by Lara Adrian
He raised his brows. “I am glad to hear it, because I would have yours here and now, my lady. The truth, all of it. What happened yesterday afternoon? You met someone in the mosque--a man. I want you to tell me who he was.”
Zahirah blinked nervously, certain he could read the guilt in her face. Her mind rushed to replay the events of the day before, assessing her potential exposure. How many people might have seen her with Halim? Had someone overheard their argument, or seen the confrontation that led to Abdul's death? She could not be sure of what precisely Sebastian knew, but she was determined to deny her involvement. “There were many people at the Sabbath service, my lord. Am I to remember them all?”
“Just the one,” he replied, his unwavering gaze too intense, his voice too civil, to be trusted. “There may have been a thousand people at the mosque, but it took only one man to murder Abdul in cold blood. I would have his name, Zahirah.”
She squirmed, finding it impossible to maintain any semblance of innocence when he was staring at her so closely. “Sebastian, please. You are asking me questions I cannot answer--”
“Can't,” he challenged, “or won't?”
She saw the danger she was stoking with her evasiveness, acknowledged the angry flaring of his nostrils, the slow knitting of his brows that bespoke the storm doubtless soon to come. “I-I would tell you if I could,” she stammered. “I wish I could tell you what you want to know. Would that I could be of more help.”
Sebastian seemed less than convinced. He searched her eyes, his face so close to hers that his breath stirred the fine hairs at her forehead. “Am I to understand, then, that you did not know the man at all? That he was a stranger to you?”
She nodded, and lowered her gaze. “That is what I am saying, yes.”
He grunted. “Would it surprise you to know that the descriptions I've gathered seem to match your brother? Is that what you're afraid to tell me--that he is somehow involved in this?”
Zahirah considered the lie that had bought her passage into the crusaders' camp, the falsehood that had made her kin to Halim in Sebastian's eyes. The irony of it now made her exhale a small, wry-sounding laugh. “My brother did not kill Abdul.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes,” she said, the flimsy denial bitter on her tongue.
“When I came upon you in the mosque, my lady, you said Abdul had been trying to protect you. Protect you from whom--this stranger? A man you do not know and who had no good reason to accost you on your way to the prayer service?”
She was slow to confirm her statement, hesitating as she thought about the tangle of deception into which she was knitting herself. She should not feel remorse for her actions, no more than she should feel sympathy for Sebastian's friend for having been another casualty in her mission for Sinan. She should not feel anything, but she did. Allah, she was miserable with herself for what she had done--for what she had yet to do by her pledge to her clan.
“What do you know about the Assassins, Zahirah?”
She looked up, praying her indrawn breath did not sound as startled as she was by his abrupt query. “The Assassins, my lord?”
“The fida'i of Masyaf,” he said, watching her expression too closely for her peace of mind. “I've found their stench all about this city of late. Which leads me to wonder if the man in the mosque was one of Sinan's agents. Mayhap your face is known to them from the morning you were held hostage in the market.”
The day Sebastian found her and carried her to the palace in his arms.
She gave a weak shrug, forcing herself to hold his steady gaze as the frayed threads of her many deceptions threatened to unravel around her. “Perhaps you are right, my lord. It could have been an assassin in the mosque. All I know is, Abdul is gone, and as much as I wish I could change that--as much as I wish I could tell you who is responsible, I . . . I cannot.”
Sebastian frowned in apparent consideration. “This is your word, my lady? You swear that what you've told me here today is the truth?”
She tilted her head, offering him the slightest nod.
He grabbed her chin and made her face him straight on. “Then say it, Zahirah. Give me your oath that I can trust you in this.”
She stared at him and found she could not make that vow. She could not, to her utter bewilderment, look him in the eye and swear to him that the lie she fed him about Abdul's murderer was anything else than what it was. Cursing herself a fool for not being able to swear to the falsehood and be done with it, she thrust her chin out, praying she could mask some of the turmoil and confusion that had suddenly begun to churn inside her. “You demanded an answer, my lord, and I gave you one. I am not one of your English vassals to be made to kneel before you in obeisance--”
He backed off, quirking a brow as if to mock her indignation. “You're not my bride, either, but that didn't seem to matter last night.”
Zahirah's face filled with a terrible heat. She gulped down the squeak of disbelief that rose to her lips, shocked to hear him reference the past evening--horrified to hear him put words to the fear she had been nursing since she first awoke.
Sebastian had been in her room after all.
He had been there, and she was loath to think of what might have transpired between them. But oh, she knew. She knew with a certainty that bordered on the sublime. She had but to see the wicked gleam in his eye to know that he had come to her in the dark, not as a dream, but as flesh. A man who gentled her out of a nightmare with soft words and tender hands. A man who coaxed feelings and pleasures from her like none she had never known before.
It was sinful, the things he did to her. Sinful and wicked, and Zahirah should hate him for it with every fiber of her soul. But she did not, far from it. To her utmost shame, she burned just to think on the astonishing things he did to her body, things he did when she was too weak to resist--too dazed with wine, she suspected now, recalling the flask she had found beside her bed that morning.
Allah, she prayed it was the wine to blame, and not her own traitorous longings. Longings that stirred to life like embers fanned to flame under the intensity of Sebastian's knowing gaze.
“How dare you,” she breathed, aghast with embarrassment. “How dare you jest about the fact that you would creep into my private chambers with your heathen drink and proceed to drug me senseless for your own base amusement!”
He chuckled, raking a hand through his thick black hair. “Drugged you? Is that truly what you believe?” When she did not answer, he shook his head. “You were having a nightmare. I heard you on the other side of the door and I went in to make sure you were all right. You were crying, nearly hysterical, so I gave you a taste of wine. A taste, no more. What happened next had nothing to do with the wine. It wasn't planned, and if I had known--”
“What?” she asked, not at all sure she wanted to know what he was hesitant to say. “If you had known what, my lord?”
“If I had known that you had never . . . that you were untouched, I would not have let things go as far as they did last night.”
She scoffed, feeling oddly wounded by his regret. “Is that what passes for a Frankish apology, my lord?”
“If that is what you seek, then, yes.”
“What I seek is leave from this conversation. Excuse me, please.”
He did not try to stop her as she made to brush past him, but his voice was enough to make her pause, halfway to the balcony stairs. “A word of warning, my lady: If you're hiding something from me, I will find it out eventually--you know that. Secrets can be dangerous things. They destroy lives. Think on it, and let me know if there is anything else you wish to tell me.”
Zahirah stared back at him, uncertain what to say. Already she had revealed far too much. And she did not fool herself for one moment into thinking that she would be able to continue outmaneuvering him for long. He was a match for her in wit and skill. But what was more confounding--some hundred times more disturbing--was the fact that it ate at her heart to deceive him.
There was, she admitted to herself, more to her regard for Sebastian than simple fondness or respect. Much more. But too soon, none of it would matter. He would discover the whole truth about her eventually, just as he said. And Allah help her when he did. Thinking on that black day soon to come, Zahirah weathered a bone-deep pang of regret, and not a little fear.
“If you are quite through with me, my lord?”
He gave a vague nod, then seemed to reconsider. “No, actually. There is one more thing before you go, Zahirah.”
She met that cool, level stare, dreading another round of his questions. She expected him to press her further about the events leading up to Abdul's murder, perhaps question her alliances or demand some proof that what she said was true. She expected any number of interrogations, but never the query he posed to her then.
“Who is Gillianne?”
He said it so casually, at first she did not think she heard aright. But one look at him and she knew her ears did not deceive her. Zahirah bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from screaming. She knotted her hands in the hem of her tunic to keep from striking him. Steeling herself to the tumult of emotion that rose like bile in her throat, she schooled her voice to deceptive disregard. “Should I know this person, my lord?”
“I think you must. After all, it is her name you cried out in your sleep last eve.”
If she had doubted it for so much as an instant before, there could be no denying it now. Sebastian had been in her chamber last night, but worse than his seduction was the fact that he had been there through her nightmare, there to witness the terror that always left her trembling and broken. Allah, preserve her, but this man--this Frank--now knew the accursed name that came to her in dreams like a long-buried ghost.
The name that had haunted her nearly all her life.
Gillianne.
Zahirah tried to shut it out of her mind. She did not want to face that demon here, now. Not in front of him.
“I have no idea what you're talking about,” she said, inwardly cursing her voice when it came out hardly more than a whisper. “The name means nothing to me.”
“Another secret, is it, Zahirah?” His dubious gaze narrowed on her. “I am to believe that you clung to me, weeping and crying as if to perish of terror, fearful over this name--this person, Gillianne--but none of that means anything to you at all?”
“It means nothing,” she answered, firm in her denial. Desperately firm.
She pivoted to leave, refusing to let him get close to her. Refusing to let him past the barriers of secrecy that always kept her safe.
“It's English,” he informed her before she could take the first step.
Zahirah froze.
English? No. It could not be. She had always thought the name peculiar--definitely foreign--but to think that it was Frankish? That it was likely Christian . . .
Behind her, she felt Sebastian watching her too closely now. She knew he waited, expecting to spy a fissure in her composure. She would not allow it. He was treading too close to the bone, probing where he had no right. Zahirah turned to face him, calling on every dram of composure at her command as she met and held his studious, thoughtful gaze.
“It's an English name, Zahirah. I find it curious, don't you? That you would hear this name in your nightmares?”
She stared at him for a long moment, tamping down the rise of emotion that hung about the queer name like a stench of carrion. Gillianne. The very thought seemed to sit in her throat like a stone. “I know all I need to know about it,” she answered at last. “It is English, as you say. It's English, and it's ugly, and I hate it. The same as I hate all things English.”
At her venomous avowal, he drew his head back. “Even me?”
She did not know where she found the will to hold his level gaze. Nor could she fathom the font of resolve that allowed her to open her mouth and utter yet another hideous lie, told in a desperate attempt at self-preservation. “Yes, Sebastian. Especially you.”
Chapter 15
Two days later, the shipment of supplies promised to King Richard by his allies, arrived in Ascalon's harbor. Sebastian met the galley from Tyre at the docks that morning, where barrels of wine and water, and crates of foodstuffs and weapons, were being unloaded for transfer onto carts and camels that would make the trek south toward Darum, where the king and his depleted troops awaited.
All morning, Sebastian and Logan and a dozen other workers labored to ready the caravan, sweating and straining under a sun that would have been ruthless if not for the smattering of cloud cover, which had begun to crouch in from the north just before midday. The fresh ocean breeze was an added boon, but the men still began to tire as the day dragged on. Sebastian was tired, too, but he trudged on, and he had little patience for the weaker men who started to lag behind.
“Look alive, ladies! At this sluggish pace, the van won't be ready for another sennight. You can rest when your work is done.”
“You've been in a sore mood these past few days,” Logan said as he passed him on the dock.
“Have I?” Sebastian grabbed a barrel of wine from the gangplank and rolled it to the end of the dock where Logan was still watching him, waiting for an explanation. Sebastian gave him a shrug and jumped down to help him move the barrel to the caravan. “I suppose I have a good deal on my mind.”
“I'd say one thing, more than another,” suggested the Scot, slanting him a knowing look as he reached for the barrel.
“You mean, Zahirah?” Sebastian forced out a chuckle. “I haven't seen her lately to think on her. No doubt she's still upset with me after I confronted her about Abdul's murder. Among other things.” He frowned as he lifted his end of the heavy oak cask and walked it toward the cart that would carry it to Darum. “Not that I've had the time or inclination to worry about what she might think of me now.”
“Huh. Is that why you turned Leila away last night? And Jada a few days before her?” At his questioning look, Logan added, “None of the women are happy to know you've taken a new favorite into your bed, my friend.”
God's bones. He had already forgotten about the lusty serving girl who had come to his chamber during the night, looking to share his bed as they had done on occasion in the days before Zahirah had arrived at the palace. He had refused her outright and none too politely, angered and frustrated at himself for the disappointment he felt upon opening his door and finding Leila there, instead of the woman he really wanted.
To his chagrin, that frustration had not dissipated in the hours since. Indeed, if anything, it had only worsened.
“'Tis a shame I'm so besotted with my Mary. I might be tempted to break my vow of celibacy, and help pick up some of the slack you've left around here since you've taken up with your pretty Saracen bride.”
Halfway back to the docks, Sebastian blew out an oath, meeting Logan's smug grin with a scowl. “For the hundredth time, she is not my bride. And you have no idea what you're talking about. I haven't taken Zahirah to my bed.” He climbed up onto the dock and lifted a heavy sack of wheat from the pile awaiting transfer. Pivoting, he tossed the sack down to Logan.
“Ah,” said the Scot with a nod, “I think I am beginning to understand.”
Sebastian retrieved another bulky sack and slung it over his shoulder. He jumped down beside his friend and cut him a weary look. “Understand what?”
“By the Rood, English! You've got a burr under your saddle about this woman, so pluck it out. God knows, I and the rest of this camp will thank you for it. Your lady would likely thank you, too. Why don't you just have her and have done with it?”
Striding past the Scot to carry the wheat to a waiting camel, Sebastian gave a wry chuckle. “Unfortunately, that's not an option.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because she's a virgin.” Sebastian hefted the grain sack up onto the beast's back, wincin
g for the lance of pain that shot through the still healing wound at his side.
“A virgin?” Logan threw his burden up onto the camel as well, then walked around to grab the straps that would secure it for the trek. He tossed them over to Sebastian. “What about the man she met at the mosque--the infidel who killed Abdul?”
“What about him?”
“Well, did she tell you who he was, for one thing?”
“No, she didn't,” Sebastian admitted. “But I can assure you that he was not Zahirah's lover.”
“Was that her claim when you questioned her?”
“She didn't have to make any such claims,” he replied, remembering all too well the night he went to her chamber, intent on interrogating her, only to end up in bed beside her. Touching her. Kissing her. Wanting her as he had never wanted a woman before. His blood still heated when he thought on the way she melted in his arms, her sweet surrender that nearly unmanned him--a surrender that she was loath to acknowledge in the light of day.
He wiped his brow on his forearm and harshly tied off the last strap. “She is a virgin. I discovered it on my own, much to mine, and, as it turned out, the lady's, regret.”
The Scot let out a chortle of laughter. “Well, I'll be damned. I do believe the Black Lion has just confessed to having been spurned! And I reckon that explains what's had you roaring and snarling at everyone these past days.” He came around the other side of the camel and cuffed Sebastian on the shoulder. “Here I was beginning to worry that you had tired of my company.”
“At the moment,” Sebastian drawled, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow, “I'd say you're not too far off the mark.”
Logan gave a grunt as he followed Sebastian to retrieve another sack for loading onto the caravan. “I know you well, my friend, and in these many months I've fought beside you, I canna say that I've ever known you to let anything trouble you the way this woman seems to.”