Black Lion's Bride

by Lara Adrian

  He wrote about trivial things, avoiding the mention of royal assassins and the many other dangers that lurked in this strange, savage land. He was thinking on the page, letting his mind simply wander where it would, when suddenly he stopped and stared in frank surprise. He glanced down to where his pen rested, poised at the end of a sentence he had not at all planned to write:

  I have met the most intriguing woman . . .

  He stared those confounding words for a long moment, then he swore an oath and irritably tore the letter in two.

  Chapter 10

  Sebastian endured a restless night abed in his chamber that eve, his mind too preoccupied to give him any better than an hour of peace at a time. His hard-won, dreamless sleep was intruded on more than once by the image of slashing, slender steel, a dagger's blade piercing the thin dark of slumber like lightning ripping across a moonless midnight sky, and letting open a river of blood that rained down all around him. He woke dreaming of death--not his, he felt certain of that--but he opened his eyes with a start, his naked body sprawled across the mattress of his bed and bathed in a cold sweat.

  It was nearly dawn in Ascalon. Soon the muezzin would climb to the minaret pulpit of the city mosque, and, in his warbling, sing-song chant, call the faithful to the morning prayer the way the cock called the sunrise back home in England. It was Friday today, the Muslim Sabbath, a holy day that would see the city swarming with people come to pray at the afternoon jumah. The gates would swell with the press of attending villagers; the streets and public bathhouses would jam to overflowing.

  Sebastian had never much minded the weekly crush of humanity, but now, when his head was filled with foreboding, he knew a bone-deep dread that on this day, death might follow on the heels of the devout. As a precaution, he would post additional guards at the gates, although he knew he could not expect the soldiers to search every comer on his way to the mosque. Perhaps today he would stand on watch himself.

  Resolved to this initiative, he threw off the tangle of sheets that had snarled around his legs, then pivoted to set his feet on the floor. His braies were draped on the divan beside the bed. He snatched them up and fastened them about his hips, the loose linen undergarment just sufficient enough to cover his nakedness for the short trek to and from the palace bathhouse.

  There was much to admire about the Saracen people and their culture, but the thing Sebastian thought he would miss the most when he eventually left Palestine was the ritual of the bath. A far cry from the occasional frigid plunge into a river or the cramped tub of lukewarm water that was generally scorned as a bath in England's drafty castles, here, bathing was nearly an art form, practiced almost as religiously as the Muslims' five daily prayers. Here, the bath was meant to be savored, taking place in great tiled rooms with vaulted ceilings, amid elaborate pools and fountains of clear water and billowing steam.

  The bathhouse of the Ascalon palace was empty this morning but for Sebastian, for there were few Christian knights who were liable to indulge in a practice frowned upon as hedonism by the church. God knew most of them could use a good scrubbing, but he was well pleased to have the space all to himself today.

  He took a towel from a supply near the entryway, and brought it with him to the bathing pool. Disrobed, his braies and towel placed on a bench that crouched elegantly at poolside, Sebastian waded into the warm, scented water and submerged himself. He soaped his head and body with a cake of sandalwood soap then plunged beneath the water to rinse.

  The pool was too small for swimming, but he could stretch his limbs easily and the warmth of the bath felt good on his tired muscles and the healing injury at his side. He broke the surface with a measure of regret and hoisted himself out of the water. Dripping wet and refreshed, he stood and reached for the towel.

  It was then that he sensed a subtle shift in the air behind him.

  He wrapped the swatch of cotton around his hips and turned, fully expecting to find Abdul there, for the two men had shared the ritual of the morning bath on occasion, sitting together in a thick fog of steam and trading stories about their families and homelands with an easy camaraderie that was rare between their warring peoples. But it was not Abdul who stood within the arched alcove that separated the bathhouse from the corridor.

  It was Zahirah.

  She was dressed and veiled in simple morning attire, carrying a folded white towel and a small basket of accoutrements for her bath. Sebastian met her surprised, wordless stare and held it. He stood as still as granite, feeling each bead of water that rolled down his naked limbs and torso to drip onto the tiles of the bathhouse floor. His every muscle was keen with awareness, keen with an instant, coiling hunger. He did not trust himself to move, for the compulsion to cross the room to where she stood would surely carry him there with his first step.

  “I-I'm sorry,” she stammered, belatedly averting her gaze. “I did not know the bathhouse was occupied.”

  “You should have asked,” he replied, his voice sounding as tight as his present effort at restraint. He watched a blush creep up over the edge of her veil.

  “My apologies for the intrusion, my lord. Please excuse me.”

  She turned to leave. He should have let her go.

  Instead, he said, “You're up early, Zahirah. It's scarcely dawn. Did your night of solitude not provide you peace?”

  She paused, pivoting to face him. From the faint shadows under her unblinking, exquisite eyes, it did not appear that she had slept much better than he had. Despite that fact, she bowed her head in a slight nod. “It did, my lord. I rose early because today is the Sabbath. There is much to do before I go to attend the jumah this afternoon.”

  At her mention of the special prayer service to be held in the mosque, Sebastian's brow rankled. His unsettling dreams were still fresh in his mind, and he did not want to be concerned about Zahirah when he would be elsewise occupied at the city gates. He shook his head in flat refusal. “The jumah will have to wait for another time, my lady.”

  “What do you mean, it will have to wait?”

  He could not tell if she was outraged or panic-stricken. Perhaps she was a little of both. “I'll be busy about the city with my men today,” he explained. “There will be no time for me to take you to the mosque.”

  “But, my lord!” She took a step forward, frowning. “I was not asking for your escort--I do not require it.”

  He leveled an unyielding stare on her. “The requirement is mine, Zahirah.”

  “Christians are not allowed in a Muslim holy place,” she informed him, her customarily even tone slipping toward an edge of defiance. Her towel and basket were abandoned on a nearby pedestal as she came toward him, a fuming tigress on the offense, clearly refusing to let herself be pushed into a corner. “Even should you think to attend, my lord, you would be forbidden from the mosque. I am certain you do not intend to deny me the observance of my faith.”

  “You're in my charge, under my protection. So long as you are here, you'll do as I say. That was our agreement.”

  She exhaled sharply, her eyes flashing with ire. “No Frank has the right to lord over me.”

  “This one does,” he answered. “I would ask you to remember that, unless you'd rather find your shelter elsewhere. You may observe your Sabbath in whatever way you wish, my lady. Just do so from within these grounds.”

  She scoffed. “You said I was not to be kept a prisoner here. You said you would make no demands of me.”

  “And I haven't,” he replied evenly, no easy feat when she was standing within arm's reach of him, her eyes flashing with anger, her pert breasts straining against the fabric of her tunic with every sharp breath she took into her lungs.

  “You Franks,” she accused. “All you know is what you want. All you speak are lies.”

  Finally, she had provoked him far enough. He advanced on her now, breaching the last few paces that separated them. Towering over her, he crowded her with his shadow. “If I was not a man of my word, do you think I would have le
t you bar me from your room last night?”

  She drew in a feathery gasp of air, holding herself very still. He could see that she was uncertain of him now, unsure what he intended and likely surprised to find herself all but pressed against his nearly naked body. He saw her trepidation, her sudden awareness, and he leaned closer, so close, he could see the rapid pulse of her heartbeat thudding above the neckline of her tunic. He wanted to touch her. God help him, he wanted to do much more than that.

  “Do you think, my lady, that I would have walked away last night, when I wanted more than anything to have you in my bed--when I have been mad with the thought of having you from the moment I first saw you?”

  She stared up at him stunned, evidently, into silence. Her diaphanous veil fluttered with the tremulous little sigh that escaped her parted lips.

  “If I were the half the unreasonable boor you seem convinced I am, do you think you be standing here, cursing me for a liar and a beast, when it would take but a moment for me to have you in my arms?” To prove his point, he caught her by the wrist and hauled her to him. She gasped, tensing in his grip, but scarcely made the effort to pull away. “Tell me, Zahirah. Were I the sort of man you think I am, do you expect you'd be safe behind a mere scrap of silk if I decided I wanted to taste that pretty mouth that seems always so quick to condemn me?”

  Had she drawn back in the slightest, he would have released her. Had she flinched at all when his free hand came up between them, he would have denied himself the impulse and let his hand fall away. But she gave only the slightest tremble as he reached up under her veil to let his fingertips brush the bare skin of her cheek. He cupped her jaw in his palm, sliding his hand around to the back of her neck as he pulled her closer to him.

  She was softer, infinitely softer, than the silk that covered her. He reveled in the feel of her, the warmth of her, the smell of her. So feminine, so beautiful. He needed to see more of her.

  High on her cheek was the place where the veil was fastened to the silk kufiyya that draped her head. He found the loop that held it in place and gently unhooked it. The wisp of silk floated away from her face, crushing against her opposite shoulder. He swept aside her head covering with a light, if impatient, skate of his hand, baring her ebony hair to his touch.

  It was glossy and luxurious, unbound and tumbling down her back. Idly, he wondered how long it would reach, wondered how it would feel to have it whispering against his skin while Zahirah lay naked in his arms. He wondered what it would look like, tossing about her shoulders in a tempest as he brought her to a shattering climax. His sex hardened at the very thought.

  “Like heaven,” he murmured as he brought a handful of the raven locks over her shoulder, then gently caressed her jaw line.

  Her thick-lashed eyes muted from quicksilver to dark steel. A blush, sweetly innocent, crept into her cheeks. “Please,” she whispered, her lips moist against the pad of his thumb.

  She shook her head, too faint to be all resistance, but he did not think he could stop himself even if it was. Tipping her chin up on the edge of his hand, he bent down to claim her mouth with his.

  At the moment of contact, she went as rigid as a lance. Then slowly, with the artless surprise of a fawn on her first legs, she opened to him. The hand he had been holding by the wrist slipped free of his slack grasp and found his bare shoulder. Her touch was light, uncertain, like her kiss. A small whimper curled up from the back of her throat as he led her deeper into his embrace, catching her plump bottom lip and sucking it lightly, teasing it with his tongue.

  Despite his inexperience with purity, he could tell at once that she was a virgin, likely never even been kissed before this very moment. The thought should have sobered him. Instead it made him burn. God help him, it made him want to possess her.

  Here.

  Now.

  He circled his arm around her back, dragging her against the length of him, trying to show her what she was doing to him, needing her to know. His arousal was stiff and throbbing beneath his towel, rampant as it surged against the firmness of her pelvis. He groaned at the soft pressure that met his groin, then reached down to grasp her buttocks and lift her harder against him. He tested the seam of her mouth with his tongue, thrusting past her lips, past her teeth, the way he wanted to thrust past the offending barriers of clothing and propriety.

  Had he said he would make no demands of her?

  Now more than ever he saw his noble claim for the grand jest it was. Never had he been so consumed with demand. His kiss was rife with it, plundering where he meant to be gentle, pressing where he meant to be patient. Demand was wild in his touch as well, his hands searching, clutching, taking. Demand was all his body knew, his senses greedily taking their fill, and still wanting for more.

  He left her mouth to taste the soft lobe of her ear. Zahirah's breath left her in a ragged gasp as he caught the tender flesh between his teeth. Her body arched taut, resisting even as her fingers dug into his shoulders to cling to him. She moaned in weak protest as he dragged an open-mouth kiss down the silky column of her neck, cried out in wordless pleasure when he delved his tongue into the tender hollow of her shoulder.

  He brought his hand between them, cupping one glorious breast through her tunic, kneading it to arousal. She squirmed and caught hold of his wrist, as if she meant to push him away then found she had not the strength to try. He searched out the laces that held the linen bodice together, untying them with fingers that were surprisingly unsteady.

  “Let me see you,” he whispered against her warm skin as he slid his hand inside and started to push the open neckline off her shoulder. “Let me see all of you, Zahirah.”

  As if suddenly called out of a dreamlike trance, her eyes snapped open, wide with panic. “No!” she gasped. She grabbed the slack edge of her tunic and wrenched it from his grasp, clutching it together in a trembling, white-knuckled fist. Shaking her head, she took a wary step away from him. She was damp from his embrace, her tunic spotted with water where they had been pressed together just a moment before. “No,” she said. “No. You can't . . . you can't.”

  He swore an oath. “Zahirah, I am not going to hurt you.”

  Though intended to ease her, his growled reassurance did nothing to erase the look of alarm on her face. He had moved too fast, too bold for an untried maiden new to passion. He had no skill with virgins, no experience in gentling a maid toward his carnal whims. For him, from his first awkward coupling at fifteen to the consummate pleasure he took in the act now, he knew no other way. He was not one to dance around desire; there had never before been cause.

  But he had honor, and being around Zahirah was putting it to a constant test. Sooner or later, if he could not purge her from his thoughts, he felt certain he was going to go mad.

  “Zahirah,” he said, but she was already backing away, looking at him as if he were some kind of monster.

  As if he had just proved himself every bit the barbarian Frank she knew him to be.

  Perhaps she knew him better than he knew himself. He could hardly defend what he had done--what he would have done if she had not drawn away. There was nothing he could say to excuse his behavior, not when he stood there, still taut with wanting, still hungry to take her, the evidence of his lust still heavy between his legs and utterly bereft of apology.

  He did not even try to stop her as she turned on her heel and fled the room, upsetting the pedestal that held her basket of bath items in her haste to escape. The reed container rocked in her wake, then tumbled to the floor, scattering its contents while Zahirah's hurried footsteps retreated down the corridor.

  “By the cross,” Sebastian muttered, dropping onto the poolside bench and catching his forehead in his hands. “What have I gotten myself into?”

  “Trouble, I'd say,” answered a thick Scots brogue. “And a fine lot of it, judging from the look on the lass's face as she passed me in the hall just now. You don't look so well yourself, my friend.”

  Sebastian grunted, sliding
a weary glance over his shoulder as Logan entered the bathhouse.

  The big knight's spurs ticked on the wet tiles as he strode forward, an expression of wry amusement quirking the corners of his mouth. He noted the spilled basket on the floor at his feet, and paused to pick up a broken cake of soap. Idly, he brought it under his nose, breathing in its essence for a moment before setting it down on the pedestal.

  “You know, English, even the most ill-bred highlander will endeavor to employ a little finesse when he sets out to seduce a lass. You might try it next time, so you don't send your bonny new bride into a fit of terror each time she sees you.”

  “She's not my bride,” Sebastian growled, in no mood to be reminded of the situation that had been providing the happily married Scot with overmuch humor these past couple of days. “And I wasn't trying to seduce her.” He raked a hand through his damp hair and blew out a sigh. “I don't know what I'm doing when it comes to her.”

  To his credit, Logan did not attempt to tell him. “I was just heading out to the yard for the morning drills with the men, if you've a mind to join me. In the interest of friendship, I may even let you win a few rounds.”

  Still occupied by other thoughts, Sebastian shook his head. “I'm overdue at the gates; no doubt the Sabbath crowds are already starting to prove a challenge to the men on watch. In fact, send up five of your guards once you're through with them. And Logan,” he said when the Scot turned to take his leave, “send Abdul to me on your way out. I have a peace offering I would like him to deliver for me.”

  Chapter 11