Hayat bobbed her head, a small smile on her lips. She watched enrapt as Leila quickly worked through the tangles and then brushed out her long hair until it shone.
“Have you never cut it?” the slave girl asked curiously, tentatively touching a silky strand.
“No. Where I come from, a woman’s hair is her glory and after marriage, her husband’s pride …” She fell silent, swallowing hard against the rush of homesickness that threatened to bring on a useless bout of weeping. She sat heavily on the bed, handing Hayat the brush. “Here. You may braid it now.”
She scarcely paid any attention as the slave girl deftly plaited her hair with nimble fingers, only noticing when Hayat ran to the chest and pulled out a square of patterned silk and a thin silver circlet that glinted in the lamplight.
“Englishwomen wear veils?” she asked, surprised, as Hayat folded the silk and placed it over her head so that the embroidered edges fell to just below her shoulders.
“Oh, yes, and many other types of headdress besides,” the girl replied, setting the silver circlet around Leila’s forehead. “But the veil and fillet serve your beauty well, mistress.” She stepped back and clapped her hands together. “There. A true English lady, just as Lord de Warmth wanted!”
Hayat ran so swiftly to the door that Leila was barely on her feet when the portal was flung wide. Leila held her breath as Guy slowly entered, his gaze raking her from head to foot in a manner that sent her pulse racing.
“So, my taste in women’s fashion has not failed me,” he said, standing with his feet spread wide and his hands on his hips. “I knew English clothing would suit you. I can almost hear the jealous buzz you will cause among the ladies when we arrive at Edward’s court.”
Truly, he had seen no finer figure on any woman, Guy decided, his earlier irritation at her mention of Refaiyeh all but forgotten. He stared appreciatively, marveling at how the simple lines of Leila’s gown clung to each exquisite curve of her body.
His eyes lingered on her full breasts, her taunting nipples clearly visible beneath the smooth fabric, then his gaze fell to a waistline as slim and supple as a reed. The girdle wound about her body in a most enviable manner, the knot tied in the silk plaits resting against the virgin juncture of her thighs.
Guy felt such a hot rush of desire that he called out to Hayat, “Where is her surcoat?” with the intention of covering Leila from other men’s eyes.
“I left it in the chest, my lord,” the slave girl replied, scurrying forward to stand beside him, her face tilted upward. “It will be so warm today—”
“Please fetch it, Hayat.”
The girl did as he bade her, pulling from the chest a voluminous linen garment. She carried it to Leila, who looked skeptically at Guy, her fine black eyebrows arching.
“I am to wear yet another gown?” she asked, her eyes flashing at him. “Surely I will suffer from the heat, just as Hayat says—”
“Put it on, my lady. The added warmth will be nothing to the discomfort you would suffer if a thousand pair of eyes were devouring your charms. There will be battles aplenty over you once we reach England, without our encouraging them here in Acre.”
“I would not have thought a courageous knight such as you feared any battle, let alone one caused by a woman’s beauty,” she said sarcastically. “Is it possible my mother has committed me to a coward?”
Guy’s eyes narrowed dangerously at her. “In truth, my lady, I fear no battles but the one I wage myself. A virgin’s scent is a tempting trial for any man, but I have sworn to protect, not ravage you. Have I made myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” Leila said with contempt, though the effect of his words was reflected more accurately in her wildly beating heart.
She had never seen such blatant desire in a man’s eyes, not even Jamal’s as she saw now in Guy’s. Strangely it thrilled her, which disconcerted her all the more, and she realized she was trembling, her heart pounding. It was almost as if he were touching her, caressing her, such was the scorching intensity of his gaze. She imagined he must have looked at her like that last night when he
“The surcoat, my lady. Put it on.”
His terse command broke the spell, leaving her angered and deeply embarrassed. How could her emotions betray her so easily, she, who had always prided herself on her self-control? When it came to this man, she seemed to have no restraint at all. He brought out the very worst in her.
Leila grabbed the square-necked garment and thrust it over her head, upsetting the veil and fillet, which tumbled to the floor. All the while she stared furiously at Guy, hardly aware that Hayat was guiding her arms through the sleeveless sides, slit from shoulder to hip. It wasn’t until a look of slow triumph spread across Guy’s face that she glanced down at herself.
The surcoat hung about her in myriad folds from the neckline to the trailing hem, completely hiding her feminine curves. Only her arms were revealed and a bit of sky-blue silk and embroidered girdle peeking from the narrow slits.
“I can see you are satisfied,” she flung at him, holding still while Hayat climbed on the bed and pulled her long braid from beneath the surcoat, then resettled the veil and circlet on her head.
Guy came forward and took her arm. “Hayat, see that everything is well packed while I escort the lady to breakfast. The wagon is loaded except for this last chest. I will send the bearers to fetch it in a few minutes.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The liar! Leila fumed with acute regret, stiffening at his touch. So he hadn’t been outside her door the whole time after all, just checking on her now and then while loading the wagon.
Striving to remain calm, she allowed herself to be led from the room, though her irritation was heightened by her difficulty walking in so many skirts. She marveled that he would think she had any appetite at all on this darkest day of her life.
Wait. Be patient, she told herself grimly as they proceeded to the kitchen. As soon as his guard was down, she would make her move. He couldn’t possibly watch her every single moment. At some point he would look away, and when he turned back, she would be gone.
***
When Leila stepped on board the armed galley an hour later, she knew she was going to be sick. The ship’s rolling motion, even at anchor, mirrored what was happening in her stomach. If not for Guy tightly gripping her arm, she would have turned and tied right back down the gangplank.
She had already tried to flee twice, the first time when Guy was supervising the bearers who were loading the chest filled with her belongings into a wagon while she stood waiting by the door with Hayat. As soon as Guy had turned his back, she had set off at a run down the street, but she was hindered by her long, foreign clothes—truly the ugliest and most cumbersome garments she had ever seen—and he caught her easily. So much for waiting until his guard was down.
Then, during the short ride from Refaiyeh’s house to the busy harbor, she had tried again, jumping from the wagon and pushing her way through the crowded market, only to find herself yanked back by her surcoat and tossed unceremoniously over Guy’s shoulder. When she began shouting in Arabic for help, caking him names and even cursing at him, it had taken only a terse reminder of his threat the night before and the sensation of his hands caressing the backs of her thighs to silence her.
To make matters worse, when they had returned to the wagon, he had sat her on his knee like a naughty little girl, much to the amusement of the merchants, shoppers, and even children who pointed at her and sniggered. Her cheeks burned at their laughter, and she longed for a face veil to hide her shame. Most women in Acre wore no such veils in public, a sight that shocked her.
She had kept her head bowed all the way to the harbor, desperately wishing a magic genie would spirit her away on a flying carpet, like the unhappy damsels in Majida’s fanciful stories. But when she saw the galley looming in front of them, she knew there was no hope of rescue or escape. At least not in Acre.
She had never been on a seagoing vessel, only
small pleasure crafts built to glide across artificial lakes and lotus-choked pools such as the one at the sultan’s grand palace in Cairo; or flat-bottomed rafts used for crossing the Euphrates and Tigris rivers on the way to Baghdad. This ship was bigger than anything she had ever seen, a hundred feet between bow and stem with two tall masts, triangular sails, and two banks of oars. It had been all she could do to climb the gangplank, she was so overwhelmed by the ship’s size.
Now she clutched at her stomach, watching queasily as Guy directed their two chests aboard. He gave little notice of her standing a few feet behind him, though she sensed he knew exactly where she was. He glanced over his shoulder when she gasped.
“You look a queer shade of green, my lady. Are you going to be ill?”
Leila could only nod weakly.
“Then to the side with you.” He grasped her arm and steered her to the railing, holding her head as she lost what little breakfast she had forced herself to consume earlier that morning. Coughing and sputtering, she felt so terrible she gave no heed to the coarse comments made by passengers and homeward-bound pilgrims still waiting to board.
“If it’s beginning already, I fear you’re going to make a pitiful traveling companion,” Guy said, his hands surprisingly gentle as he wiped her mouth with a square of linen he had drawn from the leather pouch hanging from his belt.
“What are you talking about?” Leila asked, her knees shaking. She took the proffered linen, balling it in her hand.
“Seasickness. Come on, I’ll take you to our cabin so you can lie down.”
Leila groaned, feeling so nauseated that she didn’t comment on his reference to their shared accommodations. Nor did she try to pull away from him as he again took her arm.
She remotely recalled studying seasickness in medical books. Little could be done for it except bed rest and perhaps some simple drug to calm the stomach. But her medicines were in Damascus, along with her mother, her father, Majida, Jamal, the hospital that was her second home, her patients, her hopes, her dreams …
Tears burned her eyes, and Leila could scarcely see as Guy led her toward the stern and what appeared to be a castlelike structure built in two tiers atop the main deck. He helped her climb the steep stairs to the top level, where he pushed open a door and led her inside a low-ceilinged cabin.
“Luxurious, isn’t it?” Guy asked, clearly pleased with himself. When she did not readily reply, he added with a slight shrug, “Well, it is for a ship. This cabin belongs to the captain, but he was willing to part with it during the voyage for two ruby earrings and a diamond brooch.”
Her mother’s priceless jewelry, Leila thought unhappily, wiping away her tears with the crumpled linen as she looked around her. The cabin was larger than she might have imagined. Guy had to crouch because he was so tall, but other than that the interior was roomy and comfortable.
There was a bed against a side wall—only the second such piece of furniture she had ever seen—a carved table, and two high-backed wooden objects. She assumed from the small, brocade cushions that these were meant to be sat on, but they looked extremely uncomfortable.
“Chairs,” Guy said softly, studying her with a slight smile. “In England a lady of gentle breeding does not sit or sleep on the floor.”
Leila ignored him, thinking the English were surely mad to prefer such hard furnishings to soft pillows and mattresses spread upon thick carpets. She noted the round Persian rug on the planked floor and the gold velvet bedspread, both of which looked threadbare, but what really drew her attention was the oriel window projecting from the cabin wall above the bed. Nearly the same length across as the headboard and equally as high, the window was fitted with thick, bumpy panes that allowed a blurred, panoramic view of Acre’s harbor.
Staring in wonderment, Leila temporarily forgot her nausea. She had seen glass windows before in Sultan Baybar’s palace, and of course in the small church where she and her mother worshipped in Damascus, but never would she have dreamed a window could be fitted into a ship like this one.
“It opens. Look,” Guy said, taking care to keep his head down as he crossed the cabin. He lifted a latch attached to one of the lower panes, splayed his fingers upon the glass, and pushed. Sure enough, the window opened outward like a tiny door, moving on hinges fit into a wooden frame.
Leila inhaled the fresh air wafting into the cabin, the breeze smelling of fish and the sea. She smiled unconsciously, liking the pungent smell and feeling better than she had since boarding the ship.
“Sweet Jesu, I didn’t think you could do it,” Guy said almost under his breath, gazing at her with a strange expression on his face.
“What?” Leila asked suspiciously, sobering.
“Smile. You should do so more often, my lady. Rare beauty like yours grows even more fair with a smile upon your lips.”
“Surely you jest,” Leila said bitterly, looking down at her hands. “I have nothing to smile about.”
“Perhaps in time you will change your mind,” came his soft rejoinder, stirring the anger that was brewing within her like a sudden summer storm. “We could have a pleasant journey together, Leila, if you would set aside your vain hopes of escaping and accept my aid.”
“Your aid?” she hissed, her eyes flashing with cold accusation as she met his solemn gaze. “You forget you have kidnapped me against my will, Lord de Warenne. ‘Tis not help, but a crime you have committed. Everything and everyone I love is in Damascus. My life’s work is there—”
“Life’s work?” Guy scoffed unkindly, his temper rising as an unfamiliar pang of jealousy speared his heart. That she could possibly love an unbeliever was beyond his comprehension, and that he could be envious of such a man was equally so! “What life’s work could you possibly have had but as wife to an infidel, bearing him children who would be outcasts in either world!” From the bright spots of color on her cheeks, he could see that his words had angered her all the more, but his frustration at her stubbornness was so great that he could not stop. “Oh, yes, I almost forgot. You were a physician’s helper. Changing bandages and a baby’s dirtied linen use much the same skills, I’d wager.”
She rushed at him so suddenly that he barely caught her hand before she slapped him. He hit his head on the low rafters trying to dodge the blow. Yet the dull pain seemed like nothing compared to the sheer misery reflected in her gaze. Tears swam in her eyes, and her expression was so anguished that he was assailed by guilt. He had pushed her too far.
“Not a … helper,” she choked, sobbing and struggling against his iron grip, her face wet with tears. “My father made me tell you that … to—to protect me. I was—” She drew a shuddering breath, which made his throat tighten all the more. “Damn you, de Warenne, damn you to hell! I was his apprentice! After my marriage, I would have been a physician. I would have joined my father’s practice along with his son, Jamal Al-Aziz … my new husband. It was my dream! To be a physician was all I ever wanted … and now you’ve ruined everything!”
Guy was stunned. He had never heard of a woman physician. Women healers and midwives abounded in England, but schooled physicians were always men. His gut instinct told him she was speaking the truth—no mere helper could possess the superior medical skills she had displayed in his prison cell—yet it was so hard to believe. To him, a woman’s life work consisted of caring for her husband and children and supervising a great household.
“How can this be?” he queried sharply. “I know of no female physicians—”
“In my culture they are a common thing!” she broke in hoarsely. “Do you think male physicians are allowed into a harem’s guarded sanctity? No! Only a woman may enter, a woman skilled in all aspects of medicine who may treat whatever malady she encounters. It is the same in our hospitals, where female patients too ill to remain in the harem are cared for in secluded wards. Yet I was also allowed to treat men. How else could I have assisted my father in your care? And do you think I learned how to cauterize wounds by chance, a skill which s
aved your life? No! I have been studying for my profession since I was ten years old, and I have been an apprentice for the last four. Nine long years” —her arm wildly swept the cabin— “only to have this happen to me!”
Guy’s amazement was great. Leila was so different, so far outside his own experience. She was like an exotic flower opening to the sun, the unfurling petals revealing layer upon layer, each more rare than the last. Trained in sensual arts. A female physician. He was utterly fascinated by her. Yet her life would be far different in England, and it was best that she realize that now. She must begin to prepare herself for the reality of her true homeland.
“You may have held such a position in Damascus, but that will not be possible in England,” he said, knowing from her stricken expression how cruel he must sound. “When you become the mistress of your husband’s castle, you must confine your medicine to the care of your family and perhaps your servants. It is the way of things.”
“No! I will never accept it!” Leila cried vehemently, striking his chest with her fists. “You bastard! What a fool I was! How could I ever have pitied you? I wish I had never seen your face! I wish they had chopped off your head!”
Guy grimaced as she lent a blow to his shoulder wound, but somehow the pain seemed well deserved.
How deeply he had just hurt her, yet he never meant her any harm. He had unwittingly altered her life and her dreams because he had been convinced she would welcome his rescue.
Now there was nothing he could do but fold her in his embrace, for already he heard the captain shouting orders to his crew to man their oars. Already the ship was shuddering and creaking as it was pushed away from the dock. They were under way, their journey begun.
Captive Rose Page 14
