Black Lion’s Bride (Warrior Trilogy #2)

Chapter 13

Ascalon moved in a stupor for the remainder of the day. Merchants gathered up their wares and departed without a thought toward profit; villagers cleared the streets and public places, taking to their homes and barring their doors as if to leave death standing on the other side. By dusk, there were but a handful of souls who dared to walk as darkness fell over the city, Sebastian and Logan among them.

They had spent the better part of the day stalking the city, questioning those few who would speak to them about the crime that took place at the mosque. There had been precious little information to be had, for despite the hundreds who had flocked to the Sabbath service, less than a dozen admitted to having been in the vicinity when Abdul was killed.

Their accounts varied widely about what they had seen, but in the end the reports had each come down to one common, disturbing fact: Moments before the murder, Zahirah had been seen speaking—arguing, more than one observer had contended—with a Muslim man just outside the prayer hall. A man who was not Abdul.

“Who do you reckon he was?” Logan asked as the last of the witnesses was dismissed and he and Sebastian walked alone in the darkening street. “Did the lady say she had plans to meet someone at the mosque?”

“No. Only that she wanted to attend the Sabbath prayer service. She was quite insistent that I allow her to go.” The gaze Logan turned on him was dubious, even in the gathering twilight. “In any event,” Sebastian continued, “none of this explains how she came to be alone with whoever this man was. I gave Abdul orders to stay with her at all times; he would not have failed me in that.”

“Mayhap she escaped him somehow,” Logan suggested. “The lass appears to be clever enough. She might have been able to slip away from Abdul's watch.”

“Aye, but for what purpose? She claims to know no one in Ascalon. Who would she meet, particularly in secret?”

Logan shrugged. “The witnesses' descriptions could fit any one of a hundred men in Ascalon, her brother among them. Although after what he did to her a few days ago, I don't expect the lass would be too eager to put herself in his company.”

Sebastian took a drink of wine from the flask tied to his belt. He considered the suggestion, loath to think that Zahirah might have been desperate enough to meet with her violent sibling. But perhaps she had gone to him. She might have gone to beg his mercy, or to seek to convince him to take her away from the palace shelter she had likened to a prison. If she wanted to leave, he could not blame her, really. After the way he had pawed at her in the bathhouse, she might have been willing to risk just about anything to distance herself from him.

“Could she tell you nothing at all, my friend?”

Sebastian shook his head. “When I found her at the mosque, just after the murder, she said it was her fault, that she was to blame for Abdul's death. She said he had tried to protect her.”

“Protect her? If not from her brother, then whom?” Logan drawled. He was quiet for a moment as they walked. “There is, I reckon, the possibility of a lover.”

Sebastian swung his head to glare at the Scot. Zahirah with a lover? It was a surprisingly distasteful prospect, but now that Logan had said it, he wondered. Was that the reason she rebuffed him at every turn? He had taken it for granted that she was an innocent. God's bones, could he be so blind? He wanted to reject the idea outright, but he could ill afford to ignore what seemed like a logical explanation.

“It wouldna be the first time one man killed another purely out of want of a woman.”

“There was no passion in this killing,” Sebastian countered, recalling the efficiency of the blow that ended Abdul's life. “The cut to his heart was cold and unerring. It had been wielded by an expert hand.”

“The assassin?” Logan asked with a sidelong glance. “Do you reckon it was our fida'i who killed Abdul?”

Sebastian lifted a brow, his thoughts darkening the more he considered the very likely probability. “Only one person can answer that question,” he said as they neared the guarded, torchlit gates of the palace. “And answer it she will.”

~ ~ ~

Someone was calling her name.

Zahirah tossed in her bed, drifting near the edge of sleep and wakefulness, her mind snagged on a web-like dream that wound itself around her, pulling her deeper into the black chasm of slumber. She knew where that lightless path would lead her. She did not want to follow it, did not want to let it drag her under, but she was too weak to fight the dreaming this night.

She heard her name again, more plaintive now that she had succumbed to its beckon. A hand reached out to her through the mist of the dream, pale as ivory, slender fingers stretching and clutching, straining, catching naught but empty air. The mist swirled higher, burning her eyes and throat. Sand, she realized, tasting the grit of it in her teeth.

Sand and wind.

And screams.

Some human. Some beast. Some so hideous, they seemed to belong to nothing of this world.

Her name had since become a wail, sorrowful and broken, so full of despair. So full of fear.

For her? she wondered through the blur of reality and nightmare. Was she in danger? She felt the stark jolt of terror as the dream seized her, felt her heart rending asunder in her breast. She heard herself shriek in fright. Then she was crying.

Crying for them.

Faceless, nameless people whose anguish she felt as if it were her own. As if she were a part of them somehow. Linked to them by invisible tethers. She reached for the hand that stretched toward her own, but before their fingers could connect, she was viciously wrenched away. She could hardly breathe for the band of iron wrapped around her waist, could hardly see for the tears that flooded and filled her vision.

But she could hear. God help her, even as the ground began to move beneath her, loud as thunder and fast as the wind itself, she could hear the grief left in her wake. She could hear the pain and violence.

She could hear the sound of a child's voice, small and helpless, whimpering into the vast emptiness of a world suddenly gone strange and savage and dark.

“Maman . . .” she heard the child cry. “Mamaaaan!”

~ ~ ~

Sebastian stalked down the corridor his chamber shared with Zahirah's, the wake of his brisk strides upsetting the flames of oil lamps that burned since dusk to light the way. If Zahirah had a lover—if she had any information about Abdul's murder or the assassin he hunted—he would have the truth of it, and he would have it now.

His head was pounding as he came upon Zahirah's door and found it closed. No light spilled out from under it. She was, evidently, asleep, though hardly peaceful, if the fretful sounds coming from the other side of the carved panel were any indication. Sebastian's scowl muted into a frown. He heard her cry out, an unintelligible, tortured sound, and instead of throwing open the door as his lingering anger compelled him to do, he hesitated.

His fist hovered between his chest and the door. He should knock at least, let her know that he was there. But she was mindless in her sleep, and when she cried out again, Sebastian put his hand on the latch and carefully entered .

“My lady?” he called into the darkness, to which there came no reply, only the restless tossing of Zahirah in her bed.

He stepped inside the chamber, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. Something crunched beneath his boot. Glass, he realized, and earthenware. Shards of both littered the floor. God's bones, what had happened in here? At the far side of the room, the wash basin was missing from its pedestal, and where a mirror of polished glass had once hung above it, there was nothing now, save an empty iron frame, tilted sideways on a scarred patch of wall.

And on the bed, caught in a tangle of clothing and coverlets, was Zahirah.

Sebastian walked toward her, wondering at what nightmare she suffered, for it was clear she did suffer, deeply. She thrashed and moaned, clawing at the bolster, clinging to it as if she feared she would be torn away from it somehow. She murmured something, a single word, too faint for him to make out. A name, perhaps, but he could not be certain.

He stepped closer to the bed, close enough to see that her cheeks were wet with fresh tears. Her dark hair was unbound and wild about her shoulders, wrapped around her arms, plastered to her brow. She looked miserable, and so very small. A child, alone and vulnerable, filled with fear.

Warily, watchfully, Sebastian seated himself on the edge of the mattress. He tried to hold fast to the anger he had carried with him into the room, but felt it begin to slip from his grasp to see Zahirah in such distress. He reached out and smoothed her forehead with a brush of his hand, sweeping aside the damp tendrils of her hair. She was breathing hard, nearly panting, mindless in the throes of whatever haunted her sleep.

“No,” she moaned, restlessly fighting the sheets and coverlet. “No . . . please . . . nooo . . .”

Sebastian placed his hand on her shoulder, not sure he should disturb her, but unable to stand by and watch her suffer. “Zahirah,” he said, not quite gently. “Zahirah, wake up now. It's all right. ”

At the sound of his voice, she turned her head toward him. She opened her eyes, staring wildly and unfocused, doubtless seeing nothing but the terror of her dream. “So scared,” she gasped. She reached for him, clutching his tunic in a tight fist as if it were all that kept her from slipping back into the darkness of her nightmare. “Awful . . . so awful!”

“A bad dream, that's all.”

“I didn't want to go,” she hiccoughed, shuddering against him. “Didn't want to leave them, but there was nothing I could do!”

He stiffened and tried to loosen her hold on him, but she only burrowed deeper, wrapping her arms around his waist and crushing her cheek to his chest like a child in need of protection. Awkwardly, Sebastian stroked the length of her arm, hoping to calm her hysterics, but her trembling and sobbing would not cease. She was too far gone into her fear, too ensnared in whatever it was that haunted her sleep. He reached down and unfastened the wine flask from his baldric, flipping open the stopper with his thumb.

He brought Zahirah's head and shoulders into the crook of his arm and placed the flask to her quivering lips. “Drink,” he told her. “It will ease you.”

She obeyed, opening her mouth and sipping from the decanter. She coughed at first, but took more as it was offered. Sebastian fed her the wine until she calmed, her breathing returning to a normal, if heavy, rhythm, her tears ceasing to spill from beneath her closed eyelids. She gave a deep sigh and relaxed in his arms, finally peaceful.

God help him, but Sebastian did not want to feel sympathy for her. Not now. Not when he was still angry with her for the secrets she obviously kept from him. Not when she might be responsible, at least in part, for Abdul's death.

Nevertheless, he found himself caressing her unbound hair, gently smoothing the back of his knuckles over her damp brow. “Rest now, Zahirah. It was just a bad dream. There's nothing to be afraid of.”

Despite his deep misgivings, looking at Zahirah now, so fragile and wounded, Sebastian felt a sudden surge of possessiveness. He wanted to protect her. Despite his lingering anger, and his many nagging suspicions, he wanted to keep Zahirah safe. And despite his mistrust for the woman who had pushed him away just hours before and now lay curled up sweetly in his lap, Sebastian could not deny that he still wanted her.

“Hold me,” she whispered, drowsily turning in his embrace. Her slender back was nestled against his abdomen, her words muffled by the bolster beneath her cheek. “Please . . . I'm scared. I need you to hold me.”

Reluctantly, knowing himself for a fool, Sebastian stretched out behind her on the bed and brought his arms around her. Zahirah snuggled into him, each curve of her body finding a perfect cradle in his. She was warm and soft in his embrace, her breasts resting firm and enticing against his forearm, her long slender legs seeking out his and twining with them beneath the coverlet.

Each shift in movement, each breath she took, was a sweet torture that brought her into direct contact with the unbidden need coming to life in his groin. He tried to shut out that need, tried to ignore the keen awareness of her body pressed so innocently against his, but he heard his desire betray itself in the gruff timbre of his voice.

“You're safe, Zahirah. Nothing can hurt you now.”

“Do you promise?” she asked softly.

He gathered her close, pressing a kiss to her chemise-clad shoulder. “Yes,” he answered, “I promise.”

She made a sound in the back of her throat, a quiet purr of contentment that Sebastian felt as sure as a physical caress. He could not ignore the way she fit so perfectly to his body, could hardly think for the sweet, subtle pressure of her buttocks at his groin. His arousal stirred unbidden, searching out the source of her pleasing heat.

He groaned, and moved slightly in an effort to put space between them, but Zahirah followed, edging closer and rubbing unwittingly against him as she settled further into his embrace. His sex swelled and throbbed at the prolonged contact, urging his hips into motion. Zahirah sighed sleepily as he rocked against her, slowly, gently, trying to hold his hunger in check.

He whispered her name but she did not answer. Did she sleep? he wondered, marveling at how her body responded so naturally to his, moving with him in the dark, her soft sighs and tender moans seeming to come from a place of deepest pleasure and peace. He wanted to give her both tonight. He wanted to chase away the horrors that had left her crying and terrified moments before.

In truth, he wanted more than that. Much more.

His body was taut with need, coiling tighter with every heartbeat that thudded hard and heavy in his chest. Zahirah's heart was beating in time with his own. He could feel its steady pound at his wrist, which he realized now was wedged between the fullness of her breasts. Softly, he caressed the underside of one perfect mound, teasing the nipple to erectness through the fabric of her chemise. Zahirah drew in her breath, languorously shifting so that he now cupped her wholly in his palm.

Sebastian reveled in her sleepy, sweet surrender. He swept aside her unbound hair and placed a kiss below her ear, breathing in the warm essence of her skin. She arched into him and let out a feathery sigh. A shudder rocked him as her bottom pressed against his stiff erection, her breasts thrusting upward, filling his hand. He kneaded both in turn, then let his hand roam down the slimness of her torso, his fingers feeling heavy and awkward as he skimmed the front of her night gown and splayed his palm over the pleasing rise of her hip.

He circled his arm around her waist and held her firmly against him, his sex nestled between the roundness of her buttocks as he rocked with her, kissing the tender column of her neck. She moaned when he reached down between her legs and began to stroke her mound. Her thighs clamped together around his hand and she startled somewhat, stiffening in his arms .

“It's all right,” he soothed her, whispering into her ear as he gently guided her legs apart with his fingers.

There was no resistance in her now, only a quiet welcome, a trusting acceptance that nearly proved his undoing. She moved so sweetly against his palm, sighing like an angel as he kissed and caressed her, and Sebastian thought he would go mad with desire. He squeezed his hand over her mons, her sensual heat searing his palm and rending him as hard as pure Damascus steel.

Faith, how he wanted her. He wanted to feel her writhe and buck beneath him in ecstasy, wanted to sheathe himself in her body and drive into her until the lust he carried for her was sated at last. That part of him that was all beast, hungry and savage, urged him to raise her skirts and take her, awake or nay, for it was clear her body was ready for his.

God's blood, but if she had another lover—even had she lain with one of the heinous fida'i —he did not care. Tonight he would see that she forgot him. Forgot everything but his hands on her body, flesh against flesh, his mouth on hers.

He wanted to have her without further preamble, so fierce was his desire, but more than that, he wanted her pleasure to be complete. His growl was pure triumph as she began to grind against his hand, meeting the increased tempo of his caress and giving a thick little mewl as her climax edged nearer.

“It feels good?” he asked, nipping her earlobe, his query rasping in the dark.

“Yes,” she sighed. “Oh, yes . . . so good.”

He smiled against her shoulder. “Do you want more, my lady?”

“Yes.”

He reached down and found the hem of her chemise, then rucked it up, sliding his hand underneath to touch the satiny skin of her bare legs. He traced his fingers along the shapely length of her calf, past the curve of her knee, and up her slender thigh to the soft patch of her woman's down. The silky curls were moist with her essence, her tender folds slick and distended, pulsing and heated with arousal.

His finger slid between the petals and it was all he could do to bite back the groan of pure need that shot through him at the feel of her sweet wetness engulfing him. He stroked her gently, laving her with the dew of her body and teasing the pearl of her womanhood until it balled, tight and quivering, at his touch. Learning the rhythm of her body, he brought her just to the very crest of release then back again, heightening her arousal and mercilessly denying her climax until he knew she could bear wanting it no longer.

“More?” he asked when she whimpered in frustration, her body arching and squirming against him. “Shall I give you more, Zahirah?”

She seemed too lost to reply, but her moan of pleasure was answer enough. Sebastian let his fingers slide deeper into the cleft of her body, spreading her to his touch, opening her for his caress. She held him to her with her thighs, tilting her hips forward with a hunger that seemed to match his own. Sebastian squeezed her mound, then slid his fingertip inside of her. The sheer tightness of her sheath came as a shock. He did not move, dared not push too hard, realizing somewhat dully the truth of what he was feeling.

Zahirah was untouched—a virgin.

Given the fevered raging of his loins, he should have felt no end of regret for that fact. Instead, all he could muster was a certain sense of relief, a keen satisfaction that there had been no other man in Zahirah's bed. She was pure, an innocent after all. The knowledge only made her surrender to him now all the more sweet, her bliss all the more precious. Filled with a new sense of wonder for the angel in his arms, Sebastian ignored the demands of his own body and guided her gently, expertly, to her release.

She cried out as it seized her, the spasm of pleasure racking her limbs and leaving her trembling, gasping. Sebastian held her as she came undone in his arms, feeling a bolt of sheer male possessiveness as she shuddered and quaked against the cradle of his palm in a shattering climax. He kissed her neck, whispering tender endearments beside her ear as she slowly calmed, her heartbeat thudding to an easier pace, her breath slowing, deepening in satiation.

She let out a languid sigh, stretching cat-like as she snuggled deeper into his embrace. He was yet too hard, too wanting, to lie there with her any longer. His want for her was too strong, and he did not trust himself to stay and not entertain thoughts of a further seduction. Though his libido cursed him roundly, Sebastian edged his way out of Zahirah's comfortable nest.

She was drowsy and spent, but she must have felt him move, for she yawned and rolled to face him, her eyelids slowly drooping closed. “Mmm, no . . . stay . . . “

“I cannot.”

“Don't want you to leave,” she murmured, clearly spent, not quite wakeful, but not yet asleep. “Please . . .”

He caressed her cheek and bent to place a kiss on her damp brow. “I must, my lady. I have already stayed too long.”

He started to move away from the bed, but Zahirah's voice, impossibly quiet, halted him in the next moment. “Don't want you to go . . . don't want to hear the screaming again . . . can't bear to hear it anymore.”

Sebastian frowned down at the shape of her body, now curled up beneath the covers like a child. “Screaming?” he asked softly, knowing she spoke from within the mindlessness of sleep. “Who was screaming, Zahirah?”

“The strangers,” she whispered, turning her face into the bolster as she began to drift into slumber. “Screaming . . . and crying . . . for her.”

He leaned forward, confusion knitting his brow. “Crying for who?”

“For Gillianne.” Zahirah's voice was little more than a sigh as sleep grabbed hold to claim her fully. “They cry for Gillianne.”

Sebastian stared down at her in silent contemplation, watching as she slipped into a heavier, peaceful rest. He, however, knew nothing close to peace. Nor did he expect he would, until Zahirah and her many mysteries were solved.