Black Lion’s Bride (Warrior Trilogy #2)

Chapter 3

Moonlight spilled in through the lattice-work grilles that covered a row of windows set high in the harem chamber's wall, the pale silver rays breaking over the rooftops of the palace's many towers and splintering against the wall and floor in a thousand diamond-cut pieces. The wait until midnight had been a maddening test of Zahirah's will, but at last the appointed hour had arrived.

With the Frankish knights having some time before sought their beds, Zahirah slipped out of her private apartment and padded soundlessly down the palace hallway, headed for the garden courtyard. The fida'i who was to meet her there with her weapon should be in position now.

By Allah's grace, he would be.

Zahirah had first thought it best to remain in the palace until morning to make her escape, but as she crept along the maze of shadowy corridors, she knew a deep desire to be gone from the place at once. She told herself that her trepidation had nothing at all to do with the barbarian soldier who had brought her there, the man she might have killed—indeed, should have killed—some weeks before. If she fled now, she did so merely because she was concerned for the success of her mission, not because of any threat issued from an arrogant Englishman.

But to her dismay, it was not his threat that lingered in her mind, so much as it was the man himself: that striking, unforgiving face, those hard gray-green eyes. The sight of his warrior's body was seared onto her memory like a brand, and even now, some hours removed from his presence, she still weathered the strangest feeling in her stomach, a queer fluttering that roused with the very thought of him.

Revulsion, no doubt, she reasoned harshly as she turned a corner and stole along the length of a columned open-air arcade. It had to be a bone-deep disgust that assailed her when she thought on him, for to feel anything more than that for any of the hated Franks—the barbarian race she had been raised to despise—would be the worst sort of shame. Indeed, she would rather die first.

Her thoughts occupied around that morbid prospect, Zahirah hastened toward the end of the colonnade. She did not see the dim flicker of candlelight coming from one of the palace bedchambers until she was nearly upon it. Someone was yet awake. Jolted by her near misstep, Zahirah froze. She had to pass that room to get to the garden.

From within the chamber came the soft scrape of a chair on tile, followed by the muffled thud of booted feet pacing slowly, the space between footfalls belying the great height and solidity of the apartment's occupant. Zahirah crept toward the partially open door without breathing, her back pressed to the wall as she stretched her neck to peer inside. She did not have to see the dark-haired crusader to know it was him . . . Sebastian, his friend had called him. Every fiber of her being tensed with awareness, a keen and inexplicable recognition that was confirmed when she spied the massive span of his shoulders, his tunic-clad back turned blessedly toward the door.

He appeared to be in thoughtful reflection, his elbow and forearm braced against the wall, his dark head bent down to study a document he held in his right hand. At the desk where he had been sitting was a pot of ink and a half-written letter, evidence that the rough soldier was also a man of some learning. The notion surprised her, for she had believed the Franks to be a simple-minded lot, crude barbarians bred for war, and as base in morals and thinking as the lowliest beasts in the field.

Was that not what her father, Rashid al-Din Sinan, had always proclaimed? Was that not what she had been taught from the time she first could speak—a lesson too often learned at the punishing end of an olive switch?

Zahirah shut out the pit of black memories before they could take root. Her lessons were many years behind her; she need not dwell on them. She had to trust her teaching now, trust her training.

She fixed her focus solely on the obstacle that stood between herself and freedom, watching as the Englishman drew breath and released it, waiting for the opportune moment to dash by unnoticed. Perhaps he sensed her steady regard behind him, for he raised his head suddenly and turned to look over his shoulder.

Zahirah did not hesitate for even so much as a heartbeat. Before he had the chance to see her there, she slipped past the slim opening of the door in one smooth motion, then fled noiselessly down the remaining space of hallway to the arched entrance of the gardens.

Once outside, she headed directly for the southern wall where a briar of roses grew, the heavy blood-red blooms peaking their highest at this point over the top of the tall perimeter enclosure. Zahirah hastened to the appointed spot and dropped to her knees in the soft grass.

“Halim,” she whispered, “are you there?”

Only silence greeted her from the other side of the wall.

She waited for a moment, praying for reply, then blew out a shaky sigh. Had he already come and gone? she wondered desperately. Her mind racing, she crouched down and reached into the thick rosebush near its root, negotiating the thorns as best she could without sacrificing speed. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase, her veil snagging in the branches the deeper she reached. At last, she found what she sought: at the base of the wall was a loosened stone, chipped free of its mortar not a week before. Easily accessible from the outside, the small portal lay well hidden from within by the tangle of the briar.

Using both hands to pry the stone out, Zahirah clutched at the ancient brick and wiggled it out of the wall. A rush of cool night air whisked in through the gap, followed by Halim's rasping whisper.

“You are late.”

“A few moments,” she admitted. “Not all were abed. I had to be careful.”

Halim grunted on the other side of the wall. “Jafar is dead, you know. I saw the Frankish pig slay him like a dog in the middle of the souk.”

“I know,” Zahirah whispered, hearing an uncustomary note of pain in Halim's voice.

He and Jafar were brothers—two of Sinan's best, most proven agents, though on occasion she had bested the both of them in practice at Masyaf. That she was chosen for this mission over either of them had not endeared her to any of the all-male brotherhood of the fida'i , but no one would dare question Sinan's whims. Still, she could sense the scorn in Halim's silence, and she knew that what she was about to tell him now would give him great satisfaction.

“Halim, there has been a complication in my plan. The English king is delayed; he will not be returning to Ascalon on the morrow as I had expected, but may be gone another fortnight at least. I think it may be wise to abort this mission—”

“Abort?” Halim bit off a sharp oath. “A true fida'i would consider no such thing.”

Zahirah chose to ignore the muttered barb. “I need to get out of here at once, Halim. The captain has already voiced his suspicions that the chase through the souk may have been some sort of trap. It won't be long before he starts to wonder how I might fit into the puzzle.”

“Then you must take steps to ensure that his suspicions do not focus on you,” Halim answered pointedly. “He is a man of some youth and virility from what I have seen; I doubt he'd refuse you. It should not require much to keep him distracted from your true purpose, even for a girl of your limited skills.”

Zahirah felt her face flame at Halim's outrageous suggestion. How dare he advise seduction when he—indeed, all of Masyaf—knew she was yet a virgin, unschooled in the harem arts at her father's strict insistence? And to imply that she might willingly whore for the Frankish captain besides!

“This mission ends tonight,” she insisted. “I'm leaving this place here and now, if I must climb this wall to do it. And you will help me, Halim.”

The fida'i's answering chuckle did not bode well for her cause. “Jafar's life was spent for nothing, and now you expect me to risk my own to assist you in fleeing your mission like a jittery hare, all because you made a stupid mistake in judgment?”

Zahirah hardened herself to the accusation, despite its sting. “Jafar is dead because of his own carelessness. I have made mistakes, admittedly, but I will not wait here to make another.”

“The risk would be greater if you were to abandon the plan now,” the fida'i countered. “After all, you have been seen by these men, and if you do not know it, Zahirah, you are not a woman soon forgotten. You have lost the advantage of anonymity. Now that you are inside the Franks' camp, it is better that you stay.”

“Halim!” she hissed in disbelief. “I have made my decision in this. I do not seek your permission—”

Behind her, a booted footstep echoed in the colonnade leading toward the gardens, the interruption cutting short Zahirah's argument. Someone approached from within the palace. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, but saw no one. No sign of activity, not even the dim glow of the captain's reading candle, the flame evidently snuffed out since she had been there. Curse Halim for making her quarrel with him when she could have been using the time to gain her freedom!

“I have lingered too long,” she whispered urgently. “Someone is coming. I must go!”

“Quick. Take the dagger.”

Halim pushed a silk-wrapped object through the hole in the garden wall. Zahirah retrieved it with grasping, frantic fingers, slipping the slim, sheathed blade beneath the waistband of her pantalets. She did not bother with further words for Halim; he was gone in that next moment anyway, no doubt slinking away from the palace wall with the silent stealth of a cat.

Without a moment to spare, Zahirah shoved the stone back into place in the wall, then vaulted to her feet. She had just brushed the dried leaves and dirt from her hands and clothing when a deep voice made her jump with startlement.

“It is rather late for a stroll in the garden.”

“Oh. Yes,” she answered, turning to meet the large, moonlit figure of the Frankish captain. Sebastian , her mind supplied, the foreign name rolling far too readily to the tip of her tongue. “My apologies if I disturbed your rest, my lord. I found it difficult to sleep in a strange place . . . and, of course, after all that has happened today.”

“Of course,” he replied lightly, but his dark brows were furrowed, his gaze narrowed and trained more on the rose briar than it was on her. “I thought I heard voices out here. Were you talking to someone?”

“None but myself,” she said, her nervous little laugh borne of genuine anxiety as the knight came toward her. “I sometimes do so when I have troubling things on my mind.”

“Do you?”

He came to stand before her and Zahirah frowned, unsettled by his sudden nearness. “My lord?”

He gave her a vague smile. “Do you have troubling things on your mind?”

“Y-yes,” she whispered. “That is—no.”

Her reply was hasty. Too hasty, perhaps, for he looked down at her then, studying her eyes over the top of her veil. Allah, preserve her, but there was something dangerously compelling in that level gaze, something that grabbed a hold of her like a physical bond, drawing her in. He stood so close, it was impossible for her not to stare, her eyes taking in the harsh symmetry of his face: the wide brow and sharply planed cheekbones, his stern chin and jaw, the blunt line of his nose . . . the incongruously sensual curve of his mouth.

Limned in moonlight, with his mane of dark hair wild about his shoulders in untamed waves, this Anglo man of war was easily the most breathtaking vision Zahirah had ever seen.

And he stared at her, too, she realized dazedly. She saw the interest in his eyes, saw the spark of male curiosity that flared in their pale depths as his gaze traveled her covered face, then lifted to meet her eyes. There was potency in that gaze, a compelling confidence that should have unsettled her more than it did. He might have known his effect on her, for then he smiled, a slow curve of his lips. His voice was a growl in the dark.

“What mysteries do you hide beneath that veil, Zahirah?”

The question shocked her, but no more than the unexpected feel of his touch. He reached out slowly, bringing his hand up to her face. Though he scarcely touched her, only the merest skate of his fingertips against her cheek, Zahirah felt enflamed. She closed her eyes, and for one mad instant, she considered Halim's advice.

Seduction.

She knew not the first thing about it, but all that was woman in her warned that this man surely did. His touch advanced no farther than her face, yet Zahirah felt his caress in every nerve and pore of her body. The callused pad of his thumb swept over her lips, rasping against the silk that covered them and drawing the breath from her lungs in a warm, ragged sigh.

His heavy-lidded gaze trained on her mouth, he started to sweep aside her veil . . .

“No,” Zahirah gasped, finally seizing some thread of sanity amid the tumult of her present state.

What had come over her? She was daughter of Rashid al-Din Sinan! Had she no honor at all that she would allow this over-bold heathen to paw her like a common whore? Her skin should crawl from the very notion. What madness did she suffer that she should instead feel so alive ?

Terrified by what she was feeling—by what she might yet be tempted to permit this man if she remained another moment—Zahirah shrunk back from his touch as if burned. She took a step away from him, then another.

By Allah's merciful grace, he made no move to stop her. Nor did he say a word as she brought her trembling hand to her mouth and dashed past him, her mind reeling as she fled for the safety of her chamber in the palace.

~ ~ ~

Sebastian stared after her, watching in wry amusement as she made a hasty exit from the garden. Her flight seemed unhindered in the slightest by her injured ankle, running from him as she might from the devil himself. As well she should, he decided, his deep sigh betraying the knot of tension coiled in his loins.

God's bones, but when she stared up at him in the moonlight, her wide, expressive eyes drinking him in with a shattering lack of guile, he had been powerless to keep from touching her. Had she not broken away so abruptly, he no doubt would have endeavored to do far more than that.

He wondered at his interest in her. An interest that had kept him awake that night, made him restless even beyond his usual inability to sleep a night through. His mind had been churning on her from the moment he first laid eyes on her in the souk, a beauty like no other he had known.

Zahirah harbored mysteries that went far deeper than her beauty, that much he was sure of. But as tempting as it was to sate his curiosity and lay each of her secrets bare, he knew he could ill afford the distraction when the king's life hung in the balance. If he had not been sure of it before, this encounter in the garden was proof enough: his pretty desert rose would have to go back to where she came from.

Indeed, the sooner he was delivered of the chit, the better.