Black Lion’s Bride (Warrior Trilogy #2)

Chapter 19

“It appears we have arrived too late to assist,” said the English king, a note of disappointment in his voice. He glanced to Sebastian, who straightened to his full height beside Zahirah, his spine erect, wide shoulders held back with pride before his king. “You guarded my supplies well, Montborne. I commend you on your service. As ever, you do not disappoint.”

Sebastian returned Lionheart's smile. “I am honored to serve, Sire.”

“Assassins, were they?”

“Yes, Sire. They were agents of the Old Man.”

The king clucked his tongue. “Vermin cowards,” he growled. “Which of them do you suspect was the one who attacked me in the camp some weeks past?”

“Their leader is over there,” Sebastian answered, gesturing toward Halim's lifeless body. “He also killed Abdul a few days ago.”

The king grunted, flattening his mouth. “And this?” he asked, looking once more to Zahirah. “Have we taken a pretty little hostage from our infidel raiders?”

“No, my lord,” Sebastian answered, moving closer to bring her within the shelter of his arm. “This is the lady, Zahirah. 'Twas because of her that we were prepared for this raid.” He pitched his voice a bit lower as he turned his head down to meet her gaze. “She risked much to bring me the warning. I am grateful and indebted.”

Lionheart's tawny brows rose slightly. “Indeed? Well, then, Montborne, I should like to hear more about this. Perhaps the lady will indulge me in the tale upon our arrival at Darum.”

Zahirah inclined her head at the king's comment, uncomfortable with the way his eyes roved so freely over her person as he spoke. In a flash of memory, she recalled Abdul's warning soon after she first arrived at the palace in Ascalon . . .

The king likes pretty things, and he takes what he likes.

“Perhaps, my lord,” Sebastian answered when she knew not what to say. His tone was casual, but the muscles in his arm went a little tighter around her shoulder, subtly letting her know that, should she need him, he was there to protect her.

The king's gaze lingered a moment longer, then flicked past Zahirah to the caravan of supplies. “Did we lose much in the skirmish?”

“Three of my men are dead, as is the caravan foreman,” Sebastian replied. He waited as the king dismounted, then left Zahirah to walk with his liege around the carts to inspect the condition of the caravan. “We lost some of the grain to spillage and scorching, but the bulk of the shipment is intact.”

“Excellent.” Lionheart gestured two of his soldiers forward with a curl of his gauntlet-covered hand. “Wixley, Fallonmour—assist Montborne's men in transferring the spilled supplies to the carts. And remove these dead beasts from the road. I want to be loaded and en route to Darum within the hour.”

“My lords!” shouted one of the crusaders. He pointed toward the thicket of brush off to the distant left, where one of Halim's surviving soldiers was attempting to flee.

The king seemed wholly unfazed. He pivoted his head toward a huge knight clad in black chain mail, and gave a curt nod. Like a hound of hell suddenly unleashed, the warrior broke from Lionheart's ranks astride an ebony destrier. He gave the beast his spurs and sped across the plain, easily flushing the straggling fida'i out of hiding before cutting him down with a mighty sweep of his sword.

Zahirah looked on in horror as another assassin soldier pulled himself to his feet and tried to run for cover. Limping from his injuries, he did not get far. The king's demon warrior wheeled his mount on it hocks and gave chase with a roar. He bore down upon the fida'i within mere moments, cleanly beheading him in mid-stride.

“Don't watch, lass,” whispered the voice of Sebastian's lieutenant from where he now stood beside her. He caught her chin and turned her face away from the carnage. “Blackheart takes no prisoners, and no one possessing a soul should be made to witness him in action.”

But there was little need to see in order to understand what was taking place in the field. The moans and prayers of Zahirah's wounded clansmen were silenced one by one as the devil knight and two companions swept the outlying plain and road, efficiently executing every last man.

Less than an hour later, the caravan was reassembled and once again on the road for Darum, led this time by the formidable duo of Sebastian and the English king. Zahirah rode along near the rear of the group with Logan, who gently schooled her gaze back to the fore when she pivoted in her saddle, compelled to take one last glimpse of the smoking plain and bleak, body-strewn field she was leaving behind.

“The future lies this way, lass,” he said, indicating the horizon with a sweep of his hand. “There's no sense in looking back.”

Zahirah nodded, but her smile felt weak on her trembling lips. Despite her bravado with Halim, she could not deny the truth in his accusation. She had indeed betrayed her clan today. A betrayal that had cost many lives. And when she looked ahead of her, feeling her heart clench to gaze upon the proud carriage and handsome features of Sebastian of Montborne, she feared a future that would soon force her to betray her clan again . . . or commit the greater sin of betraying her own heart.

~ ~ ~

They reached the English king's army near Darum some five hours later. It was twilight in the dune-set encampment, the sun having dipped behind the score of Christian tents assembled on the plain, making way for night to rise in deepening shades of azure and ruby-gold. Around the camp, soldiers busied themselves with various tasks. Some scoured weapons; some tended cook fires; still others cared for the injured, those men wounded in previous battles or made sick from lack of water and the stinging bites of the desert's vicious black flies.

Every man able rose to his feet and cheered when King Richard arrived, Lionheart proudly heading up the caravan of supplies as if the victory over the ambushers had been his personal triumph, more than it belonged to Sebastian and his few troops. Zahirah glanced to Sebastian to gauge his reaction to the king's assumption of credit, but his face showed no trace of resentment. He was not the sort to crave recognition or praise, she realized, watching as Sebastian coolly accepted the greetings and good-natured jests of some of the other soldiers who came forward to welcome him to the camp. Indeed, in that moment, Sebastian seemed more kingly than the king, the black-haired captain's tall stature and easy, noble demeanor setting him apart from the ranks of the common men who swarmed around the caravan.

Zahirah's pulse gave a little jump of pride as she surreptitiously watched him reunite with soldiers and friends he had likely fought beside in the months before his injury had grounded him at Ascalon. As if he sensed her warm regard, he glanced back and caught her looking at him. His gaze met hers and lingered, intense despite the buzz of activity around him.

There was desire in his eyes, and an unspoken invitation in his smile that sent a tingle of awareness through her. Zahirah bit her lip to keep from beaming back at him, mindful of the curious stares she was now receiving from several of the Frankish knights.

“A feast this evening!” shouted the king, his baritone voice immediately turning all heads toward him as he dismounted from his prancing, huffing steed. He waved some of the men forward to begin unloading the goods from the camels and carts. “We've foodstuffs and wine, and great cause to celebrate. Today's victory was but a taste of the glory soon to be ours when we march on Jerusalem!”

“God wills it!” came the collective reply from the soldiers. Bedraggled and weary, the crusaders roused to their king's call of war, applauding and chanting, “Help, help, for the Holy Sepulcher! Death to the infidels!”

Zahirah felt as uncomfortable as her suddenly skittish mare amid the throng of rallying Franks. She tried to calm the beast, but in the end it was Sebastian who gentled the sleek black horse. He did not join his countrymen in their fervent song and shouts of war. Instead, he swung down off his destrier and walked to Zahirah's side, calming her mare with low, soothing words as he stroked its sweat-sheened neck. Then he turned to Zahirah and offered her a hand in dismounting. “The king has arranged a tent for me here in the camp,” he said. “I warrant you'll be more comfortable there, my lady.”

She nodded, grateful for the opportunity to remove herself from the boisterous crowd of knights. Sebastian assisted her to the ground, then led her into the heart of the encampment. Along the way, they came upon a red-striped tent, set off on its own near the pen containing the army's horses. From within the tent came the sound of women talking and laughing in Arabic, the chorus of feminine chatter punctuated now and then by the hollow thump of a drum or the soft jingle of bells and tambourine. Dancing girls, she realized as she and Sebastian approached the pavilion and Zahirah ventured a glance inside.

The front of the tent was rolled high to permit fresh air and easy entry, the open portal shaded by an awning that was held up by tall, twin poles and flanked by burning torch lights. Inside, incense and opium burned, the curling tendrils of smoke wreathing the heads of five young Saracen women who lounged like odalisques in a harem. The dancers sprawled on cushions and carpets in various states of undress, their comely faces unveiled, dark hair unbound, modesty clearly unabashed, garbed as they were in filmy silk pantalets and skin-exposing bodices that left little to the imagination.

They giggled over something one of them said, but their prattle ceased the instant their eyes lit on Sebastian. The one holding the tambourine rose up from her reclined position and sauntered forward with a fluid grace, the bangles on her wrists and ankles ringing with tinny music as she moved. She posed herself artfully near the mouth of the tent and gave Sebastian an inviting smile, revealing a bright gold tooth that glimmered in the wavering flames of the torches.

“Well come, my most hand some lord,” she said in the crusaders' tongue, her speech heavily accented and halting, but the gleam in her eye requiring no interpretation. She wrapped one hennaed hand around the tent pole and slid her fingers suggestively up and down the length of it. “You like, Fahimah play for you.”

Sebastian's head turned, though he all but ignored the comely young woman's offer, his long-legged strides slowing not the least as he passed her and her whispering companions. Taking Zahirah's hand in his, he turned down a boot-worn track that led toward the row of colorless silk tents belonging to the king and his officers. A yellow-haired Frankish youth met them halfway. A mere boy, Zahirah corrected as the lad jogged forth to greet them, his ruddy pink cheeks seeming scarcely old enough to grow the sparse beard that fuzzed them like the skin of a peach.

“My lord Montborne,” he said, bobbing his head before Sebastian. “This way, if you please. I will show you to your quarters.”

The lad brought them to the designated tent, then pulled back the flap to permit them entry. The shaded space was empty of its prior occupant and sparsely furnished with bedroll, table, and a single wooden stool. A half dozen overlaying carpets covered the earthen floor of the pavilion, their Arabic weaves of russet, gold, and green glowing warmly in the scant light of an oil lamp that burned at the edge of the squat, scarred table .

“Will it serve, my lord?”

“Aye. It will more than serve,” Sebastian replied from beside Zahirah, turning to look back at the boy where he stood behind them, awaiting the captain's approval. “Who has my arrival displaced, lad?”

“This tent was Sir Cabal's, my lord.”

Sebastian grunted, quirking a dark brow. “Blackheart's? Well, perhaps the king was less pleased with my service today than he is letting on.”

Smiling at the jest, the boy gave a quick shake of his head. “Sir Cabal is on guard watch tonight, my lord. In truth, I rather think he prefers sleeping out of doors than in the confines of a tent.”

“Don't assume that one sleeps at all,” Sebastian quipped, winking when the lad's eyes widened in alarm. “What is your name, squire?”

The boy drew himself a little taller, puffing out his slender chest. “Joscelin d'Alban, my lord.”

Sebastian offered him his hand. “We are well met, Joscelin d'Alban. This is Lady Zahirah. Will you see to her needs while I am meeting with the king?”

“Of course, my lord.” He bowed his head to Zahirah. “My lady.”

Zahirah smiled at the Frankish youth, impressed by his courtesy. She saw no trace of falsehood in his greeting, no sign of hatred for the woman who was as much an outsider in this camp as the Christians were in Outremer. She turned away to look at her surroundings as Sebastian gave Joscelin orders for bathing water and refreshments, half listening as the lad departed the tent to carry out his tasks. A moment later, Sebastian's hands came to rest gently on her arms.

“Will you be all right by yourself for a while?”

Zahirah nodded, coming around to face him. “Yes. I will be fine.”

His mouth curved at the corner, not quite a smile. His dark brows were pinched together over gray-green eyes that reflected an unspoken concern. “I might have lost you out there today. ”

“And I you,” she said, “but we're here.” She placed her palm against his beard-grizzled cheek. “By Allah's grace, we are both here.”

He turned his mouth into her hand, kissing the tender skin of her palm. Reaching up, he took her fingers between his and held her hand to his chest. Although his touch was gentle, her wrist was yet too raw from where Halim had earlier crushed it into the stones of the road with his boot heel. Zahirah winced, drew in her breath. She tried to slip her hand from Sebastian's grasp but he caught her fingers and looked down to see the abrasions that crisscrossed her skin.

“Halim did this?” he asked, anger flaring in his gaze. At her shrug of admittance, he exhaled a low curse. “He'll never hurt you again. So long as I have breath in my body, none of his kind will ever hurt you again.”

How fraudulent she felt, hearing those words, seeing the concern reflected in Sebastian's eyes. Zahirah's smile wobbled as he brought her into his embrace and held her there, his heart beating steadily against her cheek, his arms warm and strong around her shoulders. Allah forgive her, but she clung to him, too, letting herself believe for one precious moment that she deserved his affection, that she might always know the peace she found within the shelter of his arms.

“How I wish we could stop time right here, and stay like this,” she whispered, startled to hear the reckless words slip from her tongue.

Sebastian stilled where he was stroking her hair. He brought his hand beneath her chin and lifted her gaze to his. Bending toward her, he brushed his mouth against hers in a kiss that was too sweet, and far too fleeting. He drew back just as the young squire returned with the requested water and food.

“Set them over there, lad,” he said, his eyes on Zahirah as he directed Joscelin to the table with a gesture of his hand.

Perhaps sensing the ill timing of his intrusion, the boy put down the tray as requested then made a hasty exit from the tent .

“The king is waiting,” Sebastian said when the lad was gone. “I don't know how long I will be in conference with him, but if you need anything, summon Joscelin. I'll see that he maintains a post nearby until I return.”

Zahirah gave a bob of her head, missing him already. “I shall be waiting for you, my lord.”

Sebastian gave her cheek a brief caress, then turned and crossed the space of the tent to take his leave. He swept aside the flap, then hesitated, pivoting to look at her. “Join me at the feast tonight, Zahirah.”

“Join you?” She shook her head. She knew how unwelcome women were where Arab men gathered; she could only guess at the reception she would receive amid a tent full of drunken warrior Franks and their king. Surely Sebastian knew this, too, but his expression showed no hint of doubt or reservation at all. Perhaps, rather, a calm defiance. “Do you really think that would be wise, my lord? No one there will want to see me at their table. After all, I am a woman, and the enemy.”

Sebastian's gaze was steady, intense. “You are my lady,” he answered simply. “Join me, and you will make me the envy of every man in the room.”

Although she was not quite fool enough to believe that, Zahirah blushed at his flattery, warmed beyond reckoning that he would want her beside him at the feast. “For a man who professes to recall little of courtly manners, you seem well in command of them now, my lord.”

His answering smile sent her heart into a crazy flutter. “Is that a yes, my lady?”

“I'm not sure I could refuse you anything when you are looking at me like that.”

He grunted, lifting a brow in devilish interest. “A confession that will haunt me every moment I am kept away from you,” he growled. “Rest and refresh yourself. I'll send for you when the feast commences.”

She nodded, giddy as a lovesick girl, and watched him duck under the tent flap to take his leave. With a gladness that left her smiling some long time after Sebastian had gone, Zahirah made grateful use of the wash basin the young squire had brought her. She rinsed away the morning's grit and grime, the dirt and blood and ash of Halim's ambush clouding the bowl of bathwater.

It struck her, staring into the swirling filth of the basin, that with the cleansing of her skin—with Halim's death that morning—she was, for the moment, freed of the burden of her mission. No one here knew or suspected what she was about, least of all Sebastian. To him, as he had said, she was simply his lady. His lover, not his enemy.

What a dangerous, delicious feeling that was, to be unencumbered by the weight of her destiny, unshackled from her commitment to her father and her clan. How easy it would be to pretend that deadly promise never existed, that the ruse she played to infiltrate Sebastian's camp could in fact be molded into some sort of truth . . . .

Her heart raced so with the notion, Zahirah had to seek the chair to sit and catch her breath. What she was thinking went beyond blasphemy. To turn her back on her mission would condemn her to eternal damnation. Worse, it would doom her homeland to the continued destructive presence of King Richard and his infidel forces. And for what? To fulfill the romantic longings of her silly woman's heart?

“Yes,” she whispered aloud, miserable, pressing her hand to her mouth as if to staunch any further corruption before it could spill from her lips.

Allah, forgive her, but if she thought Sebastian would have her, she feared that she would indeed be willing to risk it all.