The Dark Crusader

by Jackie Ivie

  She blushed.

  As if he’d known her train of thought, he turned sideways, putting truly impressive buttocks on view as he pulled and fussed with the front section of his trousers. That was intriguing, frightening, stimulating, and a thousand other mysterious things that someone should have explained to her much more succinctly. She’d had the lessons. When she’d first arrived at the harem she’d been schooled. Older women handled the instructing. Her primary purpose was not in creating desire, but fulfilling it. A kiss was nothing more than a gesture of devotion. When, and if, the sultan favored her to his bed, she was to keep uppermost in her mind that she was there for one purpose - his pleasure. If he allowed a kiss, she could expect a meeting of the lips as a prelude of the divine pleasures he would bestow on her.

  A meeting of the lips...?

  Somebody hadn’t been truthful because that description didn’t remotely resemble what Cassandra had just experienced.

  Her lips felt raw and swollen with aching fullness this man had sucked into existence, while her skin felt like she’d been rubbed with fine granules of sand mixed with honey, and it had fully dried to an continuous itch. Everything was ratcheted to a sensation of alertness and sensitivity to the point she vibrated with agitation. Her skin pinged with tingles, her breasts felt larger and heavier, her nipples were an irritation, and her lower belly had sparks shooting through it, although they weren’t heated or strong like they had been. What the kiss had created was enjoyable and exciting, and full of the promise of more. None of her lessons mentioned anything about this.

  She wondered what else they’d left out.

  “Don’t. Move.”

  He stepped over her. She heard rustling from beyond her head that could be her drape. Clanking followed that might be his chainmail or weaponry. Then thumps that could be his trunk. She didn’t look. She was still encapsulating her experience with kissing, contemplating, and then memorizing it.

  “Put this on.”

  One of his stored garments dropped onto her as he stepped over her again. He’d dressed. The newer tunic didn’t cling to him like the previous one. The plain wooden crucifix dangled from a chain about his neck. He had his bag draped across one shoulder. She didn’t have time to see more since he shoved through the door flap and left.

  Rhoenne did a quick scan of the area as he exited the tent. Twilight crept over the hills, darkening the landscape and making it temperate enough to travel. It didn’t hide where Henry leaned against the wagon, the eunuch beside him, nor did the gathering night conceal the forms of both Grant and Euan over by the beer cask wagon. They lifted tankards toward Rhoenne in greeting, but then ruined it with grins. Rhoenne turned back to Henry and the eunuch, lengthening his stride as he approached. He nodded to first Henry, then the other man.

  “You.” He motioned with his head back at the tent. “See to your mistress.”

  The eunuch bowed, touched his forehead with the fingertips of one hand, then took off at a jog.

  “Henry. Come with me.”

  Rhoenne strode purposefully to where they’d hobbled the horses, circling the entire camp in ever-widening circles as if reconnoitering. His stride forced Henry to an occasional jog to keep up. Noting the man’s trouble helped ease the anger pumping through him. That way it wouldn’t be misused or misdirected. Rhoenne thought he’d conquered his emotional side. He’d subjugated it, along with the strange issues he had with sleep. He’d killed the ability to feel. Or care. He’d fought on the lists until every speck of human frailty got annihilated, along with his adversaries. Now, if emotion ever intruded, he used his wits. Time. Work. Training. If he needed a fight, it wasn’t hard to find one. Avoiding a fight took skill. Uppermost was recognizing its source. And then eliminating it.

  He knew what fueled this emotion. It wasn’t difficult to ascertain. It was the vixen in his tent. Because of her he’d had an episode of sleep walking, suffered arousal that still annoyed, stiffened with agitation through every muscle and complete frustration that sent a wash of red over his vision with every heartbeat.

  And now he had to contend with insubordination?

  The horses didn’t match his mood. They were docile. Several mounts were saddled. Bedrolls and packs were strapped into place. The amount of horseflesh had been whittled down an appreciable amount. Two of the wagons were also gone. A dozen men milled about, Ramhurst clan among them. They all studiously avoided eye contact. The knights had shed their armor and dressed in the Arab burnoose robe for anonymity.

  Rhoenne reached the far end of camp, turned as if to look over the situation and waited for Henry to catch up. He looked down at the man for long moments, while nothing happened save the whicker and whinny of horses, sounds of bridles shifting, a bit of conversing over by the beer wagon where the scouts lounged.

  “How long have Grant and Euan been back?” Rhoenne asked.

  “Not...overlong.”

  Rhoenne tipped his chin down to regard Henry long enough the man lifted his eyebrows. Sucked in his cheeks. Checked his hands, fronts and back. And then he answered, but it sounded like amusement laced the words.

  “Oh, verra well. Long enough to partake of sup. Drink a bit. Discard their armor. Change. As have we all.”

  “You were to fetch me the moment they arrived,” Rhoenne said.

  Henry nodded. “True.”

  “Then why dinna’ you?”

  “The sounds from your tent were...uh.”

  Henry stopped his explanation. Rhoenne regarded his man for another long span.

  “Off-putting,” Henry finally supplied.

  “Off-putting?” Rhoenne asked.

  “Severely so, actually.”

  Rhoenne felt a flush rise through his chest and jaw. He ignored it, letting his beard and the encroaching nightfall hide it. He waited long moments for his man to elaborate, but Henry just returned the stare. Rhoenne spoke first, but to say the man’s name in a censorious tone.

  “Henry FitzHugh,”

  “If it helps, there is nae sign of pursuit from her sultan. At least...na’ yet.”

  Rhoenne’s shoulders relaxed slightly. He hadn’t realized he’d had them tensed. This was all her fault – that vixen in his tent.

  The unbidden memory of how she’d looked occurred to him. Not as he’d left her, covered with the tunic he’d dropped, but earlier, when she’d been beneath him. The film of color that constituted her clothing completely askew. Her perfect breasts heaving. Her eyes glistening. Her lips readied...

  Rhoenne banished the recollection. His jaw tightened. He nearly gave vent to the growl. “You just told me Grant and Euan have na’ been here long. Yet, they already ate, changed, and reported?”

  “Na’ fully, but once I made a decision to...counter things, I made it a point of asking about pursuit.”

  “Counter things?”

  “I doona’ disobey you as a general rule. You ken as much. So, I debated my options.”

  “You were na’ given options.”

  “True...but in this event I felt it prudent.”

  “Prudent.” It wasn’t a question and it was hissed between his teeth.

  “Well. You see. I did approach your tent to awaken you. I was alone, yet Grant and Euan were within earshot. Most of the others as well.”

  “What the devil are you speaking of?”

  “You have a great range of voice, my laird.”

  Rhoenne swore. Instantly. And viciously. Henry coughed. Sputtered. Then wheezed through his next sentences.

  “’Tis a family trait. I believe one of your forebears was a troubadour...of some note, I might add.”

  “Must you?” Rhoenne bit out.

  Henry cleared his throat. “This sounds like woman trouble, if I could be so bold.”

  “I do na’ have woman trouble, and nae you may na’.”

  “May I infer that your woman is na’ coming with us, then?”

  “Would you cease putting words in my mouth? I did na’ say that. And she is not my woman.�
�

  “Oh. Then...she is coming. Verra good. I shall have the horses prepared.”

  “I did na’ say that, either.”

  “What is it you said then?”

  “I did na’ say words that led to any inference, one way or the other! That is what I said. And that is what I meant.”

  He put too much emotion on the outburst. He was also breathing hard. Both reactions were unacceptable. Rhoenne set about tempering them. He pulled his hands into fists, rolled them inward, working his forearms. He was debating dropping to the ground and doing push-ups when Henry spoke again.

  “You are difficult this eve, Rhoenne. I will na’ attempt to decipher the reason. I do not wish my head bitten off. I am merely ascertaining needs. That is my job. And since you are ever close-mouthed, I work with what I am given. You are not clear, or I am more obtuse than usual. I need the quantity of persons in our party so I can prepare the mounts.”

  Rhoenne contained a growl. “You are determined to be a thorn in my side.”

  “And you are more dour than usual. Verra well. You win. I shall cease attempting to gather facts and await your leisure. We all shall. Those who choose to accompany us, anyway. The mercenaries who did not wish it thank you. They are gratified and amazed at your generosity in bestowing the entire wealth of plunder on them...as is everyone else - except me, of course, but I ken the reason. We will be fifteen if your woman comes with us. Fourteen, without. Or less. That will depend on the eunuch. So. There you have the reason for my queries. The nearest port city is Batok. ’Twill be a healthy ride. We should start soon.”

  Rhoenne regarded his man for long enough anyone else would have fidgeted before filling the silence with words as they confessed. Henry simply waited. Rhoenne sighed and spoke first.

  “Why waste time blathering about horses, then? Surely she rides. Or did her man tell different?”

  “’Tis na’ a horse for her, my liege, but for you. I have selected two that will suffice. Large. Strong.”

  “I have no trouble picking horses, Henry. And I am not that large. Carrying me will not weaken a horse.”

  “You will be riding double.”

  Rhoenne considered what he’d just been told. Actually felt a tingle of reaction somewhere deep in his belly. He swallowed before answering. “No.”

  “Then I shall be riding double.”

  “Once again. No.”

  “Forgive me, my laird...but I insist.”

  Henry didn’t sound like he’d just issued a challenge. It was too dark to see him clearly but he’d lost any trace of joviality and sounded deadly serious.

  “She is a harem wench, FitzHugh. A woman of low morals and less decency. ”

  “She is a woman and therefore deserving of chivalry.”

  “I do not need a conscience at this late date. Nor did I request one.”

  “It sounds as though someone needs to deliver a good clout to your head,” Henry remarked.

  Rhoenne stepped back, instantly taut. “Your meaning?”

  “I am willing to risk life and limb to step in and deliver said blow.”

  “You have twelve years of age on me, FitzHugh. I outweigh you by three stone, perhaps more. I am unbeatable on the list.”

  “You call me auld.? And slight? And seek to weaken me with odds?”

  “No. I speak of your defeat...and a reluctance to deliver it.”

  “I am still willing to risk it.”

  “Good thing we are speaking symbolically. I would hate to have to do something about your words.”

  “Rhoenne. Please. You speak of my words, and I admit. I speak many that are nonsensical and jocular. ’Tis my nature. I would na’ change it if I could. But hear these. This godforsaken country may have taken years of life from us. Our blood. And our sanity. But I will not allow it to take our honor.”

  Leagues of time could have passed as Rhoenne considered Henry’s words, reflecting on their meaning. He couldn’t remember feeling so chastised, even when his father had lived.

  “Good thing it is too dark to see you clearly, FitzHugh,” he finally remarked.

  “Agreed. The darkness delivers a measure of courage when one needs it. Also makes it difficult to plant my face into the ground with one swing.”

  Rhoenne snorted. “Prepare the horses. We will be fifteen. I shall fetch the woman. I will take her up on the horse with me. And I will verra much blame you the entire time.”

  “Fair enough. We are in accord. Go. I’ll alert the men, and then I shall rue the nightfall I just appreciated.”

  “I thought the journey was prepared. Horses readied.”

  “It is. And they are. I but rue lack of daylight as a lost chance to peek at this mysterious woman of yours.”

  “How many times must I say it? She is not mine.”

  “For the time being, she is.”

  Rhoenne sighed heavily. “Sometimes I wish your cousin had beaten you in the games. I truly do.”

  “Had Angus FitzHugh earned a position in your Honor Guard, you’d have had no end of troubles. And well you ken it. Angus has a wealth of brains but a dearth of brawn. Poor vision. His aim is off. His cooking skills nonexistent. His wit slow. His lack of luck legendary. His—.”

  “Enough already. I forfeit,” Rhoenne interrupted, and if he had any ability to feel amusement, then that was what colored his answer.

  Chapter Seven

  The garment he’d dropped on her was a tunic. Cassandra stood on legs that still shook, slipped the cloak tie apart and let it drop to the bedding mat with its own weight. She flipped the tunic into shape, found the bottom hem, and yanked it over her head. She shoved her arms through large armholes, pulled the front down. The garment was enormous and heavy. It fell without any help. She lifted her arms next, and pulled her braid out, working hand-over-hand until it was free of the material. If she wasn’t literally racing against time, she’d have frowned over loose hairs that fluffed and sparked, while bemoaning the snarls. She’d have done something about it, too. Her hair needed attention badly. A washing. Oil. A good combing using one of the fine-toothed combs she owned.

  Used to own, Cassandra.

  The amendment added impetus to her motions. She didn’t know how much time she had. She daren’t waste a second. Whereas before she used to have all the time in the world, now she couldn’t find enough. It was enough to make a former pleasure-loving harem dweller gnash her teeth. Then again, she’d never been a dim-witted pleasure-seeker. She’d have slit her own throat first.

  The reason for her haste wasn’t just the man and his unspecified return, although that was of import. It wasn’t that she wanted to be well-covered from his gaze when that happened, either. The impetus behind such hurry was what she needed accomplished before he caught her. It was the weight still on each ankle. She didn’t know if he’d seen her anklets. She needed them hidden before he returned. Finding a spot beneath this tunic wasn’t going to be difficult. The garment was the equivalent of wearing an enormous grain sack, the neckline so wide the thing wouldn’t stay on her shoulders. Any movement sent the garment’s neck opening careening down an arm, or both. The bottom grazed her ankles.

  She pulled the hem up. Balanced on one leg to unclasp and remove an anklet. She was just finishing with the other when the door wavered, signaling a presence behind it. Cassandra dropped her foot. Cold invaded her veins as the neckline fell off her shoulders, while the hem dropped onto her toes. And then Emin spoke, requesting entrance. Relief steadied and calmed as she granted permission. He entered and then he collapsed onto his knees before her. That’s when the perfect hiding spot occurred to her.

  “Oh. Princessa! I have been so worried! You are well? He has not harmed you?”

  “Quickly, Emin. Take these.” Cassandra held out the jewelry.

  His gaze went from the anklets up to her face. His expression one of astonishment. “He...left them with you?”

  “He does not know of them! Here! Take them! Quickly.”

  He leaned bac
k, and held his hands up as though the pieces might burn.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Princessa! You do not understand! You must give them to him!”

  “This is all we have left. We will need it to barter passage!”

  He shook his head. “No. Please. You must give them to him. You must do whatever he says! The moment he says it. You understand?”

  “You are mad.”

  “They are leaving, Highness. They have been very secretive on their plans, and they speak a mix of languages, but I am used to such things, and so I listened and pieced together what I heard. They ride to Batok!”

  “Truly?”

  “Aye. But Allah has not been merciful, I fear.”

  “They are taking us to Batok! And the shipyard! How is any of that unmericiful?”

  “They do not say what is to happen to you.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “Forgive me, Highness, but I do not know if you are to go or be left behind. It appears they have prepared for either event. They now await his decision. None have the slightest idea what it will be. He leaves everyone in suspense while he considers. And he is as close-mouthed and obstinate as a mud-brick wall!”

  ”He’d leave me?”

  Her voice cracked. She couldn’t help it. Her heart decided it couldn’t just skip. It could stop and send painfully hard beats once it restarted. She clasped her hands at her breasts and held them there.

  “I do not know if he will or not,” Emin confessed. “I admit...I had great hopes when we heard his voice earlier, but then he left this tent, sent me to attend you, and I am unsure again. I cannot say what his decision will be. No one can. Except...perhaps you?”

  “Me?”

  “Who else knows what has transpired between you and him?”

  “Of all the rotten—! Lowdown!”

  “Princessa! No! No! Please! I beg of you! You must not say such things! You must not even think them for fear they receive utterance. We may still be in time! You must do exactly what he says without a fight! What man wishes thorns when he takes a woman to his bed?”