Black Lion's Bride

by Lara Adrian

  “What is this about?” demanded the stable master. He grabbed her by the arm and wrenched her away from her task. “Horse-thieving is a serious offense--”

  “I'm not stealing it,” Zahirah hissed. “Please, you don't understand! They're in danger--I have to warn them!”

  She twisted loose and went back to the mare, dropping to her knees to cinch the saddle, then dashing up to fit her with the bridle and bit.

  “Warn who, girl?”

  “Sebastian,” she told him, stepping into the stirrup and slinging her leg over the mare's back. “The caravan is heading into an ambush. I have to warn him!”

  “God's blood,” swore the old soldier. “Let's get you out of here!”

  He whistled to call another knight to mount up and accompany her, then ran ahead to order the guards to lift the palace gates and let them past. Zahirah jabbed her heels into her mount the instant the huge wooden doors opened, charging headlong into the rain and setting off at a breakneck pace for the road to Darum, praying she would reach Sebastian and convince him to turn the caravan around before Halim and his assassin raiders struck.

  * * *

  Some two hours into their trek, the rainstorm that had been threatening all day finally broke. It swept down on the caravan from out of the north, a dark wall of fast-moving clouds, alive and churning with the slash and crackle of lightning, and the raucous clap and boom of thunder. The rains, once they started, were swift and furious, a blinding onslaught that made travel difficult for a lone horse and rider, but near to impossible for the lumbering bulk of the supply caravan.

  Sebastian had wanted to make the eight-hour journey to Darum by dawn, a plan that had meant pushing the van on past midnight. Now, riding at the head of the sodden escort alongside Logan, he cursed as the water began to gather and run on the road, turning the hard paved track into a small, but racing, river. His white warhorse, indignant from the start of the laborious march, tossed its head in protest of the inclement weather. Its hooves splashed in the rising water as it sidled away from the camels, which were tethered and bunched in a tight line behind them on the road.

  Thunder rolled above, bringing with it a sudden, violent gust of wind that buffeted the group from the back and rattled the tarps that covered the supply carts. A rope on one of the loads came loose with a snap, lashing about wildly in the spitting gale. Sebastian gave the signal to halt and waited as Logan and two of the caravan's attendants sloshed through the deep puddles in the road to secure the strap.

  While they worked to batten down the cargo, Sebastian motioned for the chief caravaneer. “Is there someplace safe for us to camp along this road?”

  The portly Saracen foreman nodded, his white tunic sleeve dripping water as he pointed into the distance ahead. “There is a place in the next village that might shelter us. The owner is Muslim, but he is also a merchant. For a price, he'll give you space to wait out the storm.”

  “Excellent,” Sebastian shouted over the roar of the storm. “You can show us the way.”

  He was about to give the call to resume the march when something on the road behind them caught his eye. Far off yet, little more than a dark and growing splotch in the midst of the storm, was a rider--two of them, he corrected, watching as the one in front galloped toward the caravan as if to outpace the devil himself.

  “Riders coming,” Logan advised him, returning to the head of the caravan. “Could be trouble. Should I take a couple of the men down to see what they're about?”

  Sebastian shook his head, peering into the distance. “They're not the infidel,” he said, watching as the unarmed figure in front came into better view. He saw the petite frame, the long black hair. “It's a woman. Christ Jesus--it's Zahirah!”

  Heart lurching to see her caught in the storm, Sebastian gave his mount his spurs and charged past the stopped caravan, racing toward her as quickly as she was racing toward him. The rain was beating down around them at a relentless rate, but even through the deluge, Sebastian could plainly see that Zahirah was upset. Her eyes were wild, her face stricken with fatigue and worry.

  “Don't go!” she cried, her voice nearly swallowed up by the driving wind and rain. “Oh, Sebastian, I'm so glad I reached you in time. Please, you can't go!”

  He reined in before her and vaulted from his saddle to catch the reins of her prancing mount and bring her to a halt. Zahirah all but fell into his arms, exhausted and breathless from her hard ride. Behind her was one of Sebastian's men from the garrison at Ascalon. The knight's destrier was lathered and huffing, struggling to keep pace with Zahirah's sleek Arabian mare. With a look, Sebastian sent the guard on to meet the others at the caravan.

  “God's blood, woman!” He grabbed Zahirah by the arms and gave her a shake for the jolt of worry still fiercely thrumming in his veins. “Are you mad? What are you thinking coming out here like this?”

  She clutched at his wet surcoat and buried her face in his chest, her body cold and shuddering as he held her. “I couldn't let you go, Sebastian. I couldn't--it's too dangerous!” She tipped her face up and met his confused gaze. “You must turn the caravan around at once.”

  “Turn it around?” He smoothed her rankled brow, furious with her for being there, yet pleased beyond all reason to be holding her in his arms. “The caravan will be fine, Zahirah. It's just a bit of bad weather.”

  “No,” she choked. “Sebastian, you don't understand! You have to go back. There's going to be an ambush.”

  Sebastian grew very still as he stared at her fear-stricken, rain-spattered face. “An ambush,” he echoed, feeling dread coil and twist in his gut. “How do you know this?”

  “Halim.” A pained look crept into her features, a look that seemed part regret, part guilt. “H-he told me about his plans to raid the caravan and keep the supplies from reaching the king in Darum.”

  “Bloody hell.” Sebastian absorbed the bigger truth in her admission and felt his blood run as cold as the bitter downpour. “It was him, then. You met Halim that day in the mosque. You lied to me.”

  She gave a weak nod. “It was Halim.”

  “When is it going to happen? The ambush, Zahirah,” he growled when she did not answer right away. “I need to know where and when Halim plans to strike.”

  “I-I don't know! He didn't tell me--I swear it. I know only that the attack is coming somewhere between here and Darum.”

  He hissed an oath and set her away from him none too gently.

  “I'm sorry, Sebastian. For everything. I . . . I should not have kept it from you.”

  “You're right, madam,” he bit off harshly. “You shouldn't have.” Hardening himself to her look of remorse, he turned and stalked away from her to remount his waiting destrier. “Get your horse, Zahirah, and let's get out of this rain. The storm is growing worse.”

  Chapter 17

  And Sebastian was right. The storm did worsen, but the bluster and battering of the unseasonable torrent was nothing compared to the chilly silence Zahirah had endured upon joining the caravan with Sebastian. He had given her no eye contact, not a single word of conversation, in the endless half hour it took to find shelter for the traveling party along the road. He purchased rooms for the group at a village caravansary, then left Zahirah to her own devices while he went off to confer with his men.

  She had no idea how long she sat there, alone in her modest chamber of the small, two-story inn. The owner and his wife brought Zahirah a prayer mat and a light repast to eat at her leisure, but she left both courtesies untouched. All she could think about was Sebastian, and the horrible mess she was making of both their lives.

  More than once, she thought about slipping away from the caravansary and disappearing into the night, before she let her feelings toward Sebastian get any further out of her control. She could leave with a clear conscience where he was concerned. She had warned him of the raid; his safety was assured. In the morning, he would turn the caravan back toward Ascalon, and Halim's designs for an ambush would be foiled.
/>
  It should have been the easiest thing to do, getting up and walking out of that unguarded lodge. It should have been the most logical thing in the world to seize this chance to flee the Frankish captain who was but a hair's breadth from discovering her for who--and what--she really was. But to her dismay, Zahirah found that her limbs would not obey logic.

  No, she realized, it was her heart that refused to obey.

  It leaped into her throat not a moment later, when a hard rap sounded on her door. The panel creaked open, but to her alternating relief and disappointment, it was not Sebastian standing at the threshold. His brawny lieutenant seemed attuned to her uncertain reaction, for he gave her a small but reassuring smile.

  “The captain wishes to see you now, lass. Come, I'll take you to him.”

  She followed the big knight through the heart of the caravansary lodge, past a common room of tables and benches where some of the soldiers and caravaneers were having food and drink. The room opened out onto a courtyard, not unlike the ones at the palace in Ascalon, if far less lavishly appointed. Ordinarily, it would be there, under the stars, where pilgrims would converse and take their rest, but not tonight. The rains were quieting at last, Zahirah noted, glancing out into the dark of the courtyard before she was directed up a short flight of stairs. Gone was the furious beat of falling water, replaced now by a steady, soothing patter on the ground outside.

  The worst of it had passed, she thought, feeling a measure of relief . . . until she was brought into another chamber and met with Sebastian's stormy gaze.

  Divested of his armor, and limned by the wobbling flame of an oil lamp that burned on the table beside him, Sebastian sat on a divan, thoughtfully twisting the stem of a wine goblet between his fingers. He glanced up as she entered the room, then stood and gave a short nod to his friend. The big knight left her to Sebastian's mercy without a word, closing the door behind him as he departed. For the time it took his boot falls to die away, and for an interminable time thereafter, an awkward silence filled the small room. Finally, his brow rankled by a frown, Sebastian turned away.

  “There is food here,” he said, indicating the meal on the table beside him as he seated himself once more on the divan. “Eat, if you like, Zahirah. Unless you fear it will taint the purity of your faith to break bread with the enemy.”

  She drew a shaky breath, stung by the barb in his voice. “Have we become enemies, my lord?”

  “I had hoped you might tell me,” he said tonelessly, regarding her from under the heavy fall of his forelock. “I must admit, you've had me wondering these past couple of days.”

  She thought about the uneasy standoff that had existed between them since their confrontation on the roof terrace, her angry, defensive reaction to his questioning of her about Halim and the nightmare Sebastian had witnessed the night he had been with her in her chamber. She had said she hated him, but what she felt for him was far from that. “You are not my enemy, Sebastian. I would not have left Ascalon to be here if you were.”

  His gaze narrowed on her, untrusting. “What made you decide to come? You must have known about the ambush for some time. Why wait, only to tell me now?”

  “I did know about the ambush,” she admitted. “I knew, but I didn't realize you were planning to provide personal escort for the caravan until today--”

  He grunted. “So, I am to believe you came forward out of concern for me?”

  “It's the truth.”

  “The truth,” he replied, eyeing her dubiously. “The same as when you told me the man you met in the mosque--the assassin who killed Abdul--was not your brother? That was the truth, too, so you said.”

  “A partial truth,” she said quietly.

  His face hardened, the bones in his jaw seeming sharper now, his gaze scathing in the dim light of the lamp. His voice was calm, far more painful to her ears than had he bellowed at her in anger. “A partial truth is no better than a lie, Zahirah. And by your own admission, Halim was there with you at the mosque. Do you now deny that he was the man who killed my friend in cold blood?”

  “He did kill Abdul,” she agreed, “but when I said I did not meet my brother, that was no lie. Halim and I are not related.”

  The news surprised him, she could see it in his expression. But his acceptance of her confession now was not furious, as she might have expected. It was cool, a mere shade away from indifferent, as if he had known her for a liar for some time but was only just now assessing the depth of her perfidy. “That day he found you at the palace, when he struck you, he said he was your brother. You said he was.”

  “We were raised in the same household,” Zahirah admitted, “but we are not kin. There is no bond between us.”

  “And his threat that he would harm you? How much truth was there in that, my lady?”

  “His threat is real. Halim will kill me if he gets the chance. Especially when he learns that I warned you of his plans for the caravan.”

  “You could have told me this before, Zahirah. In all this time, have I given you any reason not to trust me?”

  “You are Frank,” she answered simply. “In the past, that was reason enough.”

  “And now?”

  “Now,” she said, “it has become . . . complicated.”

  “Indeed, it has, my lady. You are a complication I did not expect.” He frowned, then ran a hand through his damp hair. “God's truth, Zahirah, but you are a complication I do not want.”

  She swallowed hard, hearing the edge of frustration in his carefully schooled voice. She did not know what to make of the storm of warring emotions that swelled and churned inside her. She knew her mission should be paramount, but it meant little when she was standing there before Sebastian, needing to be near him, yet knowing how difficult it would be for him to look past her lies. How impossible it would be for her to stay now, if he despised her.

  “I'll leave, if you wish, Sebastian. I will understand if you would prefer that I not return with you to Ascalon . . . if, after all of this, you wish never to see me again.”

  “What of Halim and his threats to do you harm, lady?”

  She dropped her gaze to the floor and shrugged, thinking about the certain reaction of her fida'i accomplice, thinking about his promise that he would see her dead if she failed in her mission. She feared Halim, certainly, but no more than she feared her own weak emotions when she stood anywhere near Sebastian. Already her feelings for him had steered her away from her true course. The ambush was key to the commencement of her plan, and yet, here she stood, a willing saboteur. Allah, forgive her, but she was weak, and growing weaker with every beat of her traitorous heart.

  “Come here,” Sebastian said when she could only stand there, torn between her loyalty to her clan and her growing attachment to the man who now held his hand out to her, beckoning her toward him with a gentle, if commanding, stare.

  She went to him, feeling drawn as if by physical force and unable to contain the shiver of awareness that went through her as he grasped her hand in his and drew her close. He reached up to her, tipping her chin down to face him.

  “I gave you my promise that I would keep you safe, my lady. My protection is yours, Zahirah, so long as you need it. I won't require you to leave, now or when you return to Ascalon.”

  “You would do this for me?” she whispered, astonished. “After everything I have told you tonight--”

  “I don't deny my displeasure for your having withheld information from me, but nothing you've said tonight changes my promise to you. My word is my honor, Zahirah. I don't give it lightly, and I have never broken it.”

  By all that was good and true in this world, she believed him. It was there, in his eyes. She looked at this man, this dark, dangerous warrior, and she believed unequivocally that he would protect her--even now. Despite her lies, despite her unworthiness of the gift, she knew that his promise was good. And it shamed her to the very core of her being. She reached out to him, letting her palm rest against the determined line of his j
aw. “My lord,” she said, “your honor humbles me.”

  He held her stare for a long moment, then turned away from her touch, distancing himself from her with a scowl. “I warrant we've said all that needs saying tonight, Zahirah. You should go now and seek your pallet. Before it gets too late.”

  She saw the blaze of interest light in his eyes, heard the warning in his choice of words and his low tone of voice. She knew he wanted to touch her, knew there was an anger in him tonight, and a wildness that seemed on the verge of breaking, but she was not afraid.

  Not waiting for her to comply with his order to retire, he glanced down and began to unfasten the bandages that bound the mending wound at his waist. The wound she herself had delivered him all those weeks past, before she knew him. Before she understood the depth and nobility of the man who stood before her now.

  Before she could have imagined the true cost of this mission she had come to loathe.

  Her eyes rooted to the ugly evidence of her deception--a deception she was continuing to perpetrate with her very presence in the room--Zahirah touched him once more, pressing her fingertips to his forearm and stilling his hand on the bandage.

  “Please, my lord,” she said. “Let me help you.”

  Then she reached down, somewhat hesitantly, to take the tail of the bandage from his hands. Zahirah knelt before him on the floor, in the V of space he made for her between his knees. His powerful thighs radiated heat, a warmth that was imminently stronger than the flame glowing from the lamp beside them. He lifted his arms and watched in guarded silence as she bent forward and reached around him, carefully unwrapping the thin lengths of cloth. She heard his constricted exhale, felt the warmth of his breath against her brow, as she freed him of the last of the bindings, then set them aside on the floor.

  The gash was sealed clean and healing well, but the cut had been deep, and the scar would be with him for the rest of his days. Zahirah gently touched the place where her dagger had bitten him, her fingertips skating over the ravaged skin. She felt a rush of regret flood her to know that she had done this damage.