Black Lion's Bride

by Lara Adrian

  “Then you must take steps to ensure that his suspicions do not focus on you,” Halim answered pointedly. “He is a man of some youth and virility from what I have seen; I doubt he'd refuse you. It should not require much to keep him distracted from your true purpose, even for a girl of your limited skills.”

  Zahirah felt her face flame at Halim's outrageous suggestion. How dare he advise seduction when he--indeed, all of Masyaf--knew she was yet a virgin, unschooled in the harem arts at her father's strict insistence? And to imply that she might willingly whore for the Frankish captain besides!

  “This mission ends tonight,” she insisted. “I'm leaving this place here and now, if I must climb this wall to do it. And you will help me, Halim.”

  The fida'i's answering chuckle did not bode well for her cause. “Jafar's life was spent for nothing, and now you expect me to risk my own to assist you in fleeing your mission like a jittery hare, all because you made a stupid mistake in judgment?”

  Zahirah hardened herself to the accusation, despite its sting. “Jafar is dead because of his own carelessness. I have made mistakes, admittedly, but I will not wait here to make another.”

  “The risk would be greater if you were to abandon the plan now,” the fida'i countered. “After all, you have been seen by these men, and if you do not know it, Zahirah, you are not a woman soon forgotten. You have lost the advantage of anonymity. Now that you are inside the Franks' camp, it is better that you stay.”

  “Halim!” she hissed in disbelief. “I have made my decision in this. I do not seek your permission--”

  Behind her, a booted footstep echoed in the colonnade leading toward the gardens, the interruption cutting short Zahirah's argument. Someone approached from within the palace. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, but saw no one. No sign of activity, not even the dim glow of the captain's reading candle, the flame evidently snuffed out since she had been there. Curse Halim for making her quarrel with him when she could have been using the time to gain her freedom!

  “I have lingered too long,” she whispered urgently. “Someone is coming. I must go!”

  “Quick. Take the dagger.”

  Halim pushed a silk-wrapped object through the hole in the garden wall. Zahirah retrieved it with grasping, frantic fingers, slipping the slim, sheathed blade beneath the waistband of her pantalets. She did not bother with further words for Halim; he was gone in that next moment anyway, no doubt slinking away from the palace wall with the silent stealth of a cat.

  Without a moment to spare, Zahirah shoved the stone back into place in the wall, then vaulted to her feet. She had just brushed the dried leaves and dirt from her hands and clothing when a deep voice made her jump with startlement.

  “It is rather late for a stroll in the garden.”

  “Oh. Yes,” she answered, turning to meet the large, moonlit figure of the Frankish captain. Sebastian, her mind supplied, the foreign name rolling far too readily to the tip of her tongue. “My apologies if I disturbed your rest, my lord. I found it difficult to sleep in a strange place . . . and, of course, after all that has happened today.”

  “Of course,” he replied lightly, but his dark brows were furrowed, his gaze narrowed and trained more on the rose briar than it was on her. “I thought I heard voices out here. Were you talking to someone?”

  “None but myself,” she said, her nervous little laugh borne of genuine anxiety as the knight came toward her. “I sometimes do so when I have troubling things on my mind.”

  “Do you?”

  He came to stand before her and Zahirah frowned, unsettled by his sudden nearness. “My lord?”

  He gave her a vague smile. “Do you have troubling things on your mind?”

  “Y-yes,” she whispered. “That is--no.”

  Her reply was hasty. Too hasty, perhaps, for he looked down at her then, studying her eyes over the top of her veil. Allah, preserve her, but there was something dangerously compelling in that level gaze, something that grabbed a hold of her like a physical bond, drawing her in. He stood so close, it was impossible for her not to stare, her eyes taking in the harsh symmetry of his face: the wide brow and sharply planed cheekbones, his stern chin and jaw, the blunt line of his nose . . . the incongruously sensual curve of his mouth.

  Limned in moonlight, with his mane of dark hair wild about his shoulders in untamed waves, this Anglo man of war was easily the most breathtaking vision Zahirah had ever seen.

  And he stared at her, too, she realized dazedly. She saw the interest in his eyes, saw the spark of male curiosity that flared in their pale depths as his gaze traveled her covered face, then lifted to meet her eyes. There was potency in that gaze, a compelling confidence that should have unsettled her more than it did. He might have known his affect on her, for then he smiled, a slow curve of his lips. His voice was a growl in the dark.

  “What mysteries do you hide beneath that veil, Zahirah?”

  The question shocked her, but no more than the unexpected feel of his touch. He reached out slowly, bringing his hand up to her face. Though he scarcely touched her, only the merest skate of his fingertips against her cheek, Zahirah felt enflamed. She closed her eyes, and for one mad instant, she considered Halim's advice.

  Seduction.

  She knew not the first thing about it, but all that was woman in her warned that this man surely did. His touch advanced no farther than her face, yet Zahirah felt his caress in every nerve and pore of her body. The callused pad of his thumb swept over her lips, rasping against the silk that covered them and drawing the breath from her lungs in a warm, ragged sigh.

  His heavy-lidded gaze trained on her mouth, he started to sweep aside her veil . . .

  “No,” Zahirah gasped, finally seizing some thread of sanity amid the tumult of her present state.

  What had come over her? She was daughter of Rashid al-Din Sinan! Had she no honor at all that she would allow this over-bold heathen to paw her like a common whore? Her skin should crawl from the very notion. What madness did she suffer that she should instead feel so alive?

  Terrified by what she was feeling--by what she might yet be tempted to permit this man if she remained another moment--Zahirah shrunk back from his touch as if burned. She took a step away from him, then another.

  By Allah's merciful grace, he made no move to stop her. Nor did he say a word as she brought her trembling hand to her mouth and dashed past him, her mind reeling as she fled for the safety of her chamber in the palace.

  * * *

  Sebastian stared after her, watching in wry amusement as she made a hasty exit from the garden. Her flight seemed unhindered in the slightest by her injured ankle, running from him as she might from the devil himself. As well she should, he decided, his deep sigh betraying the knot of tension coiled in his loins.

  God's bones, but when she stared up at him in the moonlight, her wide, expressive eyes drinking him in with a shattering lack of guile, he had been powerless to keep from touching her. Had she not broken away so abruptly, he no doubt would have endeavored to do far more than that.

  He wondered at his interest in her. An interest that had kept him awake that night, made him restless even beyond his usual inability to sleep a night through. His mind had been churning on her from the moment he first laid eyes on her in the souk, a beauty like no other he had known.

  Zahirah harbored mysteries that went far deeper than her beauty, that much he was sure of. But as tempting as it was to sate his curiosity and lay each of her secrets bare, he knew he could ill afford the distraction when the king's life hung in the balance. If he had not been sure of it before, this encounter in the garden was proof enough: his pretty desert rose would have to go back to where she came from.

  Indeed, the sooner he was delivered of the chit, the better.

  Chapter 4

  Fatigued from a nearly sleepless night, Zahirah was wide awake before the dawn. She listened from the sanctity of her chamber as the knights in the palace stirred, the metallic ja
ngle of armor and the tick of spurs on tiled hallways telling her that the company of soldiers were departing for their day's activities. She could only pray their brutish captain was gone with them, for if she never faced him again it would suit her quite well.

  Assuring herself of her rightful scorn, Zahirah crossed the room to see about the commencement of her escape. She reached for the latch on the tall chamber door--at the very moment a soft knock sounded from the other side. She leaped back, her right hand instinctively searching out her dagger, which rested snug against her belly, held in place by the drawstring waistband of her trousers, and concealed by the shapeless length of her tunic.

  “Who is there?” she called, ready to draw her weapon and use it if the coarse crusader thought for one moment she would be fool enough to let him near her again.

  “It is Abdul, mistress. I have come to offer you a light repast.”

  Zahirah exhaled a sigh of frustration. Next to the heathen known as Sebastian, the last thing she needed was his well-meaning servant delaying her with his doting. She would take what he brought her and quickly dismiss him, she decided. Gripping the latch, she opened the door and met his smile with a small nod of greeting. “Thank you, Abdul,” she said, then frowned when she noticed that he carried nothing in his hands.

  “My master has requested that you join him in breaking his morning's fast, mistress. Come with me, I will show you the way.”

  She would do no such thing! To share a meal with a nonbeliever was to pollute her Muslim purity; she would rather starve first, especially after her encounter with him last night. Ignoring the servant's outstretched arm, Zahirah remained where she stood, bristling from the top of her veiled head to the open toes of her sandals. “My humble thanks for bringing me his invitation, Abdul, but you may tell your master that I have respectfully declined. His offer is--” She bit her tongue, harnessing the urge to call it grossly presumptuous. “--his offer is most hospitable, however, I haven't the appetite to dine with him. Tell him I wish to spend the morning in prayer.”

  Abdul blinked at her, then dipped his head and awkwardly cleared his throat. “He instructed me to wait until you were ready, mistress.”

  “Did he.” Zahirah could hardly comprehend the audacity of the man. And with the loyal servant standing there, fully intent on observing his Christian master's orders to wait her out, her hopes of a neat escape from the palace that morning scattered like dust in a desert sandstorm.

  “Very well,” she relented crisply, “then I suppose you should take me to him.”

  She stepped out into the corridor, and, with Abdul shuffling to get ahead of her, Zahirah marched up the same hallway she had navigated in the dark a few hours before, then followed the servant down a wide colonnade that cut a mosaic-tiled path to an interior courtyard.

  Doubtless one of many such pleasure gardens secreted in the palace grounds, the rectangular enclosure was a feast for the senses. More than a dozen tall palm trees shaded the area, the light breeze sifting through their fronds carrying with it the fragrance of countless flowers that bloomed in large clay pots and in carefully tended beds. A bulbul chirped from somewhere above Zahirah's head, its bright morning song echoed by the soft trickle of a fountain located at the center of the courtyard.

  “Good morrow, Lady Zahirah. I am pleased you decided to join me.”

  Decided, indeed, Zahirah scoffed inwardly. She turned away from the pleasing beauty of the garden with some reluctance, glancing to where the crusader lounged, his big frame garbed in a dark tunic and hose, and dwarfing the carved stone bench on which he sat. Spread upon the table before him was an assortment of fruits and flat breads, the sight of all that delicious-looking food setting Zahirah's stomach to growling.

  He rose, indicating the empty bench opposite him at the table. “Come. Sit.”

  “All due respect, my lord, but I would rather not.”

  At his post near the entryway to the courtyard, Abdul pointedly cleared his throat. Zahirah ignored the less than subtle signal to submit to the Frank, her cool gaze trained on the arrogant captain in reproach.

  “You are upset about what happened last night,” he guessed, resuming his seat when her rigid stance made it clear she would not be joining him. “I expected you might be. I had hoped I might make it up to you in some way.”

  “That won't be necessary,” she replied, steeling herself to his obvious attempts at politeness. She did not want to think what Abdul might make of their conversation. Despite his endeavor to appear disinterested, his gaze now fixed on a point high above his turbaned head, she suspected there was little the servant did not know about the goings-on in the palace.

  His foreign master seemed equally attuned.

  “How fares your ankle today?” he asked, stabbing a chunk of melon on the end of a narrow knife and eating from the blade like a savage. “It must be markedly improved; I couldn't help noticing when you came in that you have taken off your bandages.”

  “Yes,” Zahirah answered, having all but forgotten about the wrappings she had cut away a short while before Abdul's arrival at her door. After all, she'd had no true need of them, and she had wanted no hindrances when she made her escape from the palace. On second thought, perhaps there would be no call for risky escape tactics, now that it was plain to him that she was well on the mend. “My ankle is much better today, my lord. In fact, that is what I came to tell you. I thank you for your . . . hospitality, but I've no wish to trouble you further. I should like very much to be on my way as soon as possible.”

  “Understood,” he granted her with a slight tilt of his head. “We can leave as soon as we are finished here.”

  Zahirah's heart slammed against her ribcage. “We, my lord?”

  “You and I,” he replied. “Abdul has already seen to the horses and supplies.” A casual look toward the servant garnered a obeisant nod of confirmation.

  “I don't understand,” Zahirah blurted. She took a step forward, hands fisted at her sides, her head ringing with the ramifications of what he proposed. “Certainly, you cannot mean to accompany me when I leave here?”

  “Indeed, I do. Despite what I may have led you to believe last night, I am a man of some honor, my lady. It would be a smirch to my vows of chivalry did I not see you safely delivered to your home.”

  She stared at him in mute frustration, unsure of what to think, let alone what to say.

  “You do have a home somewhere, do you not, Zahirah?”

  “Yes, but, I--” She struggled for excuses, anything to dissuade the man from his course. “My lord, I assure you it is not necessary for you to bother. I am perfectly able to go on my own.” At his questioning frown, she rushed to explain. “My village is in the mountains, you see. It is a great distance from here, and it is remote. What few roads there are can be very difficult to travel--”

  “All the more reason for you not to go alone.”

  “But, my lord--”

  His smile was unwavering. “I insist.”

  Zahirah was about to sputter another moot refusal when the sound of raised voices carried down the length of the long corridor. They were too far away to discern the cause of the argument, but there was no mistaking that at least one of the men was Arabic--and hotly combative. Amid the disturbance, a palace servant rushed frantically into the courtyard. The small man executed a quick bow to the Frankish captain, who had since risen to his feet, watching as the servant then turned and whispered something in Abdul's ear.

  “What is it?” questioned the dark lord.

  “There is a man at the gates, master. He is quite agitated, I fear. He is demanding that he see his sister at once.”

  “His sister?” The captain pivoted, fixing a pointed look on Zahirah.

  “He says he will not leave until he sees her, master.”

  “Then by all means,” he answered, still staring at her, a faint scowl pinching his brow, “have the guards show him in.”

  Abdul's clipped order sent the other servant dashing ba
ck up the corridor. Zahirah could only stand there, praying that her heretofore unknown brother was in fact Halim, come to aid her after all. She breathed a sigh of relief to hear the fida'i's voice booming in the hallway, and had to marshal a rather satisfied grin as he appeared before her a moment later, escorted by the beefy knight who called the captain his friend.

  “This is your brother?” asked the captain.

  Zahirah nodded, then raced forward to embrace Halim as if to demonstrate her affection. She could not have been more stunned when he raised his hand and struck her hard across the face.

  “Whore,” he spat acidly as she stumbled to her knees. “You are a disgrace!”

  Cradling her burning cheek, Zahirah stared up at him in utter shock. She could not believe what he had just done, nor could she fathom how this degradingly violent display would help get her out of the palace. But all it took was one glimpse at the genuinely heated look in Halim's eyes, and she knew that his purpose in coming that morning was not to help her out.

  Rather, he had come to ensure she stayed.

  “What, by God, is the meaning of this?”

  The captain charged forward to assist her, but Zahirah held him back with a shake of her head. “Please, don't. I'm all right,” she gasped brokenly, coming to her feet of her own accord.

  The captain's voice rolled like thunder, deep and angry. “No man strikes a woman, be he a brother or nay.”

  “Sebastian,” warned the other knight from behind Halim. “Have a care, my friend. This isna our affair.”

  “Like hell it's not,” the captain growled in reply. He leveled a chilling glare on Halim and switched from his own language to Arabic. “This woman was nearly killed in the souk yesterday. What sort of family does she hail from that would send her brother here, willing to beat her senseless without affording her the benefit of explanation?”