Black Lion’s Bride (Warrior Trilogy #2)

Chapter 24

The knights on watch at the palace gates nodded to Zahirah as they parted their crossed lances and opened the heavy iron grate to admit her entry. Her sandals clipped on the tiled walkway of the interior hallway at nearly a run, she unable to shake the feeling that her father, now that he was there at Ascalon, was watching her every move. Zahirah had felt his eyes on her in the street outside, felt that cold, cunning gaze following her as she had left Sebastian to wend her way through the crowds, fleeing for the palace as if bedeviled by Shaitan himself.

Down the corridor, coming from within a large meeting room but a few paces ahead of her, Zahirah caught the sudden sound of a brash baritone chortle. It was met with an echoing chorus of the same, then a murmur of Frankish male voices. Someone offered fawning praise for the king's political acumen, commending Lionheart on his recent victory at Darum and pledging his support when the king moved the battle on to Jerusalem. There was a general round of agreement, then the shuffle of furniture as chairs were backed away from tables, followed by the jangle and clop of shifting armor and heavy soldiers' boots as the meeting broke and the attendees began to disperse for the hall.

Too late to turn and avoid it, Zahirah found herself standing face to face with King Richard and several richly attired officers. One of them wore a long shaggy beard and a belted surcoat of white silk, its front divided in four quarters by a large red cross. His garb marked him as one of the Christians' warrior monks, a Knight of the Jerusalem Temple, a man of some import, judging by the haughtiness of his expression. Piously arrogant, he seared Zahirah with a disdainful look, as if it offended him to be sharing the same space of hallway with her. Lionheart, on the other hand, looked like a cat who had just been handed a dish of cream.

He dismissed the Templar and the other men with a brevity of words, his gaze fixed on Zahirah in unapologetic interest. She clutched her basket in tight fists, holding herself very still, her eyes downcast as the group of Franks said their good-byes to the king and strode on past her up the corridor.

“My, my, this is an unexpected pleasure,” he drawled once the officers were out of earshot. “Here I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

Zahirah gave a weak shake of her head, and forced herself to bare her teeth in a smile. His widened exponentially.

“No? Well, then. It would seem my good fortune knows no bounds today.” He took her in with a slow meaningful glance, pausing when his eyes lit on her basket. Without a thought toward permission, he leaned forward and flicked open the lid to peer inside. “ Shatranj ? Hardly a maiden's sport, this game of kingly war. Tell me, lady, are you good?”

He closed the basket, but his hand lingered, his cabochon-ringed fingers skating up her forearm. Zahirah recoiled inwardly at his unbidden touch, but she saw the purpose in it, and with her father's threat still ringing in her ears, she knew she had to put that purpose to prudent use, no matter how it disgusted her to play the role of whore.

“I would not presume to guess at my own skill, my lord,” she said, carefully measuring her words. “Your opinion, however, would be of great interest to me. I've no doubt there is much I could learn from you.”

Richard's answering chuckle was more a purr than reply, low and throaty and very self-satisfied. Zahirah ventured a look up and saw over his shoulder that two armed knights had since come out of the meeting hall to stand in the doorway, guarding the king's back. One of them was the demon warrior she had come to recognize as Blackheart; the other she had seen about before but did not know by name. Stone-faced and silent, the two men hung back, far enough to grant their liege a modicum of privacy, yet near enough that they could see, and hear, all that transpired in the corridor. That these men knew Sebastian, and no doubt knew that she was his intimate, needled her with unbearable shame, but Zahirah tried to put it out of her mind, concentrating instead on the trap she baited for the king.

“I knew you would come around eventually,” he said, grinning as he planted his hand beside her head, boxing her in against the stone of the corridor wall. “Perhaps you'd like to start your lesson now.”

He bent forward to kiss her and Zahirah jerked away, a reflex reaction that brought a perturbed scowl to the king's brow. She covered the slip quickly. Tilting her head, she feigned a sudden shyness. “Not here, my lord,” she said quietly. “I must insist on discretion. No guards.”

“My chambers, then. Tonight.”

“Too soon,” she said with a shake of her head. Her father's threat provided her two days to fulfill her mission; she refused to forfeit this one last night that she would have with Sebastian. She could not go through with her deadly plan until she was certain she had no other choice. And she needed to be assured that Sebastian would not be there to see her betrayal firsthand—nor the aftermath, for there would be no escaping once Richard was dead, and she had decided that she would not attempt to elude his guards when they moved in to kill his assailant. She could face their hacking blades, but she did not think she could face Sebastian once the ugly mask of her deception was stripped away. “When we spoke at Darum, my lord, you mentioned that you could make certain arrangements . . . “

Lionheart inclined his head, his blue eyes glittering. “Consider it done. ”

The smile she gave him hurt her cheeks, but it paled compared to the stab of misery that pierced her when she thought of what she was about to do—not only to this immoral and arrogant man who would cuckold one of his most loyal subjects, but also to Sebastian. And to herself.

A feeling of sickness began to churn in her belly. Before it could seize her entirely, she hissed out the rest of what needed to be said. “Tomorrow evening, my lord. After sup. I will come to you.”

At his nod of agreement, Zahirah sidled away from him and began a hasty retreat down the corridor. Her hands were shaking and damp, her heart beating furiously in her breast. The shatranj pieces clacked and rolled in her basket, their bobbling racket bouncing off the high walls of the corridor as she dashed around a bend and headed down the harem colonnade.

She was nearly out of breath, her legs quaking beneath her. Her stomach clenched in revolt, twisting violently. Zahirah flung one hand out to brace herself on a tall column, doubling over and on the verge of retching into the bed of bright flowers that lined the walkway. Behind her some way, a group of knights came in from an adjacent courtyard, talking about their eagerness to march on the Holy City. Zahirah straightened before they could notice her, and willed herself to calm. Gathering her wits as best she could, she took off at a dead run toward her chamber. Distantly, from the minaret tower of the city mosque at the center of town, she heard the muezzin call the faithful to prayer.

~ ~ ~

The city had settled down for nightfall by the time Sebastian returned to the palace. Not that he had wanted to be kept away for so long. The building on the wall had taken most of the daylight hours, and, come dusk, he and Logan had decided to make one last sweep of Ascalon's streets and courtyards, looking for any hint of the unusual.

Their search had yielding nothing out of the ordinary, but the day's long hours had left him tired and hot and hungry. Those petty needs fell away at the welcome sight of Zahirah waiting for him in his chamber when he opened the door. She quenched all his wants . . . all, save one.

She poured him a cup of wine from a carafe on a nearby table while he unbuckled his sword belt and laid it down near the door. He took the drink gladly, tossing back the rich red claret in one long draught, then setting the cup aside to take his beautiful lady in hand instead. He fell back on the room's plush divan and pulled her down onto his lap. “I've been wanting to kiss you like this all day,” he said, plunging his hands into her thick black hair and covering her mouth with his.

She was sweet and clean, and he suddenly became aware of how filthy he was from being outside, standing in the hot sun and working with the brick and mortar. “I should bathe,” he murmured against her lips. “I'm getting my dust all over you.”

“I don't care,” she whispered. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him with a needfulness that seemed but a shade away from despair. “I've been waiting for you too long, my love, and I'm not about to let you go now.”

“Then come with me,” he growled, pushing her up and taking her by the hand.

Their fingers laced together, he brought her out of his chamber and down the snaking corridor to the bathhouse. At this hour, they would have the place to themselves; the rest of the garrison had already gone to supper in the meeting hall of the palace, where food and wine and the presence of the king would keep them occupied for the better part of the night. Sebastian opened the door to the lamp-lit sauna and ushered Zahirah inside.

A fragrant steam enveloped them beneath the high dome of the ceiling. It hissed out of vents hollowed into the smooth stone walls, whispering softly, and carrying the scent of sandalwood and myrrh. The fine mist swirled over the tiles of the floor and skated in ribbons across the surface of the small bathing pool in the center of the chamber. Water trickled in a small fountain-fed basin, echoing like primeval music in the damp solitude of the room.

Sebastian brought Zahirah around in front of him and caught her in a hungry embrace, kissing her as he worked to unlace and strip off his tunic.

“Let me,” she said, placing her hands over his and pulling the cotton shirt up over his head. She dropped it to the floor, then bent to press a kiss to his bare skin. Her tongue teased his nipple to instant hardness; her breath blew warm and uneven into the mat of hair on his chest. The air around them was humid, but it rushed cool against him when she broke their kiss and backed away, leading him to a small stool beside the water. “Sit, my lord.”

He sat, and watched with keen interest as she knelt down before him and slid his feet out of his heavy boots. She rubbed his tired soles and heels, her touch like heaven as she moved up to massage the tight muscles of his calves and thighs. His hose came off next. Zahirah came up between his legs to unhitch the points fastened at his waist and tug the leggings down. The brief friction of her body, the slight press of her breasts against his thighs, sent a bolt of lust shooting through his loins.

When she moved to rise, Sebastian brought his knees together, trapping her there before him. He remembered another time that they were in this very stance—the night in the caravansary outside Darum, the night they had first made love. She had been seated before him like this then, too, and well he remembered how badly he had wanted to keep her there, to feel her mouth moving and suckling on his hard flesh. He looked at her upturned face now, holding her questioning gaze and knowing the one he fixed on her was harsh and dark with need.

She understood that need. Her lips curved sensually, her eyes smoldered in the dim lamplight. With graceful fingers, she unrolled the waistband of his braies and freed him of the loose undergarment. Unrestrained by the confining linen drawers, his erection thrust up past his navel, stiff and substantial, leaping under the heat of her appreciative gaze. She smoothed her hands up his thighs, and when she wrapped her fingers around the solid width of his shaft, stroking him from root to tip, he quaked with a sudden jolt of white-hot pleasure.

She toyed with him for an unbearable while, teasing and touching him, driving him to the edge of a perfect madness, but then she raised up and took him into her mouth, and Sebastian thought he would splinter on the spot. He could not contain the low oath of anguish that curled up from his throat when her tongue sucked and swirled around his swollen member, nor could he stop himself from reaching down to catch her behind the neck with both hands, burying his fingers in her hair and holding her head in place as she took him deeper, impossibly deeper, into the hot velvet sheath of her mouth. He felt his climax building with each upward pull of her lips, each subtle scrape of her teeth, her little mewls of arousal vibrating against him to wrench his loins tighter and tighter.

“Zahirah,” he managed to croak thickly. “God . . . curse it.”

Savagely, before she had sapped him of every bit of his control, he seized her by the arms and hauled her up onto her feet. “I need to be inside you,” he rasped, fumbling with her pantalets and finally ripping the laces loose. He shoved the wrecked silk down her hips, while she quickly took off her tunic and tossed it aside. Naked and beautiful, she stood before him, lips glistening and moist, breasts rising with each panting breath she drew into her lungs. She stepped forward to straddle his legs and Sebastian gripped her pelvis in his hands, positioning her over the top of his straining sex. Their gazes locked and hungry, he brought her down onto his lap and sheathed himself to the hilt in one long stroke.

The rhythm they found was fierce and passionate, too powerful to deny. Sebastian felt Zahirah's release come along with his, heard the quickening of her breath, felt the delicious squeeze of her body around his sex as climax shuddered through her. She cried out, clinging to him as he gave one final thrust and spilled his essence deep within her womb. For a long while, they merely stayed there, holding each other, still intimately joined, loathe to disrupt the moment.

“You feel so good, I don't want to move,” he murmured beside her ear.

“Let's not, then,” she whispered. “Let's not ever move.”

He chuckled, nipping her shoulder and savoring the taste of her salty-sweet skin. “We'll have to eat sometime, my love. And sooner or later, my love, someone is sure to come here looking for a bath.”

Zahirah drew out of his embrace and met his gaze. She stared at him, looking so serious, so utterly sober, it took him aback. “What is it?” he asked, smoothing her frown with a brush of his fingers over her brow.

She shook her head slowly, her eyes rooted on his. “I just . . . I never want to forget this moment. I want to remember you always like this, the way you're looking at me right now.”

“We'll have many moments like this,” he said, smoothing her hair away from her face, loving her so keenly it put an ache in his chest. “If I have my way, sweet lady, we will have moments like this for the rest of our lives.” She gave him a smile, made all the more endearing for how it wobbled on her lips. She glanced away, but not before he saw the shimmer of tears welling in her eyes. He scowled, wondering at her sadness, at what felt oddly to him like regret. “You still haven't answered me, you know.”

“Answered you?”

“Today, in the park. I asked you to come back with me to England.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, you did.”

“I know it would not be easy for you to leave. This is your home. I would not ask you to give up your faith— ”

“Sebastian,” she said, turning an earnest look on him, caressing him with her eyes. “My love. I would give up everything for you. Nothing would make me happier than to see your home, to be with you there, or wherever you go.”

He saw the deep love in her gaze, felt his heart swell in the warmth of her regard. His mind sped forward to the day he would bring her home to Montborne, the day he would take as his wife in truth. “I'll speak with the king as soon as possible,” he said, stroking the smooth slope of her cheek. “He must be made aware of my intentions.”

“Let's not talk about him now,” Zahirah whispered. “Let's not talk about anything now. Just hold me. I need you to hold me.”

She burrowed into the circle of his arms and Sebastian wrapped himself around her, rocking her gently, caressing the slender arch of her back. He rose from the stool and lifted her with him, and together they slipped into the small bathing pool to wash. They soaped each other in the warm water, silent but for the intimate hush of their breathing, joining in a slow tangle of slick wet hands and twisting, twining limbs. They made love once more, there in the shallow pool, then they gathered up their clothes and Sebastian carried Zahirah back to his chamber and placed her in his bed beside him.

With legs and arms entwined, they lay together in the moonlight, engulfed in a reverent brand of silence, kissing and caressing each other for some long hours, until sleep began to beckon. Sebastian pulled Zahirah close and let his eyes drift shut, surrendering to a calm—a soul-deep fullness—he never thought he would know.

~ ~ ~

Zahirah lay in his arms, listening as Sebastian fell into a sated, heavy sleep. There would be no such peace for her this night. Indeed, not ever again. This would be the last time he held her. The last time she knew the wonder of his love, the last time she knew the bliss of his body joined with her own .

Paradise, if such a prize was truly to be hers upon the success of so heinous a mission as the one she had been called to do, could not possibly compare to what she had with Sebastian. Nor could Shaitan's fiery domain be worse than the guilt and pain she felt now, looking at the man she loved more than life itself and knowing that in a few short hours he would hate the very notion of her.

The understanding of that eventuality was like a vise around her heart, squeezing as if to wring the very breath from her lungs. She could not sleep, nor could she bear the oppressive weight of her thoughts. Carefully, she freed herself from Sebastian's slack embrace and rose from the haven of his bed. Outside, beyond the gentle soughing of the curtains that framed the balcony terrace, the moon hung full and bright in the deep black sky. The milky light spilled into the chamber, bathing everything with a pale, otherworldly glow, washing the vibrant weave of the carpets nearly colorless, and throwing long shadows beneath the pieces of the shatranj board that sat where she had returned it that afternoon, ready for play on the small table across the room.

Zahirah walked toward the idle game as in a trance, her gaze straying to the checkered board with its orderly rows of pieces—small enemy soldiers, facing off to do battle unto the death. In shatranj , war was neat, so clearly an issue of black and white. Life was a far crueler game, indeed. She plucked the white king from his place between his queen and guards and held the piece up in the moonlight, idly examining it. How she envied that cold chunk of carved stone. To feel nothing, to move as directed without grieving one's losses, without wishing for things that could never be—she had known that sense of purpose once. Long ago and far away, it seemed to her now.

She needed that sense of purpose again. Allah help her, she had never needed it more.

Steeling herself to what had to be done, to the shattering idea that tomorrow at this time her world and everything in it that mattered would cease, Zahirah laid the white king down in the center of the board. With remorse pricking her eyes, she glanced back to Sebastian, sleeping soundly in a naked, masculine sprawl on the bed.

“Shah mat, my love,” she whispered. “Your king is dead.”