Captive Rose

by Miriam Minger

  “Ah … what was that?” Refaiyeh asked drowsily, raising her tousled head from his shoulder and regarding him with half-closed eyes.

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep,” Guy murmured, kissing her soft cheek. He lifted her limp arm from his chest and rose from the bed, covering her tenderly with the silken sheet.

  Truly, he would miss Refaiyeh, he thought, drawing on his clothes and sword belt. The young widow had made his life more than bearable while he’d been in Acre; she had become a friend. When he knocked on her door late last night, dusty and spent from the long ride from Damascus and with a bedraggled Leila in his arms, she had asked no questions, just ushered them quickly into her home.

  Only later, after she had made Leila comfortable, had they had a chance to talk. He had described the journey to Anatolia, then his incredible ordeal in Damascus, and she had shared what information she had gleaned from the crusaders still lingering in Acre. From her lips he had learned of King Henry’s death, and that Edward had sailed home to claim the English throne. Yet even with this knowledge, Guy still did not believe Edward had left him to die in prison.

  His faith had been affirmed this morning when he had spoken with Simon Renier, a grizzled crusader who had decided to stay in the Holy Land, having neither lands nor titles to entice him home. Guy had just bought passage on a ship to Marseilles using some of Eve’s jewels when he felt a heavy hand clap his back.

  “By the breath of God, is that you, de Warenne?”

  Recognizing the voice, Guy had spun around, a grin spreading across his face when he beheld the stout, red-bearded warrior.

  “Indeed it is, friend.”

  “And all in one piece, I see,” Simon said, cuffing Guy heartily on the arm. “Where are Reginald and the others? You’re the first one I’ve seen back. Did he decide to stay with the Mongols? I’ve heard their women are as wild as yellow tigers and ride naked across the steppes—”

  “Reginald is dead. They’re all dead,” Guy said tonelessly, his throat constricted as he realized no one yet knew of his companions’ fate.

  “Who did this? Where?” Renier blustered, his broad freckled face mottling with rage.

  After Guy grimly explained what had happened, the older knight seemed thoroughly shaken and puzzled. “Lord Edward never received any letter of ransom for you, de Warenne. If he had, he would surely have let the rest of us know. He believed all was well with your embassy to the day he sailed. He even left a message for you.”

  “What message?”

  “He wanted you and Reginald and the other knights to follow him back to England as soon as you returned to Acre.”

  If Guy had harbored any uncertainty at all, he knew then that Edward had not deserted him.

  “That was already my plan,” Guy said, nodding toward the docks. “I just bought passage for two aboard that galley.”

  “Two?” Renier blurted, his pale, blue eyes lit with curiosity. “Will you be taking that pretty Arab wench of yours home to Warenne Castle?”

  “No. Refaiyeh has chosen to stay here in Acre. Lady Leila Gervais will accompany me to England.”

  “Gervais?” the old warrior asked, astonished. “Does she share any blood relation with Roger—”

  “His younger sister,” Guy cut him off dryly. At Simon’s expression of complete incredulity, he gave a short laugh. “How about a pint of ale, my friend? I’d rather tell you the story in a cool tavern than out here in the hot sun. Agreed?”

  “Aye, though I imagine this tale will warrant more than a pint, de Warenne,” Simon said heartily, shaking his head. “More like a half barrel!”

  Refaiyeh’s long drawn out sigh snapped Guy’s thoughts sharply back to the present. As she smiled in her sleep, a twinge of guilt tugged at his heart.

  He had done Refaiyeh a great disservice to dwell so on Leila during their lovemaking. Too bad she had turned down his offer to accompany them to England. He was very fond of her … as fond as he had been of any woman, including Christine, his late wife.

  Guy turned away and quietly left the shadowed chamber. His inability to return his wife’s love had also been a disservice, but one that could never be remedied. At least he loved Nicholas, their young son, as he had never been able to love Christine. He hoped that had been some consolation for the pain they had shared from the day they were wed until her tragic death.

  Putting away such dark memories, Guy went to the kitchen and quickly finished the food tray Refaiyeh had been preparing before he had so lustily interrupted her. Leila had more than likely calmed herself by now. Two hours had passed since he had left her room. She was probably ravenous and light-headed after not eating for several days.

  When he reached her chamber, he balanced the tray in one hand and unbolted the door. He ducked slightly, as he seemed to have to do when going through most entryways, his gaze sweeping the silent interior. The bed was pushed away from the wall and a clothing chest moved there, empty of its contents and turned upright on one end. The grille on the window directly above e the chest was opened just wide enough for a slim young woman to escape.

  “Damn!” Guy shouted, setting aside the tray. Why hadn’t he thought Leila might try such a stunt, and maybe even succeed? Railing at his own stupidity, he ran toward the back of the house and then out and around to the attached stable, trying to determine which direction to try first.

  Acre was a bustling port city on the rocky shores of the Mediterranean, but it was only a third the size of Damascus. Given Leila’s head start, she could be well into the surrounding hills if she was on horseback. Those grassy slopes and craggy hollows were swarming with Bedouin herdsmen and Mameluke spies who would recognize at once the monetary worth in helping an Arabic-speaking Christian woman return to Damascus.

  Those men would have nothing to lose. If she proved to have lied about her family, they would sell her in the slave markets. If she was telling the truth, they would be rewarded in gold for her safe return. Either way, the smell of money would easily gain Leila their eager assistance.

  Guy flung open the wide stable doors and was relieved to see that none of the four horses was missing. That meant she was on foot.

  His mind sped as he saddled one of the sleek black stallions. First he would search the twisting city streets for any sign of her and, if that failed, he would recruit several crusaders and their men-at-arms and set out for the treacherous hills.

  As Guy slapped the horse’s flank with the reins and took off at a fast trot down the narrow street, pedestrians, squawking chickens, and bleating sheep scattered in all directions. He was almost at the comer when he spied Hayat racing toward him as fast as her short legs would carry her, her flapping skirt held well above her knees.

  “My lord! My lord!” she cried, dodging passersby and dashing between the spindly legs of a large camel blocking the street.

  Guy dismounted just as Hayat reached him, falling breathless and panting into his arms.

  “The … pretty lady, my lord! I saw her … jump from the window … when I was in the garden. I followed her … those men!”

  “What men, Hayat?” Guy demanded, his heart hanging hard against his chest. He shook her none too gently. “Where is she?”

  “Three Genoese sailors, my lord!” Hayat cried, her large brown eyes filling with tears. She began to hiccough, her small body trembling. “They caught her … they were laughing … They dragged her into a tavern—”

  “Show me.” Guy hoisted himself into the saddle and drew the small slave girl up in front of him. As she pointed and guided him, he rode like a maniac through the winding streets, his fury mounting. God help them, if those swine had harmed Leila he would castrate them all, stuff their bloody members in their mouths, and only then sink his sword between their ribs!

  “There it is, my lord!” Hayat shouted, spying a wine tavern Guy recognized as one he had earlier frequented with other crusaders. There was a brothel on the second story, filled with many rooms and dark passages that echoed with whispers and bre
athless cries of carnal pleasure.

  Guy deposited Hayat on the ground and jumped down from the stallion, tethering the animal just outside the tavern. “Stay here!” he ordered. The slave girl bobbed her head, gasping as he pulled his glinting sword from the scabbard at his belt and ran to the door, which suddenly swung open.

  Guy had scarcely an instant to step clear before out tumbled a Genoese mariner who was holding his bleeding arm and wailing to the high heavens and numerous saints for mercy, while behind him stormed Simon Renier, clad only in braies and chausses. The stocky crusader was bellowing curses and waving his bloodied sword in one hand while he yanked a woman with streaming black hair into the street.

  “Leila!” Guy breathed, recognizing her instantly.

  From what he could tell she seemed unhurt, although the dark tunic she must have borrowed from the clothing chest was rent in two, exposing her filmy garments underneath. As she fought against Renier’s beefy grasp, scratching and kicking him like a little wildcat, Guy caught tantalizing glimpses of creamy flesh and slender limbs, and he was filled with desire and envy. How he wished he was in Renier’s place so he might tame her!

  His arousing fantasy was tempered when Leila suddenly spied him and stopped cold. He could swear he saw a flicker of relief in those stormy violet eyes, but it quickly vanished and she jutted out her chin. She was such a breathless vision it was almost impossible to look away, but he did when the older knight lifted his blade over the cowering soldier.

  “Renier, stay your sword!” he shouted.

  “What?” Renier blustered, half turning as he noticed Guy for the first time. “Ah, de Warenne!” The half-naked crusader roughly pulled Leila in front of his protruding stomach, and caught her around the waist, his bare arm pushing up her breasts. “Is this your woman?”

  His gaze moving reluctantly from those seductive swells, Guy could not suppress a grin as he saw Leila bristle. “Yes, she’s mine.”

  “I thought as much. Here I was a-whoring when I heard a terrible ruckus next door, screeching and hollering and cursing—not your normal love play, mind you, so I decided to take a look. Sweet Mother of Mary, what should I find? Three mariners fighting over the lady here, while she huddled on a bed. I’ve never seen such hair and eyes! I knew at once she was the woman you described to me at the waterfront, Leila, the one you’re escorting home to that traitor, Gervais.”

  With a grunt, Renier pushed her toward Guy. “You would do well to keep a better eye on her, de Warenne. A pretty piece like that, alone in the streets…” He shook his shaggy head, sucking the blood from the deep red scratches on his forearm. “A vixen, too! You’ve got your hands full with that one.”

  “So it seems,” Guy said, grabbing Leila’s arm. Still silent, she tried to pull away, but he held her firmly. He dropped his voice, his words meant for her ears alone. “I hope you enjoyed the solitude of your afternoon stroll, my lady, for it is the last time you will leave my sight until we reach England.”

  Leila used her free hand to toss her tangled hair over her shoulder, his threat chilling her to the bone though she would have died before she showed it had struck home. Nor would she ever admit how glad she had been to see him a few moments ago. No, not even on her deathbed.

  “It matters naught to me what you do, my lord,” she sneered instead, feeling his fingers tighten cruelly around her arm. “You can go to hell for all I care.”

  “What did I tell you, de Warenne?” Renier shouted, throwing his head back and laughing uproariously. “A true vixen with a viperous tongue to match! What a journey you shall have!” But his laughter suddenly ceased as he raised his sword and struck viciously at the kneeling sailor, decapitating him with one solid blow.

  Sickened, Leila watched incredulously as the head rolled down the street and bumped with a dull thud into a wall.

  “Barbarians. Savages,” she whispered to herself in horror.

  “Not barbarism at all, and certainly no less than what your adopted countrymen would have done to me,” Guy disagreed harshly. “Justice.” When she merely turned her face from him, he added, “If this man’s punishment so grieves you, my lady, know this. He would still be alive if not for your folly.”

  “You blame me for this? They attacked me, you… you lout! Not the other way around—”

  “Well, fair or no, that’s the last of them,” Simon Renier interrupted matter-of-factly, unperturbed by the blood splatters on his hairy legs or their bickering. “If you’ll excuse me, my lady.” He bowed gallantly, then turned to Guy with a lusty smile. “De Warenne. I’ve a wench waiting for me upstairs who grows cool from my long absence.”

  “My thanks, Simon,” Guy said, meaning it more than he could say, the idea of losing Leila like a raw pain centered over his heart. He clasped the older knight’s wrist.

  “It’s not every day a man rescues a beautiful maiden. Just glad I was there to help.” Simon bent and wiped his sword on the dead man’s stained tunic, then lumbered to the door, calling out, “A good journey to you both!” The crusader’s booming laughter sounded again, fading as he disappeared into the tavern.

  “Hayat!”

  “I’m here, Lord de Warenne,” the slave girl answered, scampering from the crowd of bystanders who had gathered to watch the gruesome scene.

  Leila glared back at the approving faces, Arabs and native Christians alike, disgusted by their evident love for bloodsport. She could not say she was surprised. The people in this city had mingled so much with the crusaders they could not help but be influenced by their brutal ways. To gape so at a man lying beheaded in the street

  She gasped as Guy suddenly picked her up and carried her over to the stallion, where he threw her over the broad saddle, knocking the wind from her.

  “How dare you!” she sputtered, enraged. She tried to raise herself up and slide off the horse, but he forced her down again and quickly mounted behind her. He laid his hand flat on her rump, his strength easily preventing her from making another movement. When he caressed her lightly she almost choked, her face burning, wholly humiliated that he would do such a thing to her in public!

  “Take your hand from me!” she sputtered indignantly, the reins flicking lightly across her back as he turned the stallion around. His thighs were as hard as steel where they pressed against her.

  “Don’t say another word, my lady, or I can assure you a sound slap on your delectable bottom will surely follow,” Guy stated. “That should entertain these good people.”

  “Why … why you—” She bit off the colorful names she was about to call him when she saw him raise his hand over her buttocks. With a sigh of pure frustration, she dropped her head and went limp, resigning herself to the indignity of her transport. Better that than be further disgraced by this vulgar and sorry excuse for a man.

  “Up with you, Hayat,” Guy said, trying to keep from chuckling as he lifted the slave girl behind him. He had a good idea what Leila was thinking of him at that moment, and he knew it wasn’t complimentary. Yet it didn’t bother him in the least. Strangely, now that he knew she was safe, he was enjoying himself immensely. Leila was the most spirited, exasperating, spoiled, misguided, imperious, exciting, and utterly beautiful woman he had ever known.

  Guy glanced down at his sullen and silent captive, and was tempted to give her pretty rump a good slap just for leading him on such a dangerous chase. As Renier had said, it seemed he had his hands full. Delightfully.

  ***

  Much to Leila’s seething irritation, it became clear once they returned to Refaiyeh’s home that Guy meant exactly what he said about not letting her out of his sight. He began dogging her every move, crowding her until it seemed he left her no air to breathe. His constant presence overwhelmed her; his huge body seemed to fill up every space he entered. Leila was forced to eat her evening meal with him and the striking Arab woman; who didn’t seem pleased with the new arrangement. After Leila had relieved herself—with Guy standing right outside the water closet’s cracked door, m
uch to her humiliation! —she was seated in the garden on a cushion and bound to an orange tree with a silken cord. He and Refaiyeh sat together on a bench in the shadows, talking and sometimes laughing.

  Their conversation was too low for Leila to understand the words. Not that she cared in the least. She hadn’t said a word herself since Guy had threatened to slap her. It was small revenge for the callous way he was treating her. His every attempt to coax her to talk at supper had failed miserably.

  Besides, it had been days since she had eaten, and she had been too hungry to talk. The spiced meat pastries and fruited yogurt had tasted like manna from heaven, and the red wine had mercifully blunted her mental anguish and growing despondency.

  Exhausted, Leila soon let her head slump to her chest, Refaiyeh’s low dulcet tones and Guy’s rougher, deeper voice lulling her to sleep. She did not know when he finally unbound her and lifted her into his strong arms, nor did she feel him lay her down upon the bed or see him strip out of his clothes.

  It was only when she felt an incredible warmth at her back that she awoke with a start, so muddled from sleep that she did not know if she had dreamed the stirring sensation. She felt someone slide a hand along the soft undersides of her breasts, pulling her close. Abruptly, fully, awake, Leila froze.

  Dear God in heaven, the crusader was sleeping with her! She never would have thought he would carry his indignities so far as this! She felt such a flush of red-hot fury that she elbowed him sharply in the ribs, flailing her limbs and struggling mightily to escape his embrace. But he merely trapped her beneath a heavy thigh.

  “It’s no use, my lady,” Guy murmured huskily into her ear. “You cannot escape. Now go to sleep. We leave at sunrise to catch our ship for Marseilles.”

  It was true, she thought resignedly, going limp in his arms. Her efforts were utterly useless, like a fly fluttering its wings in a spider’s web. She decided instead to goad him with her tongue, ever seeking some modicum of revenge, some way to hurt this man who was destroying her life.