Leila had said few words to him since he had stormed a second time from their cabin, and he couldn’t blame her. For all of his talk of not ravaging her and his vow to protect her person from any danger, he had acted abominably.
He had sworn to himself from that night on that he would not so much as touch her unless she needed his assistance, no matter the longing which raged like a swirling vortex inside him whenever he was near her. It was strange and frightening and growing more intense each day, like a fire burning out of control.
God help him, he would see that they set a demon’s pace to London! This baffling, fascinating, and utterly exquisite woman was proving too much of a temptation for his most chivalrous intentions.
They were almost to the gangplank when Leila hesitated, and Guy quickly decided she could probably use his help now. Still a bit wobbly on her feet from her prolonged seasickness, she was staring uncertainly at the steeply sloping wooden plank.
“Take my arm, Leila,” he offered gently, and was almost startled when she did. He gazed at her small white hand resting on his forearm, marveling at the elegant delicacy of her fingers, then caught her eyes. But she quickly glanced away. A shallow furrow creased her brow, and she licked her lips nervously as she surveyed the bustling waterfront.
Guy could well understand her apprehension. As soon as she stepped from this ship, she would be entering a completely foreign world from the one she had known in Damascus.
He hoped she would not think it a nightmare. His first few days in the Holy Land over a year ago had been difficult, but he had looked upon the experience as an adventure. Perhaps she might do the same, though he doubted it. She seemed determined to resist him and what he was doing for her every step of the way.
“Hold on tight,” he bade her, walking slowly down the gangplank. “If I’m rushing you, just let me know.”
“I’m fine,” Leila insisted sharply, although she wasn’t sure. The chink of Guy’s heavy chain mail was a wholly new and ominous sound to her, and the interlocking rings felt cold beneath her fingertips. Just touching it gave her a sense of foreboding for what was yet to come in this unknown land.
He was practically encased in metal, from the fitted coif over his head to his feet, and the act of dressing himself had been a laborious and lengthy process. As the ship had sailed into the harbor, she had watched Guy’s transformation from the tall, powerfully built man to whom she had reluctantly grown accustomed into an even more foreboding warrior knight. Now she felt as if she hardly knew him.
While he had dressed his demeanor had changed, his expression becoming harder, almost grim as he first attached stout hose and mailed leggings, or chausses, to his braies. After that came an undertunic and a padded jacket like the one her father had cut from him in the governor’s prison—a gambeson, Guy had called it. Then he had drawn on his hauberk, a long-sleeved mailed shirt which reached to his knees, and a mailed hood that covered his ears and neck. Lastly came a white linen surcoat emblazoned with the now-familiar crimson cross and his waist belt with its sheathed sword.
He had already explained he was wearing his armor because of potential dangers they would face along the road. Thieves, vagabonds and outlaws would be much less likely to attack a fully armed knight.
That unpleasant information had sunk her morale to a new low. But she didn’t hit rock bottom until he told her she would have to play the part of his wife for her own safety until they reached London. The ultimate charade!
“Careful as you step onto the dock,” Guy cautioned her, his warning drawing her thoughts instantly back to the present. “Good, now stay very close to me … like a dutiful wife. As soon as we hire a wagon and our chests are loaded, we’ll be gone from here.”
“Dutiful wife, indeed,” she muttered. She shot him a venomous glance which seemed to amuse him, but she did stay close to him, avoiding the crush of humanity all around her, and clutched his arm tightly.
The docks were crowded with all manner of folk, mariners and richly clad foreign merchants, barefoot urchins dashing in and out, ragged hawkers selling their wares, pilgrims and hooded clergy, and even brazen women baring their breasts and calling out lustily to disembarking passengers. Leila was so shocked she forgot her self-imposed reticence and tugged on Guy’s mailed sleeve.
“Are those women—?”
“Prostitutes,” Guy finished for her, a wry smile on his lips. “Incoming ships bring them a healthy trade, and from the looks of this lot” —he nodded toward some dusty pilgrims coming ashore— “they could use what these ladies have to offer.”
“Ladies?” Leila scoffed. “Those women would be executed without a trial in Damascus!”
“Then it’s a good thing for them they’re not in Damascus,” Guy quipped, waving off a russet-haired woman who was sauntering toward him.
“Are you sure now, my lord?” the woman queried skeptically in heavily accented English, flashing Guy a wide, gap-toothed smile. “That little lady doesn’t look to me as if she can bear the weight of you like these lily-white thighs! Why don’t you give ‘em a try? I’ll give you a ride you won’t forget!”
“Better yet,” another harlot shouted, shoving the red-haired woman aside, “you’re such a fine-looking man I’ll pay you for the tumble! If the rest of you is as big” —her eyes fell to his crotch and she grinned lustily— “ah, now that would be a sight to see!”
“How—how dare they!” Leila blurted, her cheeks firing as both women laughed and pushed their way back into the crowd when Guy merely smiled and shook his head.
“Ignore it,” he suggested, guiding her to where a line of horse-drawn wagons were waiting for hire. “You’ll find the peasants are a crude lot, but they generally mean no harm.”
Crude wasn’t the word for it, Leila thought, her head beginning to ache. More like vile, base, and barbaric, just as she expected. She felt as if she had been dropped into some sort of swirling hell, such was the raucous activity and babble of languages all around her.
“Wait here,” Guy said, leaving her beside a stack of wine barrels before she could protest and walking toward a group of coarsely dressed man gathered by the wagons.
Leila didn’t like being left alone in this motley throng, but she had the distinct feeling Guy was maintaining a watchful eye on her, which made her feel a little better. She kept her gaze trained on him, trying to ignore the curious and leering glances being cast her way from male passersby.
It shocked her that men would stare at her so openly. In Damascus, women were treated with respect, and of course in public they wore numerous veils to shield themselves from any unwelcome attentions.
Without a face veil she felt exposed and naked, and she wondered how long it would take her to become used to the fact that women here wore no such veils. She hoped she would be back in Syria soon, and wouldn’t have to worry about it!
Leila watched Guy through her lowered lashes and was astonished to see the men sweep off their caps and bow their heads in deference as he approached. Was he a great man, that they would treat him so? She decided they were probably acting out of fear. Guy towered above them, the rugged breadth of his shoulders equal to that of two men. With the sunlight glinting off his polished mail, he was a formidable sight.
She surmised the transaction was completed when one of the men ran to a nearby wagon and jumped into the driver’s seat, snapping his whip across the two draft horses’ rumps while Guy strode back to her. She experienced a rush of pleasure in his commanding appearance, but she quickly brushed it off, angry that she would feel that way.
“The driver will load our chests and then come around to pick you up,” Guy said, glad to be back by her side. He didn’t like leaving her alone, even for a moment.
Leila looked lovelier than any woman had a right to, despite the gray linen tunic and matching surcoat he had insisted she wear for their journey overland to Avignon. He would see that she continued to dress plainly until they were out of France. He did not trust these foreign
ers, even though it was from this land that his own ancestors had sprung. In England few would dare to assault them, but here…
“Won’t you be riding in the wagon?” she asked, glancing sideways at him.
“No.” Guy nodded to the dappled gray stallion being led toward them. “If I need to fight, I want to have a good horse beneath me.”
He saw a flicker of fear in her eyes, and she seemed about to respond when she was distracted by a wild brawl that had broken out between some sailors. He paid the men no heed, studying her face instead. An overwhelming sense of protectiveness surged through him as he wondered if their journey would take any further toll upon her health. He hoped not.
Leila had lost weight during the voyage, due to her seasickness but also to the galley cook’s indifferent fare. He, too, had had trouble stomaching the poorly prepared food, but he had forced himself to eat while Leila could not. Her high cheekbones were more finely etched, her eyes large and darkly violet in a face that had grown too pale. He would have to see that she ate well to restore the healthy glow she had possessed in Damascus. Thankfully he still had plenty of Lady Eve’s jewels to amply provide for their needs.
“Your charette, my lady,” he said when their newly hired driver halted the four-wheeled wagon in front of them and prepared to jump down from his seat. “Stay where you are, man. I’ll see to my wife.”
Ignoring Guy’s proffered arm, Leila looked doubtfully at their roughly constructed conveyance. It was so crude compared to the silk curtained litters she knew from home; no pillows or cushions, only dank straw heaped upon the wagon floor to soften the ride. “Where am I to sit?”
“In the back with our chests,” Guy replied, catching her around the waist. “Up you go.”
Leila gasped as he swung her into the wagon, and was mortified by the driver’s gruff chuckle of approval. From the man’s reaction, it seemed to be a common thing for women to be so roughly handled. She sat down awkwardly amid the straw, wrenching the surcoat’s voluminous folds around her knees.
“We have to make a few stops before we leave the city,” Guy informed her as he mounted the stallion. “We need food and a pallet for you to sleep on—”
“Please, my lord, don’t trouble yourself on my account,” Leila interrupted irritably, sneezing at the musty straw. “This hay will serve me just as well.”
“Are you sure?” Guy asked, amusement lighting his eyes.
“Quite.
“Very well, then. If you’re stiff and sore tomorrow morning, you’ve only yourself to blame.”
She did not deign to reply as the wagon rumbled into motion. Instead she lowered her head and closed her eyes to the myriad perplexing sights her mind could no longer absorb. She could feel Guy watching her for a moment, but soon he rode ahead, leaving her to her silent misery.
***
When Leila awoke, she had no idea where she was. She tried to rise but fell back onto something quite soft, which was a great relief to her sore muscles and aching lower back. Then she felt the rocking motion; it was not as severe as what she had suffered during the sea voyage, but a rolling sensation just the same.
“Good afternoon, my lady.”
Her eyes widened at the sound of Guy’s voice and she turned to the side. He was sitting in a narrow wooden berth directly across from her, dressed in a tunic, hose, and his black knee boots. An oil lamp sputtered on the rough-hewn table between them.
“Afternoon?” she queried, confused. “I thought it was night.” She remembered being jostled along in that accursed wagon long past nightfall, unable to sleep for the constant bumping. Then overcome at last by sheer exhaustion, she had lain down in that smelly straw…
“You’ve been asleep since before we reached Avignon, well over thirteen hours ago by now. We’re on the boat to Lyons. At the rate these oarsmen are rowing, we’ll be there by sunrise tomorrow.”
Still dazed, she merely sighed and stared up at the low-beamed ceiling.
She wasn’t surprised she had slept so long after that grueling wagon ride. What did surprise her was that she wasn’t seasick, considering they were on another boat. Perhaps because this vessel was smaller—her gaze darted about the cramped cabin—much smaller, its motion wasn’t affecting her as much. Or maybe it was because they were on a river instead of the open sea. In any case, she was grateful.
She noted the shadows filling the comers and realized she would have had no idea it was afternoon if Guy hadn’t told her. There was no oriel window in this tiny cabin, in fact, no luxuries at all but the incredibly soft mattress on which she was lying. Covered with clean linen, it looked brand new. She hadn’t slept on anything so comfortable since leaving Refaiyeh’s house.
“I bought the mattress for you in Avignon,” Guy said with a half smile, reading her thoughts. “You should have heard the bedding merchant’s curses when I woke him early this morning.” He shrugged. “It was the least I could do to make up for the miserable ride to Lyons.”
Leila smiled back, touched by his thoughtfulness. “Thank you,” she murmured, quickly looking away when she saw a strange warmth flare in his eyes.
Instantly some of her good will vanished, and she resolved not to smile at him again if she could help it. She didn’t want to give him the impression her attitude toward him was softening. It wasn’t. Not in the least.
“How well do you ride horses, Leila?”
She glanced sharply at him. “Well enough. My father taught me. He owned some of the fastest Arabians in the empire—”
“Good. After we reach Lyons, we’ll ride post rather than continue on in wagons. They’re too slow.”
“Post?”
“It means we’ll ride hard, changing horses at inns along the way and resting only when necessary.”
“But what of our chests, our clothes … and this new mattress?”
“We’ll pack what we can in saddlebags and leave everything else behind. I’m determined to make it to London in time for Edward’s coronation. It will be a great day for England, and I don’t want to miss it.”
“So you’ll kill me to do so?” she queried, her temper rising. “You may be accustomed to spending long hours in a saddle, Lord de Warenne, but I am not. My riding was limited to short races across the desert.”
“Then you can ride with me,” he said with an engaging grin. “We accomplished our journey from Damascus to Acre like that, and I could do so again. Gladly. You fit quite snugly in my arms. Your added weight was no trouble at all.”
Exhaling in frustration, Leila rolled onto her side with her back to him, refusing to reply. Nor did she want him to see how his suggestion, and his handsome smile, had affected her. When he looked at her with that roguish glint in his eyes, she melted inside and she knew she was blushing foolishly. His smile aroused heated memories she had no wish to remember. Damn him!
“Either way, riding separately or together, we should be in Calais within six days,” he continued in a rakish tone that made her certain he had sensed her discomfort. “From there we’ll take a barge to Dover, then we’re only a day’s ride from Westminster.”
Leila’s thoughts spun at this news. They were less than a week’s journey from London! She would never have thought she would have so little time to effect an escape. And Guy seemed equally determined not to let her out of his sight. What was she to do?
A new thought struck her, an idea she hadn’t yet considered.
Maybe it might be better to wait until she was in her brother’s care. Surely Roger would listen to reason and allow her to return to Syria if he knew where her heart truly lay, no matter their mother’s misguided plans for her. Probably the last thing he would want was a sister he had never known to exist as an added responsibility. From what Guy had told her, it sounded as if Roger already had enough problems. He would be more than eager to be rid of her.
She pressed her lips stubbornly together. No, that idea had merit, but it would have to serve as her very last resort. She just wasn’t ready to give u
p yet. If the right situation arose and she could secure the remainder of the jewels her mother had given to Guy, she would be gone before he could blink.
She closed her eyes, wishing Guy would magically disappear and thus solve her miserable predicament when she heard his berth creak and his boots scrape on the floor. She jumped at the sharp pop of a stopper being pulled from a bottle.
“Care for some wine, my lady? I also have fresh baked bread, soft ripened cheese, hmmm, some roasted chicken …” He paused, smiling broadly at her when she peeked over her shoulder, then began to make a great show of rummaging in a large cloth sack and placing the named items on the table.
Leila’s nostrils flared, the savory smell of food making her mouth water and her stomach growl noisily. She winced in embarrassment and looked back at the wall.
“I’m not hungry.”
“What a pity,” he said nonchalantly. “Oh well, that just leaves all the more for me. This constant traveling has given me quite an appetite. I’m surprised you don’t feet the same.”
Leila listened, licking her lips, as he poured himself a goblet of wine. In truth she was terribly thirsty and her stomach was so hollow it hurt. It had been a long time since she had eaten a full meal. She was just about to relent when he suddenly inhaled with great vigor, and she turned over to find him sniffing the contents of a small basket.
“What’s in there?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
Guy held the basket lower so she might see, his lips twitching with humor. “The baker assured me these were the sweetest confections in his shop. I believe you have something like this in the Holy Land … almond pastries. I also bought some apple fritters dusted with cinnamon sugar, one of my favorites. There are three of each, all baked fresh this morning.”
The fragrant pastries proved too much for Leila. “May I have one?” she asked, beginning to think she would faint if she didn’t eat something.
“By all means, my lady,” Guy said, offering her the basket. “I purchased them especially for you.”
Captive Rose Page 17
