Black Lion’s Bride (Warrior Trilogy #2)

Chapter 9

Zahirah promptly won the next round, and would have doubtless claimed a third had the game not been interrupted by one of Sebastian's soldiers bringing news of a shipment that required his attention at the docks. Reluctantly, Zahirah took her leave as well, departing the private courtyard with a promise from the captain that they would pick up again as time permitted.

Her mood was almost gleeful as she wended her way back through the heart of the palace. She could not bear the thought of wasting a beautiful day indoors, so instead of returning to her chamber, she headed toward the long corridor of the harems, seeking out the solitude of the roof terrace, that sunny sanctuary she had discovered on her exploration of the palace the morning before.

As she had done that prior morn, Zahirah climbed out from the sultana's balcony and took her place beneath the glorious noontime rays. She lay on her back with her eyes closed, her skin soaking in the sun's warmth, her senses soaking in the simple pleasure of her surroundings. But where she usually found meditation and clarity of thought in the ritual, today her mind was awhirl.

Although she fought it, Zahirah had but to think on him and there he was: that lazy, devilish grin; those eyes that were such a stormy mix of seafoam and steel; the strong but gentle hand that she could still feel warming her own.

Sebastian.

Quietly, she whispered the foreign name, tasting it on her tongue the way a child would savor a strange new sweet. Sebastian. How easy it was to let it roll from her lips.

It should have choked her, this feeling she suddenly had—this queer and unwanted fondness for a man she should despise. She told herself it was merely the thrill of finding a kindred spirit, despite their opposing sides. Someone who seemed every bit as competitive, and determined to win, as she was. But there was something more to this feeling. Something that spoke to her in hushed darker tones, stirring up a confusion of feelings and wants and desires from deep within her.

Zahirah had never known a man's touch; Rashid al-Din Sinan would have slain any who dared so much as glance with interest on the daughter he had taken great pains to raise in his own ruthless image. She had been kept pure in body and in thought, schooled never to fail in anything her father demanded of her, a lesson that was easy to abide once she knew what she would suffer for the most trivial slip.

Darkness.

Even now, under the blaze of the midday sun, she could feel the coldness of that black place clawing at her. It was there that her nightmares first began to breed, in the terrifying, endless void of isolation. It nearly drove her mad, those lightless, empty hours she had been forced to spend in discipline, left with nothing but the sounds of her own breathing . . . and, if she dared sleep, the screams.

Allah, the screams.

Bloodcurdling, frightened, sorrowful screams. She did not know the stranger's voices, nor could she make sense of what they said, but the terror was so real to Zahirah, it could have been torn from her own throat. She felt the pain as her own; she knew the grief, the shocking, sudden sense of loss. Now, as then, she heard a name carrying from out of the darkness of her memory, drifting toward her as a tattered ribbon snagging on a savage wind . . .

No.

Zahirah banished the disturbing thought from her mind before it could take root. She sat up and rubbed off a bone-deep chill, looking up at the heavens and filling her eyes with the burning comfort of bright warm sunshine. Safe, glorious daylight. There was nothing to fear here.

And yet, she trembled.

She did not know how long she had been out there on the roof terrace, but the solitude she found was no longer as pleasing as it had been, and she suddenly needed to feel some of the bustle and hubbub of the palace interior. She fastened her veil and readjusted her hems of her tunic and shalwar , then returned inside the sultana's chamber to make the passage back to her own.

To her relief, once out of the vacant harem wing, activity abounded. Servants went about their day's tasks; soldiers trained in the yard. Even the cackle of the washerwomen, goading the men with outrageous jests and innuendo, was a welcome diversion from the ghosts of memory that followed Zahirah in from the roof.

She found herself surreptitiously searching for Sebastian among the other folk, listening for his deep laugh, hoping to see him come striding down one of the many corridors as she made her way back to her chamber. But the captain was nowhere in sight, evidently still detained with his men somewhere outside the palace.

Zahirah tried to deny the little pang of disappointment she felt at his absence, tried to refute the glimmer of hope she held that she would find him in his chamber as she passed on the way to hers. She slowed as she neared his apartments, but he was not there either. His chamber door was closed tight; naught but quiet sounded on the other side.

Zahirah's own chamber door, however, stood ajar. She approached with caution—curious, and not a small measure suspicious, of what she would find within. Someone had been there since she had left that morning. Abdul, no doubt, she decided, immediately relaxing as she made a quick glance around .

The latticework grate that covered her window had been opened to let in the balmy garden breeze. On the squat table nearby was a pot of fresh flowers, their gay colors and sweet perfumes begging to be enjoyed. But it was the small package on the bed that wrung a smile from Zahirah's lips, drawing her into the room as on winged feet.

What more had Sebastian given her? she wondered, excited as she untied the bindings and tore away the linen wrapper to see what it contained. Every joyful feeling she had fled the instant the package fell open, for the gift was no gift at all.

It was a flat yellow cake that no one would dare put to their lips, for it could have come from one place alone: Masyaf. A token generally reserved for victims of the fida'i , this one had come to her as a message—or a warning. Sobered by the very sight of it, Zahirah quietly closed her chamber door, then spread the linen wrapper out on the bed and crushed the crumbly cake in her hands. A small square of papyrus had been baked inside, folded over to conceal a note written in Arabic. It was from Halim.

I have information. Meet me tomorrow at the city mosque. Sabbath prayer. Do not be late.

Zahirah gathered up the crumb-covered swatch of linen and carried it to the window to shake it out. The garden birds and pigeons would dispose of the tiny bits of cake in a matter of moments; Halim's missive would need to be destroyed through more deliberate means. She brought it to where an oil lamp burned in an alcove in the wall and held the note over the thin flame. It smoked and caught fire, but it was still burning when a heavy knock sounded on her door.

“Zahirah, are you in there?”

Sebastian. She swung her head toward the deep growl of his voice in a panic. Allah, what should she do? She dropped the smoldering remnants of Halim's note onto the floor and stomped them out with her sandal as quietly as she could. She considered feigning her absence from the chamber, but could not trust that the captain would not open the door to verify the fact for himself.

“A moment, please,” she called from the other side of the room, willing her voice to a calm timbre as she lifted the edge of the thick Persian rug and swept the ashes of Halim's note under it.

Even with the window open to the breeze, the room smelled of smoke and burnt paper. If she allowed Sebastian in, he would surely scent what she had been up to and wonder if she had something to hide. He might even insist on a search of her chambers—or her person. It was a risk she was unwilling to take.

“Yes, my lord?” she asked from the other side of the panel that separated them. “I thought you were yet at the docks.”

“I was,” he answered, “but my business there is concluded.” A pause followed, then: “Will you open the door, my lady, or must we speak through it?”

There was a wry edge to his voice, but Zahirah still bit her lip in worry, fearful that his light request could easily become demand. “I cannot open the door, my lord. I . . . I am not dressed to receive company.”

Another pause from him, this time longer. Did he doubt her excuse? Worse, would modesty matter to a barbarian Frank if he was determined to have his way?

“I had hoped to bathe, my lord,” she hastened to add, “then spend the evening in prayer.”

“Ah,” he answered, evidently appeased. “And here I thought I might convince you to let me win back some of the dignity you stole from me this morn at shatranj .”

He was waiting for her to answer, perhaps waiting to discern whether or not she smiled on the other side of the door. She was smiling, but she snuffed it with a harsh thought of reprimand, and did not dare trust herself to reply. She remained silent where she stood, scarcely breathing, wishing him away.

“Well,” he said after a long moment. “Another time, perhaps. ”

“Perhaps,” she echoed quietly.

Zahirah waited, listening in utter silence, her pent-up breath leaking out of her as he slowly took his leave. She had managed to avoid a potential disaster, but there were sure to be more awaiting her in this dangerous game she played. Sebastian was not a man to be toyed with; the very worst thing she could do was allow herself to warm to him, to let herself feel something for him beyond an adversarial sort of wariness, the respect given to any formidable enemy.

Where that was concerned, Halim's message could not have come at a better time. If her focus had started to slip, the reminder of her duty to her clan had put it firmly back to rights. She had a mission to carry out. She would not lose sight of it again.

The fear of discovery passed, Zahirah turned, then went to retrieve the half-charred remains of Halim's note. With cool deliberation, she brought it back to the flame of the oil lamp and watched with placid calm as the evidence of her perfidy burned to cinder and vanished.

~ ~ ~

Sebastian walked away from Zahirah's door in a state of mild befuddlement. Not so much over the fact that she had refused him, but rather, over his own reaction to that fact. He was surprised, even a bit angry, scowling as he stalked to the head of the long corridor and into a chamber he had commandeered as an officers' meeting room.

He had to admit, against all better judgment, he had been eager to see Zahirah again. The truth was, he had been unable to put her out of his mind since he had been called away from her some four hours before. He could not remember the last time he had so enjoyed the simple pleasure of a woman's company as he had that morning in the garden with her. That enjoyment had only made him greedy for more. More of Zahirah's time, more of her companionship. More, simply, of her.

Her stammered confession that she was at least partially undressed on the other side of that door had done little to assuage his hunger to see her. It was all too easy to imagine what might greet his eyes if he pushed the panel open. Indeed, had he been a man of lesser breeding, he might have acted on the impulse that urged him to turn the latch and see for himself. Instead, he had stood there in the hallway, cursing his noble upbringing and searching for his voice, which had suddenly left him with the thought of Zahirah unclothed.

He wanted her; there could be no denying that. He had wanted her from the moment he first saw her in the bazaar, and now that she was here, likely to be in his charge for an interminable amount of time, he was finding it difficult to think on little else. Based on the aloof reception he had gotten on the other side of her barred door, he, evidently, was alone in his regard. It should have relieved him. After all, he had been adamant from the start about not wanting the distraction of her constant presence.

He reckoned it was good that he would soon be leaving Ascalon, even if he would be away only for a sennight at most. The harbormaster reported word of a food and arms supply heading in from the king's allies in Tyre. The goods were due to arrive in a couple of days, then transfer to caravan to be hauled inland to Richard's depleted forces. Sebastian, Logan, and a company of guards would ride as escort. It was hardly a dangerous mission to require his personal attention, but he expected the time on the road should help clear his head.

God knew, he hoped it would.

And if Richard called him back to action upon his arrival, so much the better, Sebastian thought as he entered his officers' chamber and seated himself at the large oak desk. It had been brought to Outremer by one of the Christian leaders, a nobleman who had no doubt come searching for gold and glory and long since fled back home. The bulky piece of furniture with its equally obtrusive chair was sorely out of place amid the cushioned elegance of the Arabian palace—not unlike the crusaders themselves .

They did not belong in this place of sand and sun and sacrifice. He was reminded of that fact every day, from the blistering heat that greeted each morn, to the sounds of armies marching and women and children screaming in their wake. He was reminded, too, by the healing wound at his side, and the cool gray glances of a certain young woman—a haughty thing who harbored a dislike for the Franks that went a great deal deeper than he suspected she would ever let on.

That he was out of place here did not make him long to return to his old life as it did so many others. He had come to Palestine in search of something: adventure, he had thought upon departing England and the earldom that his brother, Griffin, now held for him in trust. Adventure he had found—enough to last two lifetimes—but it was not yet enough, and he supposed he would wander the world until he discovered what it was that he was missing.

His eye drifted past the maps and papers that lay on the desk, to the letter he had recently received from his castle home of Montborne. He had read it at least a dozen times in the two months since it arrived, so much that he almost knew each line by heart. Nevertheless, he picked it up and let himself revisit the exciting news from home.

He was an uncle again, announced his brother's bold scrawl at the top of the message. There was no preamble, no superfluous greeting, for Griffin was not a man to mince words. Isabel, Griff's lady wife, had given birth to their third child—a son this time, a squalling, robust baby brother for the twin girls born to them in the months after Sebastian had left for crusade.

Griffin's delight was evident in the hasty, often clumsy, strokes of his quill. Born to the sword and raised in a household far from Montborne, Sebastian's only brother had not learned to read and write until recent years, when Isabel had come into his life. She was a gentle lady and a patient teacher—an heiress bride who would have been Sebastian's, had fate not intervened to deliver her instead to Griffin.

Sebastian did not begrudge the match, for it was made out of love, and forged years before the king had betrothed Isabel to him.

He read the rest of the letter, smiling when he got to the place where Griff evidently had finally given up and turned the quill over to Isabel. Her voice, too, was in her handwriting, light and sweet, asking him about where he had been, the exotic places he had seen. She told him not to fret over things at home, that all was well, and closed by wishing him blessings and Godspeed upon what they all prayed would be his soon return.

Sebastian's reply was long overdue. The letter had come just before the night of the assassin's attack in camp, and he had not been motivated to write in the weeks he had been abed with his injuries. He had not been at all sure he would recover, and he had not wanted them to worry. He supposed, now that the worst of it was past, he should let them know he received their letter in good health.

He retrieved a writing quill and clean sheaf of parchment, then opened the inkpot and dipped the feather pen into the well. He began his letter with words of congratulations to Isabel for the birth of his new nephew, and a jest to Griffin about the zeal with which he seemed to employ in carrying on the family name. He asked after his elderly mother, Lady Joanna, then began to tell about his recent days in Ascalon: the wondrous places he had been, the sights he had seen, like the sandstorm that blew in from the desert valley and turned the sky blood-red a few weeks before.

He wrote about trivial things, avoiding the mention of royal assassins and the many other dangers that lurked in this strange, savage land. He was thinking on the page, letting his mind simply wander where it would, when suddenly he stopped and stared in frank surprise. He glanced down to where his pen rested, poised at the end of a sentence he had not at all planned to write:

I have met the most intriguing woman . . .

He stared at those confounding words for a long moment, then he swore an oath and irritably tore the letter in two.