He was known for a swift-rising temper; he was also known for a quick intelligence, and mercy when mercy was warranted. His eyes were a deep and haunting brown; his features were cleanly defined, sharp, but arrestingly pleasant. They bespoke his rugged life in the saddle, besting the elements cast his way at birth, reigning supreme over the desert.
From the scalloped window of his palace at Muzhair, the emir looked broodingly out on the Christian forces encamped far beyond the desert dunes that fringed his stronghold.
They could not take the palace. Of that he was certain. Just as Saladin was certain they would not take Jerusalem.
But this war, brought upon them by Christian interlopers, was costing him dearly—in trade, in the lives of his people. Each time he ventured out beyond his own borders, he drew an even greater toll of death, for the Englishman Stede, beneath the Christian king they called the Lion-Heart, knew how to hold his position.
He was a worthy opponent, Jalaha
r thought. If Allah willed that a man be cast into battle, it was good to be cast against a man with strength and intelligence.
“Jalahar.”
He turned about, his desert capes swirling around him. His third wife, Sonina, a Damascene girl who was gracefully petite and exquisitely lovely, awaited him with her eyes lowered respectfully, her arms outstretched to offer him a bowl of honeyed dates. He smiled and walked to her, taking a date, tossing it about in his hand, then popping it into his mouth, keeping his eyes on the blushing girl all the while.
He took the bowl from her hands and set it on a low Turkish table, then walked across the breeze-swept room with her, pushing aside the gauze insect netting to lie beside her upon a bed of plush and colorful pillows.
He swept her veil away and studied her face, still smiling, for she was a gentle creature, yet wondering why he did not feel the joy in her company that he should. The great Mohammed had decreed that a man might take four wives; he had taken three. Sonina was the loveliest of his wives; she had been taught from birth that her place in life was to please a man. Jalahar could find no fault with her.
But the desire that should have risen when he touched her did not; and so he pulled her against him, and stroked the sleek ebony beauty of her hair.
“You go to battle again soon,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said simply. Were he speaking to one of his men, he would have explained that he meant to sneak out of the town in a circuitous route that night; he could not attack the Christians head-on and find victory, but his spies had informed him that a small party, led by his nemesis Stede, would travel from town to town that night. His attack would hopefully surprise them completely, and if he did not win a great victory, he would at least cause substantial damage to the Christian forces.
“Will it end soon?” she asked him sweetly.
“As Allah wills it,” he replied, and she fell silent. Sonina indeed knew her place. In Jalahar’s world, his women were fiercely protected; but they were expected to remain quietly in the background, unless summoned forward. Jalahar would never discuss strategy with her; she was merely a woman.
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