Black Lion’s Bride (Warrior Trilogy #2)

Chapter 2

Zahirah clung to the dark crusader as he swept her up off her feet and began the winding trek back through the streets of the busy souk, toward the opulent palace in the heart of the city.

She was trembling, hardly able to catch her breath for the way her heart was racing when she thought about everything that had just happened. The attack on the palace guard. The ensuing chase into the market and the crusaders' cornering of the apparent madman in the alley outside the baker's shop; Zahirah's capture and subsequent rescue. Now this: her deliverance to the headquarters of the Frankish invaders—escorted through the heavily guarded gates by one of their own.

It had all gone precisely according to plan.

Perhaps not everything, she amended with a momentary twinge of regret. Jafar's death had not been part of the design, but her fida'i accomplice had been too arrogant, acting careless beyond his experience. Zahirah herself had been careless not a month before, when she had the opportunity to kill the famed English king in his tent and failed. The mistake had cost her, but not again. Like a serpent hiding in the oleander, she would lie in wait for her chance to strike. And this time, Richard the Lionhearted would not see her coming until he felt her deadly bite.

Zahirah turned her veiled face into the crusader's thick-hewn shoulder, hiding her eyes from the handful of Saracen servants who stared as she was carried into the mosaic-tiled entryway of the palace.

“Fetch me a basin of cool water and some strips of dry cloth,” the Frankish captain ordered one of the gawking slaves, speaking in their own Arabic tongue, his deep voice reverberating against Zahirah's ear where it rested at his chest. “And tell Abdul I need him to prepare one of his teas—something to alleviate pain.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

With the servant's feet padding off in the opposite direction, the crusader delivered Zahirah down a long corridor that opened into a spacious apartment chamber. Sumptuous cushioned divans were built into alcoves that burrowed into the high-ceilinged, frescoed walls. From the entrance, the wide floor stepped down gradually to where a large rug spread out, the resplendent crimson-and-gold weave running the full length and width of the rectangular room. At the far end of the hall, carved marble pillars supported a musician's balcony that sheltered beneath it a raised platform and pillowed seating area that would have been reserved for the sultan, were he still in residence. Sandalwood and myrrh scented the air, traces of harem perfumes that clung to the tapestries and bolsters even though the chamber apartments were some long months abandoned.

Forbidden to outsiders for untold generations, now the palace harem stood empty, vacated when Saladin's forces razed Ascalon. The move to bar the Franks from claiming yet another coastal stronghold had failed, for King Richard set up camp regardless of the wreckage, rebuilding smashed walls and seizing the city for his army's headquarters. The knight carrying Zahirah seemed every bit as bold as his conquering king, striding across the once-forbidden chamber of the harem as if he owned the place.

He set her down on the sultan's plush divan, but his hands remained at her waist, making no immediate move to release her. Alarmed to feel his touch linger, Zahirah tensed, her gaze flying to his piercing gray-green eyes in question. He offered no explanation; with one large hand holding her in place, the other efficiently skimmed the flat of her belly and sides. Before she could muster even so much as a gasp of indignation, he moved on to search the length of her legs, each in turn, his strong fingers skating from the uppermost portion of her thighs to the cuffed edges of her ankle-length trousers.

“A necessary precaution,” he offered belatedly, not quite an apology for his rude handling of her person. He let go of her and with a slight wince for the effort, straightened to his full height. He seemed to weather some degree of pain as he stared down at her from under the slash of his heavy dark brows. “Ascalon is rife with hidden dangers, my lady. I trust you understand my concerns.”

“Of course,” Zahirah murmured. She could hardly hold his level gaze, chagrined to feel a genuine blush creeping into her cheeks beneath her concealing veil. She further masked her unsettling reaction to the barbarian's touch with a suitable, if feigned, look of meek docility. “You cannot be too careful in times of war. I understand your concerns perfectly, my lord.”

Indeed, she more than understood. She had been expecting this much from the mannerless Franks, and so, by her own design, she had carried no weapon that day. Instead she had previously made arrangements with another of the fida'i to deliver her a blade at the palace under the cloak of night. Her arrival at the appointed meeting place that evening would also serve as a signal that her mission was underway, her position secured within the infidels' headquarters. In the hours remaining before dark, Zahirah's foremost objective was simply to gather what information she could and calculate the best plan of attack for the king's anticipated arrival that next morning.

Her gaze slid from the crusader to the arched entryway of the chamber, where a servant had since come to pause. Balanced on his upturned palms was a tray that contained all of the requested supplies: a bowl of water, rolls of linen bandages, and a cup of steaming tea. “Come in, Abdul,” the Frankish captain called in flawless Arabic. “See to this woman's ankle. It appears she's sprained it.”

“Yes, master. ”

“And I suppose you'd better have a look at me when you're finished with her,” the knight added, moving aside as Abdul crossed the chamber with his tray of preparations. “I had to deal with some trouble in the market this morning. No doubt I've ruined your stitches yet again.”

He pulled the hem of his tunic out from under his sword belt as he said it, then lifted the loose-fitting shirt up over his head, baring his torso without a shred of modesty. Zahirah could not help but stare. She could count on one hand the number of times she had been privy to the sight of a man's unclothed chest, but the narrow, athletic builds of the Arabs she had seen in training at Masyaf could not compare to the solid strength of this Englishman.

Thick shouldered and massive, he was like a wall of muscle and heavy bone. Ridges and planes of sinew, tanned brown from exposure to the harsh Syrian sun, bulged and flexed with his slightest move. Covering his bronzed skin was a mat of crisp dark hair that tapered down his chest and disappeared beneath the bandage that bound his trim waist. It was indecent, the blatant sexuality of his powerful physique, and Zahirah's eyes felt burned by the very sight of him.

She might have gaped for an eternity, had the crusader not turned away when one of his soldiers entered the room and addressed him. It was the man who had accompanied him in the souk, the big knight whose odd manner of speaking made the coarse dialect of the lingua franca even more difficult for Zahirah to decipher.

“Our assassin vermin of this morning lies heaped atop a rubbish cart outside, may he rot in hell.”

The quip brought a slight lift to the crusader's mouth but Zahirah could see that his mind was churning on a host of weighty concerns. “Any luck identifying him?”

The soldier shook his head. “I asked several people in the market if they'd seen him before, but no one had.”

“I can't say I'm surprised.”

“What do you reckon his purpose was in killing the guard? Do you think it was a bid to gain access to the palace? ”

“He had no chance of that, employing so bold a move in broad daylight,” the crusader coolly surmised. “And he made no such attempt to infiltrate. Indeed, the way he waited in the crowd it seemed that he was more intent on gaining our attention. Taunting us.”

“Aye,” agreed the soldier, “as if he wanted to be caught.”

His captain gave a thoughtful grunt. “Or as if he meant to lead us into some sort of trap.”

Across the room, Zahirah's breath caught in her throat. How close the dark crusader was to the truth! She peered at him over her veil, surreptitiously studying his face and trying to ascertain whether his statement was made in true suspicion or mere conjecture. His hard features told her nothing.

“If his aim was a trap,” queried the other knight, “to what end did it serve, now that the bastard is dead?”

The captain blew out a sigh and shook his dark head. “I don't know, but I mean to find out.”

He glanced toward Zahirah then, as if he sensed her interest in their conversation. Abruptly, she looked away, pretending mild distress as Abdul removed her sandal and placed her foot in the bowl of cool water. She spoke to the servant in Arabic, asking him to exercise a bit more care and hoping that her sudden focus on her injury would convince the crusaders that she did not understand enough of their foreign tongue to cause overmuch concern. The ploy seemed to work.

His gaze serious, the other soldier addressed his captain in a confidential timbre. “If the king doubted the threat of an assassin's attack before, there can be no denying it now.”

The crusader gave a slight nod. “It would seem that Richard's delayed return to Ascalon could not have come at a better time.”

Against her will, Zahirah's head snapped up.

The king was delayed—how could that be? All of her reconnaissance had indicated that the Frankish leader was due to return from Darum on the morrow. How could she have missed this crucial information?

The two men continued to speak about how they would use the king's absence over the next couple of weeks to scour the city for any more of the Old Man's disciples, but Zahirah heard none of what they said. Her mind sped forward to assess her present strategy, a knot of dread coiling in her stomach. The king's delay would mean certain failure now, for her plan to infiltrate the crusaders' headquarters hinged on his imminent arrival. She had expected her feigned injury would buy her a day or two inside the enemy camp, but to hope for a possible fortnight was dubious at best. The threat of being caught before she saw her mission through was far too great a risk.

There was only one thing she could do now: abandon this plan and move to strike through other means.

So distracted was she by the news of this sudden terrible complication, Zahirah scarcely noticed that Abdul had finished soaking and wrapping her ankle. He now reached up, offering her the cup of aromatic tea.

“Drink this for your pain,” he gently instructed her.

She accepted it without a word, vaguely aware of the musky tang of opium wafting off the steam of the herbal brew. She gave the servant an automatic, agreeable smile as she brought to cup to her mouth but she would not permit a drop of the mild opiate to pass her lips. Her ankle pained her not in the least, and even if it had been snapped in two, she would rather suffer it out than willingly drug her senses. She needed a clear mind, especially in light of this new wrinkle in what had been so simple a plan.

She had to get out of there, and soon. Before the crusader's notions of an assassin trap turned to her, as she was certain it would given time. While Abdul left her to look after the Englishman's injury, Zahirah forced her mind toward further stratagems, refusing to consider her more compelling thoughts of immediate flight. She could not leave now without rousing suspicion, no matter how strong the urge. She would simply have to wait, until morning perhaps, when the soldiers returned to their training and work on the city's walls, affording her the chance to slip out unnoticed.

Yes, she assured herself, patience was her only weapon at this moment.

Her confidence returning, Zahirah watched over the edge of her cup as Abdul began to unwrap the bandages at the captain's waist. The strips of white linen grew wet and blood-stained the further he progressed, hinting at the gravity of the man's wound, until at last the final length of cloth fell to the floor and the long ugly gash in his side was bared.

She must have gasped, for when she finally jerked her gaze up, the crusader was staring at her. “It is not as bad as it looks,” he told her with a brief, flashing grin. “Well, in truth, it might have been worse, but Abdul has proven a master with needle and thread.”

The servant gave a small snort in reply as he cleaned and inspected the wound. “Praise Allah the assassin who attacked you all those weeks ago did not aim his dagger any higher, master. Then there would have been nothing for anyone to do but watch as death carried you away.”

But it was not the ghastly sight of the torn and bleeding wound that stole Zahirah's breath. It was the fact that she had suddenly realized who the dark crusader was—the man who had foiled her attempt to slay the king and nearly captured her that night in the enemy camp. The man she had fully expected she had killed was now standing before her like a warrior of seemingly immortal stock, wearing his wound like a badge, his body insulted but invincible, and much too real for her peace of mind.

Allah, have mercy.

It was him .

“Well, Sebastian, my friend,” said the other soldier with a deep laugh. “Skilled or nay, I've no wish to watch Abdul truss you up like a Christmas goose yet another time. I'll go tell the men to take the carcass of our slain assassin and burn it with the rest of the rubbish—”

“No,” interjected the captain, his deep voice edged with lethal calm even as Abdul's needle pierced his ravaged skin and drew it closed. “I want the bastard sent back to where he came from. Bind his body to a donkey, then set the beast loose in the mountain foothills below the Old Man's lair.” His lips were tight and bloodless as he said it, his large hands fisted for the pain he must have been weathering without so much as a sip of numbing wine. “I want my message to the leader of the assassins made very clear: for every fida'i he sends down, I will deliver back a corpse. By my vow, I will slay every last one.”

Zahirah did not doubt for one instant the truth in that cool promise. She swallowed hard, setting aside her cup of cold tea before it slipped out of her trembling fingers. Her wish to abort her present mission had suddenly gone from prudent decision to desperate prayer.