Black Lion’s Bride (Warrior Trilogy #2)

Chapter 5

Sebastian knew a swift, violent urge to follow Zahirah's brother out of the palace and see if the bastard was as eager to raise his fist to another man as he was to a defenseless woman. Logan's mind was likely on a similar track; as Halim swaggered past him, the big Scot gave him a deliberate butt of his shoulder, inviting insult and all but daring the Saracen to give him further cause to fall in behind and take him to task outside. Disappointingly, Halim did not rise to the bait. He merely stepped aside of Logan to throw one last glance at Sebastian, before he strode into the corridor and took his leave.

Glad to be rid of him, Sebastian turned his attention to Zahirah. “Are you all right?” he asked her.

Without looking at him, she gave a faint nod. He had expected to find her in tears a few paces beside him, as helpless as a lost kitten in need of protection. He would have understood, and he would have pitied her. But while Zahirah was quiet, her face downcast, hands clenched rigidly at her sides, there was no trace of defeat or fear in her stance. Hardly a mewling kitten in need of rescue, in that moment, she more resembled a tigress, taking silent measure of her sudden vulnerabilities and anticipating the next attack.

Or, perhaps, came the odd thought, calculating whether or not to spring first in offense.

Sebastian dismissed his queer misgivings and took a step toward her. In the grass at her feet lay her tattered veil. When she made no move to retrieve it, he bent down and did it for her .

“Thank you,” she said, as she slid the scrap of torn silk from between his fingers.

She glanced up then, affording him a first glimpse at her uncovered face. If he had thought her exquisite in partial view, seeing the full measure of her beauty nearly rendered him speechless. Like a goddess kissed by an adoring sun, Zahirah's skin glowed warm honey-bronze, as flawless and smooth as the silk that had so prudently concealed it from hungry male gazes until a few moments ago. High cheekbones, flushed pink beneath their Saracen color, flared above her delicate jaw and blunt, rounded chin; her nose was straight and slender, as aristocratic as any queen's, and perfectly balanced with the pouty, sensual curve of her mouth. Zahirah's fine arched brows and wide quicksilver eyes had been entrancing over the edge of her veil, but now, complemented by the striking beauty of her other features, their power to bewitch was staggering.

Her brother was wrong to think he could get a decent sum for her in the slave market; he could have gotten a bloody fortune.

Sebastian had not realized how rudely he stared until he met Zahirah's gaze straight on. Had she sensed his less-than-subtle appraisal? Perhaps she worried that she might yet find herself sold into human bondage, or worse. Those mercurial eyes did not so much as flinch, but deep within them, Sebastian spied a glimmer of uncertainty. It was gone in the next heartbeat, shuttered by a sweep of long dark lashes. Whether witting or not, she took a cautious step backward.

“Abdul,” Sebastian commanded, “show Zahirah back to her chamber. She's been through much these past many hours. No doubt she would appreciate a bit of privacy to collect her thoughts.”

The servant came forward and bowed his head to the lady, politely bidding she follow. Zahirah went along without so much as a word or a second glance at Sebastian, keeping her gaze down as the servant guided her out of the courtyard and back along the palace corridor .

Once they were gone, Logan pushed away from the frame of the doorway and entered the garden. He said nothing as he approached the breakfast-laden table and plucked a handful of purple grapes from a bowl of fruit. His prolonged silence as he raided the morning's viands was maddening.

“I know what you're thinking,” Sebastian said dryly. “It was a mistake to bring the chit here in the first place. I should have summoned a villager to look after her injuries in the market. What sort of fool brings a Muslim woman into a Christian army camp unescorted?”

“Actually,” said the Scots lieutenant, grinning as he chewed and swallowed another plump grape, “I was thinking that it might serve you well to be saddled with a ward. Mayhap she'll help keep you out of trouble. God knows I canna do it alone.”

Sebastian sharply let out his breath, eyeing Logan askance. “A ward with her appeal will bring her own trouble, mark my words. I haven't the time or the interest to play guardian to the girl—or do you forget we've an assassin to ferret out before the king's return?”

The Scot grunted in acknowledgment. “Sinan's disciples would have to work magic to get past the city gates now, let alone breach the palace. By your command, there are extra guards on watch within and without Ascalon. I've set them to searching everyone who comes or goes.”

“And what if our fida'i is already in place somewhere in the city, perhaps hiding under our very noses?” Sebastian remarked, almost to himself. The Old Man's agents were known for their ability to blend in with their surroundings, trained to adapt to any role, to assume any mask—from holy man to lowly peasant. Ascalon teemed with a thousand miscellaneous folk; any one of them could be Richard's attacker. How they would root him out before he struck again, Sebastian had no idea.

“You'll find him,” Logan said, as if divining the direction of his thoughts from his dark expression alone. “Has the Black Lion ever failed at aught he's set his mind to do? ”

Sebastian lifted a brow in wry humor. “Aye, once. That night in camp, when I let the little bastard escape the business end of my blade.”

“A mere postponement of the inevitable,” Logan quipped, shrugging his broad shoulders.

“Postponement, indeed,” Sebastian replied. “My hand yet itches for revenge on his treachery.”

“And I daresay none would deny you the pleasure of having it, my friend. If the assassin is within so much as a league of Ascalon, rest assured, we will find him.”

Sebastian nodded, his concerns somewhat assuaged by his lieutenant's shared determination. He spoke true when he said his hand itched for vengeance on the fida'i . His body, too long in recuperation of his injury, craved the feel of battle, the pound and strain of weaponry and armor, the satisfaction of victory . . . anything to drown out another craving that plagued him. The craving that would set his feet on a path down the palace corridor to where she was, that tigress cub with the quicksilver eyes and the exotic mouth he had longed to taste even before he had been cursed by the sight of it.

She brought her own brand of trouble, indeed, and he had no intention of permitting her to stay any longer than it took to arrange safe harbor for her elsewhere. Abdul would know what to do; he would set the servant to the task before the sun set.

Forcing his thoughts back on course, Sebastian met his lieutenant's expectant gaze. “Have the men begun their morning's practice yet?”

Logan gave a nod. “They had just started to train when trouble arrived at the gates. No doubt they grow restless with waiting.”

“Good. Then I should have no difficulty finding someone to spar with me for a while.”

“Spar with you?” When Sebastian started for the corridor, Logan grabbed one last handful of grapes, then fell in behind. “You can't be serious.”

“My skills have grown rusty,” Sebastian replied casually. “I need the practice. ”

Logan scoffed. “Rusty, my arse. Even if you were, who would be fool enough to oblige you, in training or in truth, when you're but a few weeks this side of death?”

Sebastian answered him with a meaningful sidelong glance as he turned down a corridor that led to the courtyard.

“Oh, nay, my friend,” Logan chuckled, keeping pace with him just the same. “You'll not goad me into sharing your madness. I want no part of it.”

Sebastian gave a bark of laughter. “Whose skill do you doubt—mine, or yours?”

The big Scot growled an oath as they stepped out into the wide courtyard where the soldiers trained, already sweating under the relentless desert sun. Several groups of knights paused as their captain and his Scots right arm strode into their midst, chuckling and trading good-natured gibes; activity ceased altogether when it became apparent that the two warriors, so equal in size and skill, were intent to spar.

Sebastian paid no mind to the gathering crowd of soldiers. With humor in his eyes and the thrill of combat enlivening his limbs, he drew his weapon and waited for his friend to do likewise.

Logan met the challenge, grinning, every bit as eager for the contest, despite his protests. “You're a lunatic. You do realize that?”

With a shrug of agreement, Sebastian advanced. Someone shouted a bet of ten deniers on the Black Lion, a wager that was quickly met by another soldier who evidently favored the unhindered strength of his Scot kinsman. The two mock combatants took up their stance, and within moments, the dusty, sun-baked courtyard rang with the cacophony of clashing steel, and shouting, cheering men.

~ ~ ~

The intensity of the blazing noontide sun drove the exhausted knights into shadier quarters some three hours—and several lively wagers—later. Sebastian quit the training yard with Logan and the others, sweating and out of breath, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. The stitched gash in his side throbbed from the prolonged exertion of the morning's combat, but beyond the pain, he could feel his blood pumping through every vein, energizing every muscle and fiber of his body. His strength was coming back, and he could not recall when he had ever felt so incredibly alive.

“God's bones, English,” remarked Logan as the two men took their ease near the palace well. He poured a ladle of water into a cup and handed it to Sebastian. “How can you look so satisfied when I know damned well you must feel every bit as abused as I do?”

Sebastian's lip curled in amusement as he accepted the drink from his friend. He consumed half of the cool water in one greedy swallow; the rest he poured over his heated head and face. Instantly refreshed, he slicked his hand over his jaw and met the Scot's gaze from under his dripping forelock. “I had no idea you were so soft, my friend. I'll bear it in mind, and endeavor to go a bit easier on you when we spar again tomorrow.”

“Go easier? Bloody hell!” Logan sputtered. He chortled over the jest, tossing aside his cup and making a great show of reaching for his sword. “I'll give you something to bear in mind!”

Sebastian laughed. “Save it for the morn,” he said, clapping the Scot on the shoulder. “Tell your sergeants on watch at the gates that I want detailed reports before sup each night. And if there is any sign of trouble, I am to be called immediately.”

At Logan's nod, Sebastian left the gathering at the well, heading back toward the palace, where he knew he would find a bath and a tankard of good Ascalon wine. Battle usually made him hungry for other pleasures as well, and as he passed a pretty doe-eyed serving woman near the gardens, for a moment, he entertained the thought of inviting her along to assist him. She had been eager enough company on other occasions, but for reasons he had no inclination to explore, when she looked up and smiled at him, Sebastian merely returned the gesture and walked past .

His strides were long and confident as he traversed the length of a pillared, open-air arcade, his spurs ticking briskly on the tiled floor of the corridor that led to his private quarters. The day's exercise had soaked his tunic, making it itch where it clung to his skin. Impatient to be rid of the offending garment, he stripped it off and tossed it onto a divan the instant he stepped inside his chamber.

Abdul must have been in the room to open the windows sometime that morning, for a soft fragrant breeze whispered across Sebastian's bare chest and shoulders as he unbuckled his sword belt and walked through the main apartment toward his bedchamber. His weapon removed, he was about to set it down against the wall when something made him pause.

A movement behind him.

Subtle, soundless.

Stealthy.

An image of a black-clad youth and a slashing dagger flashed through his mind like a bolt of lightning. Assassin , warned the hairs that rose on the back of his neck, an explanation that seemed impossible to believe, but a threat too real to ignore.

He did not intend to wait for confirmation. His hand instinctively curled around the hilt of his sword, Sebastian ripped the blade free of its scabbard and rounded on the intruder.

“Christ Jesus!” he hissed as the sharp edge of steel came to a precarious halt at the base of a slender, silk-veiled throat.

Zahirah's eyes were wide with surprise over the edge of her veil, but she did not scream or faint away. Indeed, she scarcely moved, not even to draw breath, instead standing there unblinking, as if she fully expected him to run her through. There was an audible sigh of relief, however faint, when, with a muttered curse, he lowered his weapon.

“What, by God, are you doing in here?” he demanded, his tone overly harsh for the realization of what he might have done to her. His gaze strayed over her shoulder to a space of carpeted floor in the main area of his living quarters. There, a collection of pillows was arranged to form a cushioned pallet, and beside them was prayer mat, spread out as if recently in use, its woven design facing toward Mecca, the direction in which all good Muslims sent their praise to Allah.

Sebastian looked back to Zahirah in confusion. “What is this about?”

She had been staring at his bare chest. Evidently, Zahirah realized the fact at the same time he did; she blinked and lifted her chin to meet his gaze straight on. “My lord?”

“Who gave you leave to enter my private chambers?”

“Your manservant, my lord,” she answered simply enough. “He brought me here several hours ago with instructions that I was to serve you in whatever way you deemed fitting.” She glanced down, suddenly shy. “I assumed those were your wishes as well.”

Before he could acknowledge to himself that he could think of nothing more enticing in this world, Sebastian stalked to the open doorway and bellowed for Abdul. The turbaned Saracen appeared within scant moments, somewhat breathless for rushing to the summons from wherever he had been.

“Yes, master?”

“Am I to understand that you delivered Lady Zahirah to my private quarters without my leave?”

Abdul's dark gaze flicked to her, then up at his scowling Frankish lord. He swallowed hard. “I . . . yes, master.”

Sebastian had to struggle to keep his voice level. “Explain yourself.”

“Well, I . . . after what occurred this morning, master, I suppose I thought her presence would please you—”

“Please me?” he growled. Seizing Abdul by the arm, Sebastian forcibly guided the servant into the corridor. “By the Cross, Abdul. She came up behind me and I nearly took her head off. ”

The servant gasped. “It is my fault, master. I should not have presumed to know your wishes. Forgive me. I just thought that since she now belongs to you—”

“Belongs to me?” Sebastian echoed darkly. He shook his head, certain he misunderstood. “Zahirah is not chattel, Abdul. She is a free citizen, same as you. She belongs to no one, and I'll not have her kept here against her will—in my chamber or anywhere else.”

The manservant's face grew serious, far too serious for Sebastian's peace of mind. “Master,” he said softly. “She is yours. Did you not hear her brother say as much in the garden but a few hours ago? In Arab eyes, this woman belongs to you now. You paid for her with the chain of gold you gave her brother.”

Sebastian suddenly recalled the angry impulse that compelled him to throw his heraldic pendant at Halim. He had meant it as an insult, a means of getting rid of the man before he was moved to slay Zahirah's brother before her very eyes. He had regretted the decision the instant he had torn the pendant loose and let it fly. Now a deeper dread began to dawn.

Wary for what he was about to hear, Sebastian narrowed his gaze on Abdul. “You're saying I paid for her, as one would pay for a slave?”

“No, not a slave,” answered Abdul soberly. “A bride.”