A Flame Run Wild

by Christine Monson

  After a long while, they parted reluctantly. "I ought to beat you," Alexandre whispered, "but I keep wanting to do it with your hair. Dieu, what a maddening, alluring creature you are. ..." His head lowered as if he were going to pursue that allure, but then he released her with a sigh.,"We are mad, both of us, to minutes, we could be slit to ribbons, yet here we are, playing like lovebirds." When she started to protest, he laid a finger against her lips. "Not another coo, ma comtesse. I want to enjoy more than a ruffling of your feathers tonight. Staying alive is a prerequisite to making love."

  She giggled. "I have always wanted to see a pigeon's teeny, weeny—"

  He swatted her bottom. "Mind your tongue, you minx. Teeny weeny's all you deserve tonight; that and a gray old man. Your persistent pursuit of disaster is aging me."

  Creeping like centipedes, they finally arrived at the oasis. The dry palms rattled in the wind. Frayed, heavily listless but for the stirrings of their long fronds, the palms were high and thin, scattered among thick catalpa and thorn bush. A low gully led through the undergrowth to a pool of water at the center of the oasis. Motioning Liliane to keep low, Alexandre followed the gully, his feet silent upon the dry round stones at its base. A stirring of dark shapes ahead made them freeze. A long head lifted, tugging as if trying to be free of something. A low scrape of rock sounded.

  "Two horses ahead," Alexandre whispered against her ear. "Stay here. Use the bow if their riders show."

  Leaving her crouched in a cluster of thorn bush, Alexandre began to circle the fringe of the clearing around the water. Moments later, a slight thrashing occurred in the undergrowth. Liliane held her breath and readied the bow. A burnoosed figure reared from the brush only inches from her, grabbed at a horse's head and swung up onto its back. She fired a quarrel at the flash of white above the burnoose. The Saracen went down. To her horror, the man was not dead. With a long gash splitting his nose and cheekbone, he charged her, his scimitar a wicked blur. Then a silver band blocked his throat and a dirk's blur counter-pointed the scimitar. The Saracen's hand clawed up, raked out, jerked and dropped limp. Liliane looked away as Alexandre pushed the dead Saracen away, then stooped to wipe his blade. He glanced up at the nervous tethered mount and the edgily dancing companion mare. "We are in luck. We ride back to camp. There is only one saddle, so the other horse must be a runaway." When she did not answer, he turned. "What is wrong?"

  "Nothing," she replied briefly. "I am just a little tired."

  He eyed her keenly. "Tired of walking or tired of splendid gore? Your stomach would not be beginning to rebel at your chosen profession, would it?"

  "Do not be rotten, Alexandre." She slumped down on a low bolder. "Do you really think I have been enjoying this marvelous, mosquito-ridden summer? Enjoy trying to slaughter men I do not hate, for a cause I find repellent?"

  "Oh, I thought you were having a fine time," he replied sardonically. "Tonight was particularly splendid. A pity you missed the show at Saladin's camp. We killed most of the wretches in their beds. Very gallant and chivalrous, we were. If they ever capture one of us, I should not blame them if they buried us alive in scorpions."

  "Stop it!"

  "Oh, but then you did not miss all the show. You arrived for the finale, and I do owe you thanks for saving my skin." His head cocked quizzically. "Just how did you happen to arrive at so convenient a moment?"

  "I joined the Saracen pursuit," she replied dully. "I was dressed like them. In the dark, they never noticed me."

  He was silent for a moment, then his breath came out in a hiss of weariness. "I might have known. But, then, why not? Why do we not all dress like Saracens and end up fighting ourselves? What is the difference?"

  "We are fighting each other again as we did this afternoon," she said quietly. "A little while ago, we were kissing."

  Alexandre stroked her hair. "Come, let us walk by the water. I want to declare an armistice."

  Her eyes slid over the Saracen. "I am not in the mood."

  "I should think a man's death might put you very much in the mood to enjoy peace," he murmured. "For myself, I need to look upon water tonight. I hope, par Dieu, that it is clean." He walked off toward the glimmer in the darkness.

  After a few minutes, Liliane followed him. The last thing she wanted now was to be alone with the Saracen—alone with herself. She saw Alexandre wandering about the patch of water. For a time, she followed him at a slight distance. The water was quiet, unlike anything she had seen in Palestine. Whatever muddy dregs the basin might hold, the pool surface looked clear at night. Beneath unnaturally large stars, it lay, a rare, liquid jewel where no fish swam among its facets, mirrors among mirrors. She moved close to Alexandre. "What if the Saracens come back?"

  "They will not. We are too far north."

  "What if they find the mare?"

  "What if they do?" He turned to her. "Are you afraid now? Your mind is darting about like a worried gazelle."

  "Afraid? Why should I be?" Liliane stared at the water, then shrugged uncertainly. "Yes. I am afraid. I have brought terrible differences between us, brought out monsters—distrust, lies, where we once had vowed to abolish deception. You still love me, but . . . you don't like me as much as you once did, do you?"

  His mouth stopped her. "Hush," he whispered. "Would you have me entirely ungrateful? Had you remained safely at home, I would have loved you no less, but whatever the cost, can you think I want you more tonight?" He kissed the corners of her mouth, her eyes, her ears. "Give me present delight and all your passion," he whispered huskily against her throat. "By day there is hell... by night there is you. . . ."

  His hands found her shoulders, then beneath the aba, found her womanly body warm and resilient. Pliant against him, she let the aba fall from her shoulders, arching back to offer her breasts, pale and pointed, to his seeking mouth. He browsed, finding honey there, her flesh feeding his quickening hunger. He tugged at her lower clothing, finding warmer honey between her thighs. Her arms wound about him, her hips moving with a magic of their own in reply to his adroit teasing. His manhood, already hardened beneath his braies, responded with a ready surge.

  "Damn," he swore softly, "this would be the time to be wearing armor!" He tugged hard at his leather fastenings, then with a swift movement, dragged both light armor and chainse over his head. He pulled her to him, his mouth capturing hers. Her buttocks fit in his hands, her flat belly rubbed his swollen groin. No longer able to control her own desire, she caressed him, bared him and closed on him. With a low groan, he bore her to the sand. Her long legs parted as she arched her back, and in a single thrust, he filled her. His slow, almost languid rhythm matched hers as they tantalized each other, brought their bodies apart and together as if in a sinuous, exotic dance, writhing together on the sand. His dark flesh slid against her paleness, his arms stretched with hers. Bound by desire, the one enslaved the other, craving each other, withholding only to yield again and again with the tiny silver claws and bells of love. The music quickened, intensifying the vibrato of their slim bodies as Alexandre lured his lady. Bending, arching, the sultry-eyed Liliane maddeningly tempted and evaded him until he was driven to claim her. Their pulses became as drums, their kisses wild cymbals as their bodies joined and strained, singing a high, primitive, piercing note that trembled to breathless silence. For a long while, there was stillness.

  His eyes inky, Alexandre looked down at Liliane, her perfect body pale, her blond hair spilled like shimmering light upon the sand. "Solomon was a great poet, yet I think he had no queen so fair as thou; Mohammed no houri. Tonight, I am as the kings and prophets, with all the possessions of earth and heaven in my arms."

  "Within your arms lies my world, and all I shall ever ask of heaven," Liliane whispered. "If tomorrow finds our love's starry illusion tarnished, I beg you not to cast me away in this wilderness; I fear I should never find my way back to you."

  His eyes narrowed slightly. "Would you do me dishonor? %u are my lady wife. That I would leave you is unth
inkable."

  "I will never hold you to honor's bond, Alexandre. Where love is not, honor will not suffice. Once duty drove us together, but it must not become a strangler."

  "What are you trying to say?"

  "That if the day ever comes when I no longer make you happy, I will leave willingly. We need not quarrel and turn all our blissful memories to hate.''

  "By Saint Michael," Alexandre said with a trace of impatience, "what preys upon your mind tonight? Have I just beaten you? Do I take my ease in the camp stews? Why will you invite demons of discontent into our very union?" He caught her face hard between his hands. "Our bliss is now. We shall not mar it with grim and groundless foreboding." His mouth came down on hers almost brutally, so much so that she wondered if he were not wrestling with his own doubts. Her fears were beginning to fade into growing passion when a stealthy rustle in the undergrowth startled them apart. Alexandre caught up his sword from his spilled clothing, the weaponless Liliane crouching behind him. The bush stirred, then a low, skulking shape slunk across the gully. Alexandre let out his breath. "Hyena. We had better get out of here. More are likely to be around. They may be cowards singly, but in a pack they are vicious."

  When they had dressed, he headed down the gully to the spot where they had left the Saracen and the horses. He dragged off the corpse's haik and tossed it to Liliane. "Here, you will need this. You cannot very well ride into camp with your hair flying."

  Liliane fought the urge to drop the haik. It hung from her hand like a shroud. The thought of wrapping it about her head and face stifled her. Untethering the horse, Alexandre did not notice her white face as she slowly donned the haik. Then, a muted cry from the thicket riveted their attention, and he tossed Liliane the reins. In a whisper, with his knife drawn, he disappeared into the brush. The brush rattled as someone tried to scramble away, then she heard a shriek, which was swiftly silenced. Moments later, Alexandre emerged from the thicket, dragging a struggling figure by the scruff. "A Saracen?" whispered Liliane.

  "Not quite," Alexandre replied dryly. "She is a Rifi. Round as an apple, with guts of jelly. Probably a slave, run off during the raid." He gave his squirming captive a shake to make her stand up. "If so, she has ran far enough to have raw feet, unless the saddleless horse was hers. That dead Saracen on the ground must have pursued her." The girl was swathed in voluminous garments to the neck. A veil covered her face to her eyes, which were eloquent with fear and entreaty.

  "We cannot leave her here."

  "Why not?" Alexandre shrugged. "They will treat her like a pig in Acre. A Saracen patrol will check by here tomorrow and see her back to their camp." "

  "For a worse fate! Alexandre, she must have been desperate to run into the desert between enemy armies. God knows what sort of master she has! At the least, she is certain to be dreadfully punished."

  The Rifi girl looked dolefully up at Alexandre as if to confirm Liliane's assessment. He sighed. "Oh, all right. We'll take her to Acre, but be warned: she is going to prove a nuisance."

  Liliane was no longer paying attention to him. She was again all too aware of the smell of blood on the haik.

  Chapter 11

  ~

  Trouble in the Tent

  Acre

  Same night

  Just before dawn, the little band reached the crusader camp, which was in a turmoil. All night, fragments of Alexandre's band had made their way back with conflicting casualty reports. Alexandre himself was thought to be dead.

  Philip met them at the ditchworks. "God's bones!" He seized Alexandre by his dusty shoulders. "You took long enough getting back! What the devil happened?" His green eyes flicked knowingly to the sloe-eyed little Rifi. "Or should I ask?"

  Alexandre grinned wickedly. "Oh, the wench belongs to Jefar here. He could not resist her bottom. Threw her right over his shoulder and skipped out of an amir's tent." He flashed Liliane a mischievous glance. She smiled lazily back and gave the Rifi's bottom a pinch that dulled his amusement.

  "Flanchard says you did not do much damage," Philip observed. "So far, you appear to have lost six men, among them two of my likeliest knights.''

  "We killed nearly fifty Saracens and spread havoc. By my reckoning, sire, that is a tidy maneuver:''

  "Can you establish your figures?"

  "Most of my men are better at mathematics than Flanchard."

  "They had better be. Richard is frothing for an accounting." Philip pushed through his hovering guards. "Come along, mon ami, time to recite your sums."

  When Alexandre hesitated, Liliane gave him an inscrutably Eastern anile. "Do not worry. I shall see to the girl."

  On the way to the tent, Liliane wondered if the Rifi had seen her back at the oasis without her haik and quite possibly without any clothes at all. If so, the girl might prove more than a mere nuisance and must immediately be-sent out of Acre on an east-bound caravan. If questioned about what she had seen, she would surely lie. Liliane had a better way of picking her brains.

  Once inside the tent, she examined the Rifi with a deliberately cold eye. By dawn's light, the girl was very pretty, with a ripely rounded body and the large dark eyes of a gazelle. She was also no more than sixteen and stiff with fear. "What is your name?" Liliane demanded.

  The girl looked startled, then her brow furrowed in effort to understand Liliane's Spanish Arabic. "Saida," she whispered plaintively. "I was a slave of Idi ben Ibrahim. He bought me in Damascus when I was a child and mercilessly beat me."

  "No doubt for chattering," Liliane observed tauntingly. The Rifi must be tested as to what she had seen and heard at the oasis; also whether she could be relied upon to hold her tongue. "I did not ask for the details of your life." She stalked around the chastened girl. "This Ibrahim must have been a beggar. You are on the skinny side."

  For a moment, Saida lost her fear. "Idi ben Ibrahim was a great lord!" she retorted indignantly. "He chose me over forty other girls!"

  "For what reason, I cannot imagine." Liliane sauntered over to a fruit bowl, selected a few dates and dropped comfortably onto Alexandre's pallet. She popped a date into her mouth, then muttered darkly, "Probably we should sell you to a brothel to make up for the trouble of saving you from the desert."

  Terrified, Saida threw herself at Liliane's feet. "Great lord, I beg you have mercy! Do not let me be defiled by infidels!" A desperate, cunning determination came into her eyes. Crawling forward, she insinuated herself about Liliane's knees, allowing a generous view of her breasts in her low-cut bodice. "Lord, I know ways to please thee that thou hast not dreamed of. Let me prove my gratitude. I will take thee to paradise. Thy staff shall stand like the rod of Abraham. ..."

  Fighting to stifle her growing amusement, Liliane let Saida rattle on for a time. Clearly, the girl thought she was a man, so her identity was presently safe enough. Saida's awareness of her peculiar Arabic was another matter. Rifis were Berbers and Liliane spoke little of the Berber dialect that should have been native to Jefar el din. Saida had a ready tongue, a sturdy vanity and no loyalties; if she were not kept close in the tent, she might well gossip in the camp.

  By now Saida was cooing lascivious suggestions that would make a ribald blush. At close range, she smelled faintly of goat. Liliane placed a boot firmly between Saida's breasts and gently propelled her to a less pungent distance. "I do not require your services, girl. As a Christian, I am infidel as much as any European in Palestine." She smiled faintly at Saida's flushed panic. "Do not fear. The French lord is master here. He will make the ultimate decision as to your fate. Possibly, you may earn your freedom, but I warn you, learn to curb your tongue within and without this tent or your days of choosing your bedmates will be briefly numbered."

  Saida somewhat sullenly backed away, the quicker when she spied Kiki sidling up to his mistress for a date. "Are you afraid of monkeys?" Liliane asked idly, as she gave the small creature a morsel.

  "They are dirty and they bite." Saida stared with distaste at Kiki's delicate nibblings.

&n
bsp; "This one is cleaner than you and she only bites when provoked." Liliane glanced lazily at Saida. "You would do well to smile at her often. Sour faces depress her, then her temper suffers." She stroked Kiki's head. "Would you like to pet her?"

  Looking as if she would sooner stroke an adder, Saida cautiously extended her hand. Sensing dislike, Kiki bared her teeth with a hiss. Saida recoiled. "What a pity you cannot be friends," Liliane murmured. She must keep a sharp eye on Saida. Kiki, as a veteran criminal, was an excellent judge of character. She knew immediately who would be kind to her and who to avoid. "Ibrahim was not your first master," Liliane said suddenly, not making it a question. "Who were the others?"

  When Saida named several amirs with pride, Liliane became more dubious about her. Saida was lying; she was too young to have had so many masters, even if she were troublesome. And certainly they would not all have been rich and illustrious, for pretty as she was, she was a common village girl. Her early life would have been hard and brutal, and if she had spent only a year in a wealthy harem, she would have learned intrigue and deceit well beyond her years. Competition within harems was obsessive, not infrequently leading to discreet murder. Even if Saida were not ruthless, she could not be the trapped gazelle she seemed.

  "You mast be an extraordinary young woman to have had so many men in love with you," Liliane observed when Saida had finished her recital. When Saida smirked, Liliane added mildly, "One assumes you are also clever enough to be modest within a camp filled with womanless men. Milord Alexandre is beyond your reach; do not impose upon his patience . . . and mine." .She gave Saida a cool smile. "Also, do not conceive the idea of poisoning my monkey. I am far fonder of Kiki than a lying slave."