Black Lion’s Bride (Warrior Trilogy #2)

Chapter 20

“To victory over the infidels!”

King Richard's voice boomed, lion-like, over the din of celebration and feasting. Seated at a long wooden table that dominated an entire side of his enormous meeting tent, he raised his goblet of wine high in the air, encouraging assenting shouts and thunderous applause from the knights gathered. To the right of the king at the high table, Sebastian lifted his cup as well, murmuring the credo that had become second nature to the crusaders.

“ Deus le volt! God wills it,” he said, his voice disappearing into the chorus of the other men, his gaze fixed not on the magnificence of his liege, but on the entryway of the lantern-lit pavilion.

There, a succession of pages and servants scurried in like ants on the march to their hill, their arms laden with trays of food and flagons of spiced Saracen wine. Sebastian looked past their numbers, searching for Zahirah's face and brooding with a scowl when he did not find her. Joscelin had been dispatched to get her and returned twice already, each time bearing a look that said Zahirah would not be coming to the feast after all. Wondering at her seeming change of heart, Sebastian began to calculate an excuse to leave the festivities and go see about her.

“You've been watching that spot for an hour, Montborne,” remarked the king, eyeing him sagely over the rim of his jeweled goblet. “I’ve never known you to be so plainly distracted.”

Sebastian tried to shrug off the observation with a chuckle. “I was just wondering if I should send a squire to fetch my sword that I might actually cut through this meat sometime tonight.”

Lionheart laughed, stabbing a chunk of the tough, gamey brown stuff on the end of his poniard. “What, you don't care for roast camel?” He bit off the large mouthful and spoke while he chewed. “Apparently you have had things too good in Ascalon. Don't tell me your time recuperating has spoiled you for life on the march?”

“Not at all, my lord,” Sebastian answered, turning now to meet the king's stare. “I am mended well enough and ready to march on your orders. Indeed, I welcome the return to action.”

“Good,” Richard proclaimed, cuffing him on the shoulder. “I will need you when we join up with our allies in Beit Nuba and head for Jerusalem.”

“Do you expect that will be soon, my lord?” Sebastian asked, well aware of the criticism the king had received for his continued delays in marching on the Holy City. The general feeling among the Christian leaders was that if they did not move to seize Jerusalem soon, their cause would be all but lost.

“I came here to free the Sepulcher from infidel hands,” Richard answered soberly, as if recalling for himself the censure that had followed him on every minor campaign that seemed to take him farther away from that goal. “I will reclaim Jerusalem for the Cross, or,” he said, pausing in thought, “if it be God's will, I shall die trying.”

It was not until that moment Sebastian noticed how drawn the king's face was beneath his trim, tawny beard. His cheeks were sallow, his eyes piercing but haunted, their blue hue somehow bleaker than Sebastian recalled. All of the men were thinner than they had been upon leaving Ascalon some weeks ago, but the king wore a sickly shadow under his eyes, and his mouth, which was always ready with a boast or a leonine roar, was bracketed now with deep lines that bespoke of a sickness or a pain he might have sought to conceal. He had never appeared more human, nor more frail, and, looking at him, Sebastian knew a jolt of doubt for the likely success of their remaining days in Outremer.

“I am yours to command, Sire,” he told the ghost of his king. “My sword is, now, as always, at your service.”

Richard eyed him for a long moment, then gave a curt nod, as if he expected no less. Then he blinked, and the apparition of his weaker self vanished, replaced with the bold facade better recognized by all who knew him as the great and mighty Lionheart. Rising from his chair, he opened his arms with a flourish of grand royal showmanship.

“Bring on the entertainment!” he shouted, clapping his hands and sending a couple of idle pages scattering out of the tent to oblige.

Sebastian nursed his cup of wine, deep in thought and scarcely paying attention as the troupe of Saracen dancing girls were ushered into the pavilion. They set up quickly, one seating herself cross-legged on a carpet near the center of the tent and propping a goatskin drum between her legs; another joined her on the floor, blowing a musical trill from the long reed instrument she carried. The remaining three women jogged barefooted into position, leaping up onto tables, their scant, nearly transparent attire and flirtatious looks rousing the lusty, drunken knights into a frenzy of whistles and stomping feet before the dance had even begun.

The one who had propositioned Sebastian earlier that day—he had forgotten her name, but he remembered the gold tooth when she smiled at him now—headed directly for the high table, beating her tambourine and shaking her bosom as she sauntered forward with sleek, graceful strides.

“Fahimah smells fresh blood,” drawled the king, grinning as he leaned toward Sebastian. “Keep your head around this one. The bitch bites when she's in heat.”

Sebastian gave a reflex chuckle, but he was not the least bit interested in Fahimah or her companions. He downed the rest of his wine as the music started, the deep, staccato beat of the drum and the accompanying stomp of the dancers' bell-adorned feet on the tables filling the tent with a heady, primal rhythm. Before he could give the king his excuses to leave, Fahimah swung herself up onto the high table before him, leering suggestively as she pivoted on her rump and spread herself in front of Lionheart and his officers like a pagan altar offering. The king ran his hand over her smooth brown belly, then bent down and kissed her, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth.

Mildly appalled at the orgiastic display, Sebastian turned his head away and rose from his seat at the table. The other two dancers were indulging in similar lewdness, shrieking and tossing their hair, spinning and gyrating to the music amid a sea of groping hands and vulgar shouts.

And, there, in the far corner of the tent was a different disturbance underway, a disturbance that instinctively rose the hackles on the back of his neck. One of the knights, a craven nobleman whom Sebastian rather despised, was harassing one of the Saracen girls. She was petite, more than a head shorter than the half dozen soldiers who moved in to surround her, knitting her into the wall of the tent like a pack of wolves cornering a hare. Sebastian caught a glimpse of a torn blue tunic sleeve and the raven's wing gloss of a familiar ebony pate, and his blood went into to an instant, furious boil.

“Get away from her!” he bellowed, vaulting over the high table and lunging across the space of the crowded tent. The reed player blew a discordant note, ducking out of his way as he shot toward the knight who pawed at Zahirah. “Fallonmour! Get your hands off of her!”

He shoved past the few leering onlookers to seize the nobleman by the shoulder, forcibly throwing him out of the way. Logan was at Sebastian's elbow, the Scot having evidently noticed the trouble at the same time and rushed from his place at table to assist. He caught Fallonmour as he stumbled back on his heels, clamping his meaty hands down on the knight's arms and holding him away from Zahirah.

“Did he touch you?” Sebastian asked, ready to tear the bastard apart if he so much as bruised her delicate skin. Zahirah shook her head, her gaze stricken, arms crossed protectively one over the other.

“There's no cause for conflict here, Montborne.” Fallonmour shook off Logan's hold and sniffed, indignant as he straightened the hem of his mussed tunic. “If you'd but said you wanted some too, I might have been willing to share the chit once I was through with her.”

Sebastian whirled on the arrogant lord. With a vicious snarl, he hauled his arm back and smashed his fist into Fallonmour's face. “Don't come near her again,” he warned, “or I'll kill you.”

Doubled over from the cracking blow, the knight coughed and wheezed and spat out a mouthful of blood. His voice was shrill. “Ugh! You thun of a bitch—you broke my nothe!”

Ignoring the sudden resounding silence of the tent, and the disapproving, sphinx-like stare of the king from where he stood, fists braced upon the high table, Sebastian reached for Zahirah's hand and led her away from the shocked assembly, his combative gaze daring anyone to say a word or to make an untoward move. No one did; those standing in his path cleared quickly to let him pass, some shaking their heads, others too stunned to do more than stare after him.

Sebastian's temper cooled somewhat once he and Zahirah were outside in the crisp, starlit blackness of night. His pace, however, remained brisk, his pulse hammering, every muscle coiled and ready for attack. He realized belatedly that Zahirah nearly had to trot to keep up with his long strides, so he slowed and gave her hand a squeeze.

“I'm sorry,” he said, exhaling a sharp breath. “I'm sorry for what happened back there—all of it.”

“No, I should not have come,” she answered. “I wasn't going to, but then I heard the music and it sounded so inviting, I could not resist. I didn't belong there.”

He rounded on her, cursing aloud when he thought about what his countrymen might have done to her. “You belong wherever you wish to go. And any man who thinks to tell you different will have to answer to me.”

“Even if you have to make enemies of every Frank and Saracen alike?” she asked, her eyes shining in the moonlight. She shook her head, calm as the gentling night breeze, but her smile seemed a little sad. “You would risk too much for me, my lord. I'm not worth all that.”

Sebastian grunted. “Assaulting Garrett of Fallonmour was no great risk, I assure you. He's a court hound and an ass, and one of these days his arrogance is going to get him killed.” He reached out, touching the smooth line of her cheek. “And you are worth it, Zahirah.”

She glanced down, silent as they resumed the path that led deeper into the camp. All was dark and quiet here; everyone would be at the feast for some hours yet. Distantly, as if in testimony of that fact, Sebastian heard the music start up again in the king's pavilion on the other side of the encampment. They passed the paddock that contained the army's horses, and the striped awning of the vacant dancers' quarters, then turned the corner that brought them before Sebastian's tent in the officers row.

Sebastian released Zahirah's hand to unfasten the ties on the flap. He swept the panel aside and stood at the open portal, waiting for her to enter. She stepped in front of him, then let out a soft sigh. Hesitating, she turned toward him, shyly it seemed, her eyes downcast. Her hands came up slowly, her fingers spreading as she laid her palms on his chest. At that mere touch, his heart was slamming against his ribs. His body quickened at once, desire thrumming and thickening in his loins. She leaned into him slightly, tipping her head back to look at him.

As if she meant to say something, her lips parted, glistening moist, tempting. It was too much for him to bear. Sebastian bent forward and kissed her. Her mouth was soft and sweet, like the nectar of a rare, exotic fruit. He could have easily gorged himself on her, so hungry was he for her touch, for the satin pleasure of her body.

His need for her was strong, and Zahirah's eager response proved his undoing. She met his kiss with equal ardor, rising up on her toes and twining her fingers in the hair at his nape, clutching him to her as if to never let go. Sebastian groaned, feeling his arousal stir between them, the pressure of her body against his own searing him like a brand. He pulled her deeper into his embrace, and flicked his tongue along the seam of her lips, coaxing them open, penetrating the silky heat of her mouth.

Had it only been last night that they had made love at the caravansary? Faith, but it seemed an eternity to him now, the way his body responded so swiftly, so needfully to hers. Zahirah seemed to understand. She seemed to share his torment, her breath coming urgent and shallow, her back arching as he reached down to cup her breast in his palm, his mouth plundering hers in a kiss that was fast becoming savage. She opened for him like the night-blooming blossom of desert jasmine, her response pliant and giving, all softness and warmth and willing, wondrous surrender.

Breathless, fevered with want, Sebastian broke their kiss before he lost all sense of control. With his fingers laced through hers, he led her into the dark sanctuary of his tent. The bedroll was a black rumple on the floor, the only cushion to be had in these sparse soldier's quarters. Sebastian brought her to the pallet, and she sank down before him on the blankets. He kissed her again, holding her face in his hands and nipping possessively at her mouth before moving off to divest himself of his clothing.

There was no need for words, no need for the pretense of patience. There was only this shared want, this fierce desire that pulsed in the air around them like a living thing, hot and wild and consuming. Ruled by an elemental craving, Sebastian threw his tunic aside, then stripped off his boots, hose, and braies. Naked, needful, his flesh tingling with anticipation in the chill of the lightless tent, he knelt before Zahirah on the pallet and reached for the laces of her tunic's bodice. He tore at them, exhaling a sharp chuckle of surprise to feel his fingers tremble in his haste. Fumbling in the dark, he managed to snarl the garment's network of slim ties, and, in that frenzied moment, considered the virtue in simply ripping the damned thing open. He cursed his clumsiness, then felt Zahirah's hands come up to assist him. Her skill, praise God, was infinitely more agile. She loosened the last of the knots, then lifted her arms so he could draw the long silk shirt up over her head.

Unaided by the extinguished oil lamp, it was too dark to see more than the shape and shadow of Zahirah's body before him, but his hands suffered no such loss. They told him of the glory his sight was denied, his fingers skating over the velvet softness of her shoulders, the firm shapeliness of her arms. He found her breasts and kneaded them with his palms, reveling in their buoyant perfection, in the delicious fit of them in his hands. Her nipples pearled between his fingers; he longed to taste them. Leaning down, he bent his head and captured one tight bud in his mouth, sampling the sugar sweetness of her flesh.

Zahirah let out a throaty, breathless gasp as he laved and suckled her. He felt her fingers weave into his hair, her hands fisting at the back of his head, her body trembling, breath rasping shallowly in the dark. Sebastian rejoiced in her pleasure, smiling against her skin as he moved from one breast to the other, intent on giving equal worship. He kissed his way there, drawing her nipple deep into his mouth and circling the sensitive peak with his tongue.

He meant to give her pleasure, to ready her for their mating, but it was his body that seemed to teeter on the verge of succumbing. His penis strained heavily between his legs, tight and throbbing to the point of pain, leaping with the need for contact, with the humbling need to sheathe itself within her womb. With a groan, he rocked back on his heels and reached for Zahirah's hand, disentangling it from the hair at his nape. Holding her by the wrist, he guided her down the length of his chest and across the bunched muscles of his abdomen, leading her with plain purpose to the root of his manhood. With her hand covered by his, he wrapped her fingers firmly around the width of his shaft and squeezed, encouraging her to stroke him .

“You're so hard,” she whispered, sounding curious and awestricken as she explored the full length of him. “Like steel under velvet. You're beautiful, Sebastian.”

He chuckled at her innocent praise, settling back to give her free reign of his body for however long he could bear it. Dropping his head back on his shoulders, he savored her roving touch, her artless palming of his wet, sensitive glans bringing him to the brink of an exquisite madness. Her fingers slick with his essence, she traced the underside of his member, wringing a shudder from out of his very core. Racked with a wave of pure male lust, every fiber of his body clenched taut as she stroked him.

“Come up on your knees,” he growled, tugging at the waistband of her pantalets. She obeyed at once, holding onto his shoulders as he pulled the ties free and slid the loose-fitting trousers off her hips. He caressed the curve of her naked bottom, then came around and buried his fingers in the downy cleft of her thighs. She was beyond ready for him, her body weeping and quivering for what he would give her. He slipped inside that dewy haven, stroking its swollen folds and teasing the bud that nestled high within them.

Zahirah sighed as he made love to her with his fingers, and Sebastian caught her wordless exclamation in a soulful joining of their mouths. He pressed her down onto the bedroll, urgently removing the rest of her clothing as he covered her with his body. Her thighs fell open to him with only the slightest nudge of his knee; he positioned at their juncture, then he sheathed himself to the root in one deep stroke.

For a moment, the bliss of their joining was so complete, all he could do was hold himself there, not moving, scarcely breathing. Zahirah clung to him in like silence, her fingernails scoring his shoulders, her breath coming shallow and uneven beside his ear.

“Am I hurting you?” he whispered, his voice ragged, strained with the effort to remain still.

“No,” she answered. “Oh, God, Sebastian. It feels so good.”

“Yes,” he agreed. He drew his pelvis back and thrust forward once more, cleaving her soft flesh with the rigidness of his own, filling her, feeling the crest of her womb rub against the head of his sex.

He rocked on his elbows, propping himself above her so that he could kiss her as he loved her, wishing he could watch the pleasure play on her face. He could see the outline of the table beside the pallet; the oil lamp and striking box should be nearly within his reach. Regretful that he did not think of it sooner, Sebastian paused to withdraw from Zahirah.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to see you.” He gave her a kiss, then started to rise off of her. “It's all right. I'm just going to light the lamp.”

“No!” She grabbed his arm, her fingers tightening around him in a grip that felt like panic. “I prefer the darkness,” she said, calmer now, although he wondered at her strange reaction—a reaction she'd had in his room at the caravansary, too.

“There's no need to be shy with me,” he told her gently, stroking the fingers that still clung to him in an urgent grasp. “Our bodies, and how we share them, is nothing to be ashamed of.”

She made a sound of distress in the back of her throat. “Please, Sebastian. Come back, I beg you. Don't . . . don't spoil it.”

He frowned in the gloom of the tent, part of him more determined than ever to light the lamp and get to the bottom of her apprehension. But he would not force her to it, not now, not when it was clear that she was terrified of the idea. “Very well,” he said, returning to the pallet where she waited. “But we should talk about this, Zahirah. No more hiding, no more secrets between us, agreed?”

It seemed the only answer she would give him at that moment was the tender brush of her palm on his cheek. She circled her hand around the back of his neck and brought him down to kiss her, eager, it seemed, to resume their joining. His body was more than willing to oblige .

On his knees between her legs, he entered her again, bringing her hips up onto his thighs to meet the deep thrust of his penetration. He held her there, hooking his arms underneath her so that he set their pace, his muscles accepting the burden of her slight weight as he made love to her, guiding her at a gradually increasing rhythm along the hard length of his sex. She moaned with the first tremor of her release, her sheath convulsing around him.

“Ohh,” she gasped, whispering his name, her mewling sigh of ecstasy like a siren's call, beckoning him to join her in the blissful tide.

Sebastian was not far behind her. Mindless with passion and the want to please her further, to possess her fully, he lifted her higher and plunged deeper, his hips pumping, arms straining to hold her tighter, bring her closer. She was panting as urgently as he was, her body quaking, trembling. Then, with a sharp cry, she arched against him and shattered.

Sebastian gave a growl of prideful male triumph as her release washed over her in waves of breathless pleasure. Bending over her, he hastened his strokes, worshiping every inch of her slack, sweat-dampened body with his mouth, raining hot kisses on her breasts, her ribs, her belly. Her flesh throbbed and contracted around his pulsing shaft, coaxing him toward a swift, wrenching climax. He felt the coil of rapture build and wind tighter, clutching his core as if to twist him inside out.

He told himself to withdraw, feeling the tenuous bonds of his self-control stretch thinner with every greedy, glorious thrust of his hips. But then the liquid heat of release seized him. It rushed, molten and quicksilver, through his loins, and knew he was lost. He roared with the stunning force of his ejaculation, plunging himself to the hilt and spilling his seed deep into Zahirah's womb.

“God's blood, woman,” he swore in awe, once he was finally able to find his voice. He lay atop Zahirah and inside her, shuddering, each breath he dragged into his lungs shaky and uneven. She held him like an angel, caressing his back, her mouth pressed against his shoulder, kissing him sweetly.

He should have been wholly spent, dead and drained from exertion and the exquisite wringing of his body. He should have been beyond sated, but when Zahirah shifted slightly underneath him, her pelvis rocking against his as she moved to better bear his weight, he felt his arousal begin to stir anew. Before the beast could wake completely, he withdrew, rolling off of her with a groan.

“What's wrong?” she asked. Following him on the pallet, she turned into his side and rested her hand on his chest. “Was it something I did?”

“Yes. You should have never let me touch you,” he muttered, sounding a good deal more repentant than he felt. He gave her a serious look. “You realize, now you're going to have to put up with me chasing you into my bed every moment we're alone together.”

She exhaled a soft laugh, her breath warm where it fanned his cooling skin. “What makes you think you will have to chase me, my lord?”

He stroked her bare arm, letting his fingers play in the silky tresses of her unbound hair while she rained a trail of kisses along his ribs. “Have a care, my lady, lest you spoil me. The king already suspects I've been living too well at Ascalon these past weeks. Indeed, at sup tonight he tried to imply I may be growing soft.”

Zahirah gave an offended sounding cluck of her tongue. Her hand slid on a languorous, but purposeful, downward path. “Hmm,” she purred against him, surprising him when her fingers brushed his turgid shaft. “No, my lord, not soft at all.”

“Vixen,” he accused, too weak to resist the urge to thrust himself into her palm. Her thumb flicked the sensitive crown of his manhood and he sucked in his breath for the sheer pleasure-pain of her inquisitive touch. “Do you not desist, you could very well tempt me into desertion of my cause. Worse for my pride, you'll have my bones so depleted of strength, I'll not be able to march on Jerusalem, now that the king has called me to it.”

She stilled abruptly; for a moment, he could not even hear her breathing. “Jerusalem,” she said at length, her voice rasping softly in the dark of the tent. “When will you go?”

“Not now,” he said, “but soon.”

He felt her withdraw into a thoughtful silence and cursed himself for reminding her of the prolonged conflict raging between their worlds—the very reason they had found each other in the first place. Two souls, born into enmity oceans apart and thrust together by the tides of war. Their differences did not seem so great a chasm to cross when they were lying in each other's arms, but Sebastian could not deny that he was, first and foremost, a soldier.

“I am sworn, Zahirah. I made a vow to God and my king that I would defend this cause. I have pledged my life to it.”

“I know,” she said. “I understand.”

There was a note of weary acceptance in that statement, and for a moment he wondered if she truly did understand. Wondered how she could. He was sworn to his duty; when and where his king commanded him, he would go. Even if it took him leagues away from where his heart longed to be, with Zahirah. Even if it took him to his death.

“Come here,” he said when his thoughts and the growing silence between them became like a physical weight, too heavy to bear. He turned toward Zahirah and gathered her to him on the pallet, covering the intimate tangle of their bodies with the cocooning warmth of the blanket. “Close your eyes, my lady . . . tell me what you feel.”

She snuggled into him, sighing deeply and nestling her cheek against his shoulder as he brought her farther within the circle of his embrace. “What do I feel? I feel the warmth of our bodies pressed together, naked and alive,” she whispered, her limbs relaxing beneath the coverlet. “I feel your arms wrapped around me, so warm and strong, holding me tight. I feel our hearts beating in time with each other, and our legs entwined as if we were one.”

“Yes,” he agreed, kissing the top of her head. “In here, like this, there is only us. There is no room for talk of war or duty where we are together like this. No room for anything but you and me, and the joy we can bring each other.”

Her stillness troubled him, but no more than the trace of sadness in her soft-spoken reply. “Can you promise me that, my lord?”

Sebastian caught her chin on the edge of his hand and gently turned her face up to his. Bending to meet her, he brushed his mouth against hers, claiming her lips in a slow, sensual kiss that left them both breathless. “My lady,” he said, “I have never given a more solemn oath.”

Then he moved over her, and proceeded to demonstrate just how profound the depth of his promise truly was.