The Dark Crusader

by Jackie Ivie

  “Here.”

  He shoved a bowl made from bread into her hands. A cream-colored mass was settled within it.

  “Eat.”

  She lifted the bread. Sniffed. Wrinkled her nose.

  “Now.”

  The word wasn’t a request. Cassandra ran a finger along the edge of the bread before tearing a section from it. She nibbled, then smiled. “Oh. This is good. You know how to bake bread.” She tore a larger piece of the crust away.

  “No. We know how to steal.”

  “Steal?”

  “It’s from the palace.”

  “Oh. My. My. My.”

  Her voice lowered on the last word and it pulsated through the enclosure with the way she’d said it. It was his fault. He was the one who’d bent forward to shimmy out of the chainmail, revealing a thin tunic. The garment was badly frayed on the edges. Stained. One side had a long tear. The material hadn’t been dyed or ornamented. It was the same dull shade as the tent. And it might as well have been painted onto him.

  He stood to his full height and regarded her without expression.

  “You need to finish.”

  “With...what?”

  Confusion colored the response. This was all too strange, he was entirely too engrossing, and shivers had turned into a rivulet of sensation, ceaselessly rippling along her skin, lifting goosebumps. And worse. He looked as though he not only knew what she suffered, but the reason for it. He spoke his next words to the area directly above her head.

  “Your porridge.”

  “Porridge.” It wasn’t a question.

  “You are not hungry?”

  “I am...not sure,” she replied.

  “Cassandra.”

  “Emin told you my name?”

  “You told me.”

  “I did?”

  He huffed something that sounded like annoyance.

  “Listen. I do not know what you are used to, but I already told you. I have no need. Or want. You ken?”

  “Oh.”

  She’d never felt quite this aware, and stimulated, and provoked. Disembodied. Slightly dim-witted. How was it possible to become someone different in the span of time it took to drink a mug of beer? Was it the drink? Or could it be a result of her recent past? Being drugged. Nearly suffocated. Forced to submit to revealing herself. Or...was it due to her complete inexperience with men? She had no one to advise her. No one she’d even speak to. She never had.

  But if nearness to a man sent bizarre sensations that confused and annoyed, the nonsensical words he spoke did worse. Was he speaking of sup? Of course she was used to eating. To prove it, she lifted the entire bowl to her mouth and tore a large chunk from the edge. The contents had leached into the bread, revealing it was overly salted, but not inedible. She swallowed the bite then tipped the bowl and started slurping. She had the contents emptied when she heard a slight groan. Cassandra lowered the bread and looked up at him inquisitively. His expression was grim. His lips thinned to a slash. His jaw set. His eyes were an even brighter hue than before, if such a thing was possible. Her mouth didn’t work properly. She slipped a stray bit of porridge from her lips into her mouth. Licked at her fingers.

  “I warn you. Do not do that again.”

  Cassandra tried to regard him with the same soberness he was using. It failed miserably. She couldn’t seem to control her own facial expressions? “Do what?”

  “I only have one sleep-roll,” he informed her.

  “You do?” What did that have to do with sup?

  “And I sleep alone.”

  He grabbed the hem of his linen tunic and peeled the garment up and over his head. The remnants of the bread bowl fell from her fingers. Cassandra didn’t hear it, feel it, or even watch it. She’d never seen such a span of lightly tanned flesh, so rippled with muscle. He had an array of marks and scars, some vicious-looking, others no more than thin, light-colored lines. They didn’t detract. Quite the opposite. He looked every inch a virile male, from the hardness of his chest and abdomen, to the dark line of hair leading to the waistband of his chausses...

  Cassandra reeled in place. She didn’t know how to control it. She was actually amazed she still sat on his wooden case. This Rhoenne was beyond jaw-dropping. She couldn’t conceive of what would have happened if he’d been glimpsed by the harem. It would have been riotous.

  There was a brown leather patch sewn at the front of his chausses, right at the juncture of his thighs. Exactly at her eye level. She tried to look away, but nothing on her body obeyed. Cassandra slammed her eyelids shut, gritted her teeth, and then she realized what he’d been telling her. She reopened her eyelids. Looked up.

  “You sleep alone,” she stated.

  “Aye.”

  “Where am I to sleep?” she asked.

  He shrugged. Since there wasn’t any material on his upper body, she got to observe how his skin looked as it moved over sinew and muscle. Her mouth dropped open again. She couldn’t find one thing to change it.

  “Wherever you wish.” He motioned with his hand to the tent space. His motion encompassed the door flap.

  “I...can leave?” She hadn’t considered that.

  “Of course. The men await that very thing.”

  “They do?”

  “There’s a woman in camp. Under my protection. My possession is the lone thing standing in the way. Of course they’re waiting.”

  “I...have Emin.”

  She tried to sound convincing. It didn’t work. She sounded unsure. And small. He inhaled a huge breath. Exhaled. She didn’t think anything could be more disturbing than watching him shrug. Now she got to find out she’d been wrong.

  “How many can he take without a weapon?” he asked.

  Her ears heard melodic notes, akin to singing. His question was indistinct. It took a few seconds to comprehend and reply. “Oh. He will need a weapon. You should...give him one.”

  “I don’t have to give him anything. I don’t have to do more than the obvious.”

  He lifted the roll thing, unstrapped leather ties, and unfurled it, turning it into a pallet with little thickness to keep a body from feeling hard ground. It was in the same drab color scheme he favored, although there was a black cross embroidered on every corner.

  “You’d have him fight without a weapon?” she asked.

  He’d crouched, smoothing out the wrinkles of his bed before reaching for the wad of jewelry-filled bag. He settled it at the top of his mat. Near her feet. He looked across at her then, the motion putting a small line into existence across his forehead. Cassandra’s heart swooped to the pit of her belly. She actually felt it.

  “I wouldn’t be doing anything.”

  He looked away and stretched out on the mat, slid down onto his front, defining all manner of muscle in his back, his thighs, and even his calves. There was no disguising it. His chausses were knitted. They clung to him.

  “But you would. You just said—”

  Cassandra’s voice stopped. Her mind was a moment behind. He flipped onto his back, settled his head onto the bundle of bag, and then slanted his glance to look up at her again.

  “I said you are free to leave. He is free to defend you. That is what I said. That is what I meant. And I am going to sleep now. You may do as you wish.”

  And then he shut his eyes.

  Cassandra looked around his tent again, taking much more time than before. The room spun crazily if she moved her head too quickly. There truly wasn’t much space. She put her arms out to gauge it. One hand reached one side of the tent. If she stretched, she’d reach the other side. Since he’d placed his sleep-roll directly down the center, he took up most of the floor. He looked even more immense in a prone position. His boots reached the door flap. He wasn’t leaving her any room.

  “Debating your options?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “You won’t last long. Don’t scream too loudly.”

  Her silence must have revealed her puzzlement, for he explained.


  “I speak of your escape. And ravishment. Don’t scream. I need my sleep. I just spoke on it.”

  “I wasn’t escaping,” she replied.

  “No?”

  “I was wondering where I could fit.”

  He shifted, making a bit of room on the pallet right next to him. Cassandra did the only thing she could think of. She swiveled away, and that just rotated her right off the trunk.

  Chapter Six

  Stiffness sent nagging discomfort, making her shift. She didn’t want to awaken. The dream was too real. She was abed in the castle. Warm. Safe. Cassandra snuggled her cheek further into rough fabric that scratched unlike anything they used at home, or in the sultan’s harem.

  Her eyelids opened. She blinked. Focused. Remembered. She was a crusader knight’s captive now. She slept, propped against his trunk, atop the rainbow-hued drapery. She was cuddling a mass of material in her arms. She stared at it uncomprehendingly. Strong daylight no longer filtered through the walls, giving little indication of time of day. It didn’t mute what she saw. It truly was his cloak cradled in her arms.

  That was disconcerting.

  Cassandra sat upright, set the garment from her, and looked at a surface that wavered before solidifying into a tent wall. An ache throbbed in her head, her eyes burned, and her throat needed something to ease the parched desert feel. If this was the result of quenching thirst with beer, she’d just as soon forego it. She was going to forego a lot of things...just as soon as she escaped this crusader’s control. She had to use her wits, though.

  All was not lost. In fact, she might have gained.

  It hadn’t happened how she’d wanted, but she’d escaped the harem. She was outside the palace walls. She was uninjured. Emin was somewhere outside. She still had her anklets for funds. She had a voluminous cloak for concealment. She might even have access to weaponry.

  Cassandra moved her glance despite how it hurt her head.

  She’d been right!

  His belt still wrapped around multiple knives. It was on the floor right beside her. The little jeweled dagger was easy to remove. Best of all, she was alone. She had to be. Cassandra held her breath and listened. There wasn’t a sound to be heard above the beating of her heart.

  She rose to her knees, donned the cloak, tying the straps at her throat. She settled the hood atop her head. The garment was enormous, but that was beneficial. She plucked up the dagger next, then turned around and barely kept the surprise from sounding. She couldn’t prevent the fall. Her hands barely missed his head, while the dagger skittered to the door, stopped by the tent flap.

  She wasn’t alone at all.

  The knight was on his back atop his sleep mat, still taking up most of the floor, his head pillowed on the jewelry-filled bag, his arms crossed atop his chest. Then his eyes opened. And Cassandra froze.

  Long moments passed while she hovered, her heart smacking her chest with a rapidity that pained. Every nerve alert. Tensed.

  And then he just shut his eyes.

  Seconds passed before Cassandra moved ever so slightly, settling back onto the drapery pile. She waited for her heartbeat to return to normal before working to control the shaking that overtook her next. She was so grateful for the cloak! The material was thick, warm, protective, the combination calming panic she’d never admit. And it was senseless. He’d told her she was free to go. He just hadn’t known of the anklets, nor that she’d filch his cloak and a dagger.

  The entire time, she didn’t take her gaze from him. It was incredible. She could barely make out the movement of each inhalation. His exhalations were just as hard to spot. He slept like the dead.

  Well. That fit.

  He exhibited as much emotion as a dead thing, too.

  The instant thought sent a stab of amusement. She almost vocalized it, then sobered. Time was wasting. He wasn’t disappearing. If he caught her, she’d just lose the cloak. She might be able to snag up the dagger without his knowledge. Either way, she’d risk it. Cassandra gathered her nerve, crawled toward him, and just like before, he opened his eyes. Cassandra stopped. Watched. Waited. His eyes were open, but nothing about him changed. His gaze was vacant. There wasn’t any sense of recognition. He didn’t seem aware, or even act awake. How was such a thing possible?

  She wondered if this could be a reflex action, something they worked at. These knights could be trained to sleep like this, able to open their eyes at any hint of movement. They might need such a skill to defend against an enemy...or frighten any unsuspecting females in their vicinity.

  She smirked and moved, barely shifting the air with the movement. Little particles of sand floated about. She waited until they calmed. Rhoenne didn’t budge. His eyes remained open yet unseeing. She slid a foot into place beneath her; put her weight on it. Nothing changed about him.

  She couldn’t stay long in the position, though. Her leg was trembling before she got the other foot beneath her. The effort made her pulse pound, sweat broke out on her forehead, and her breath was shaky, but she was finally crouched, and there was no sign that he’d heard or sensed anything.

  She slid along the side, staying clear of any contact with the tent wall that might sound like fingernails grazing along fabric. Easing her toes alongside his mat, she reached the point where his pallet met the door flap.

  And he still hadn’t moved.

  Cassandra reached out a hand behind her for the dagger...and it wasn’t there! She motioned with her fingers, stirring air. She still couldn’t feel it. She clenched her teeth, turned her head, saw where the blade rested. But the move made her wobble.

  She toppled.

  Fingers brushed his ankle.

  And the next instant hard arms wrapped about her midriff.

  A moment later, she was on her back. The cloak had opened, too, rendering it useless. She didn’t have time to cry out before the crusader was atop her, holding her in place by the sheer weight of his body. He had her hands trapped right between her breasts, smashed there by his chest. His heartbeat was strong against one palm.

  Oh no!

  Cassandra was about to do the one thing she’d promised to never do. She was going to cry. It was going to be loud and vicious, too. She fought rising sobs, her eyes filled with tears despite how she scrunched them shut. She held her breath. Tensed her body. She dredged up every bit of disgust and revulsion. She tried everything she knew to send the emotion back and nothing worked. The best she managed was silence. She choked back sound as unpleasant shivers coursed her skin. Adding to the ignominy, she knew he watched all of it with those blue, ice-cold eyes of his.

  And then he changed everything.

  What had to be lips touched hers, tasting, then nuzzling, tipping her head slightly with each motion. His lips were satiny hard and unbelievably warm. Surprise and confusion raced through her, followed by a rush of intense heat. Any urge to sob strangled to a halt in her throat, while the unpleasant shivers of a moment earlier somehow became rivulets that carried something akin to enticement and thrill. All of it hinting of wonders she hadn’t any idea existed.

  His lips pressed inexorably against hers. He nibbled. Caressed. Sucked. The kiss deepened. Each breath came quick and sharp at her nose, alternately stealing, replacing, and conjoining the available air. Cassandra felt herself slip, then it became a freefall, allowing free rein to the sensations. Her spirit soared. Her senses careened, each one heightened and sharp. She’d never felt anything like this. It eclipsed the joy of listening to perfectly composed and orchestrated music, outshone any long soak in warmed scented water, easily surpassed every oiled massage she’d ever had. This was the most delightful experience in her life.

  He tilted his head and took all of her mouth with his and Cassandra’s mind went on complete hiatus. Her body surged against his with primal instinct, and she started sucking at his mouth with motions he’d just taught, mingling tongues. Taste. Moans. Thrill after thrill coursed over and through her, teasing of pleasures she couldn’t comprehend an
d yet thoroughly wanted.

  A raw groan swelled through their entwined lips. It came from him. It grew in volume as it deepened, filling the enclosure with sound that reverberated off the tent walls. Remnants of it hovered for uncountable measures of time, imbuing the space with an audible mix of yearning, craving, and desire. She would have joined in, but he took all the air.

  But then he moved, yanking his mouth away, lifting his head, pushing his chest from contact with her, to stare down at her with wide intense blue eyes from less than a hand-span away. Cassandra lips were still pursed. Her breathing panted. Her body pliant and willing. And all of it had halted as effectively as if she’d been doused with iced water.

  He was definitely awake now. At the same time, he looked befuddled. Bewildered. There was no doubt he was aroused. The patch of brown leather that covered his groin was heavily swelled where it pressed against her upper thighs.

  “What...are you doing?”

  Threat filled the words. His tone promised something dire. It didn’t remotely match how the strength of their every breath shoved their bellies into each other.

  “I was leaving.” The words didn’t have much sound, and they were a lot lower-timbered than usual.

  “Then why accost me?”

  Cassandra blinked several times. Stared. “Me?” she finally responded.

  “How oft must I say it? I have no need. Or want.”

  “But you are the one...atop me,” she answered and the last words were whispered.

  He bit out a curse, but she was guessing since it was in his language and she’d never heard it before. He pushed away. From there he rose to stand at the edge of his sleep-mat, his head lifting the tent top while he studiously kept from looking down at her. And if he thought he portrayed emotionless indifference, he was going to need practice. There wasn’t any portion of him that looked unmoved. Bared skin glistened with moisture, he heaved each breath, and his groin patch was distended to an impressive size.