Black Lion's Bride

by Lara Adrian

  He was right. As much as Sebastian wanted to deny it, the truth was Zahirah had done something to him that no other woman had before. She intrigued him. He had not realized just how bored he had become in his relationships until Zahirah walked so unexpectedly into his life. She was no powdered, pampered maiden to bat her eyes at him and hang on his every word. Indeed, she was more inclined to fight with him than fawn.

  She was maddening and aloof, a challenge at every turn. She was provocative and stubborn, and easily the most bewitching woman he had ever met. She was so different from the vapid court beauties who pursued him back in England. Too different, most would say. And despite his fascination with her, his instincts warned him toward caution.

  “She's hiding something,” he said, voicing his concern as he came to pause with Logan near the dock. “I look into her eyes and I can't help thinking that she's lying to me--lying about more than just what happened that day in the mosque. When I talked to her the next day, I thought I might be getting through to her, but she kept shutting me out. I'm sure I went about it the wrong way, but I won't abide dishonesty, and I can't afford to let her stay here if she won't be truthful.” He shook his head, staring at a dust whorl that kicked up around his boots. “I thought that maybe if I gave her space--time to consider things--she might come to me on her own. It's been two days now, and she continues to avoid me.”

  “Mother of God,” Logan breathed. “You're falling in love with this Saracen lass.”

  “Falling in love with her?” he scoffed. “Come now, you jest.”

  Zahirah had captured his interest, certainly, but his love? Hell, he didn't know the first thing about falling in love. Love was for the bards and poets, not a man bred to rule an earldom--a man who had seen too many people, too many futures, ruined by the fickleness of the heart. Love was for his brother, Griffin, and his lady wife, Isabel. Or Logan and his Mary, the bonny highland bride he so adored. Not him. And certainly not for him and a woman who professed to despise his very breed. A woman who might well harbor secrets that could put his life--or his king's--in grave jeopardy.

  Logan was grinning. “I don't hear you rushing to deny it, my friend.”

  “I don't love her,” he said firmly, but he found it difficult to meet Logan's smug, knowing gaze. “I don't trust her.”

  “But you want her.”

  God, yes. “I think I could go mad from wanting her.”

  Logan chuckled, but his eyes were serious. “Do you want to know what I think?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I think you ought to stay here tonight, instead of riding out with us to deliver the supplies to Darum. There's no good reason for you to go, but there seems to be plenty of reason for you to stay. The men and I can easily manage the escort without you. Stay here with your lady--”

  Sebastian shook his head. “Out of the question. I'm the captain of this garrison; this mission is mine to command. I'm bloody well going to take it.”

  He said it forcefully enough to keep the Scot from pressing him further, but there was more to Sebastian's vehemence than just a captain's desire to ride with his troops. More even, than a warrior's itching to be out of his idle recovery and back on his mount, back in his armor and ready for battle. Sebastian was desperate to go on the escort mission as planned. He would not allow himself to consider the very tempting notion of staying behind to mend things with Zahirah.

  He'd had two days to think about what was best for himself and his duty to the king, and he had decided that unless she came to him with the truth--all of it, whatever she was hiding--before he left for Darum, upon his return, he would arrange for Zahirah to be removed from the palace.

  “I want to head out before dusk,” he said after a long moment. “Tell the men to rest and take their sup, then we'll go.”

  Logan nodded. “Aye, captain. As you wish.”

  * * *

  It had taken Zahirah all morning and most of the afternoon to work up her nerve to see him. The two days that had passed since their confrontation on the roof terrace had been among the longest of her life, days she had spent alone in her chamber, too mortified--too utterly confused--to venture much past the threshold when it would mean the risk of running into Sebastian again.

  But as prudent as it seemed to maintain her distance from the Frankish captain and the danger of his certain suspicions, there was a foolish part of her that mourned his absence. A part of her that wondered if he might be missing her just a little bit, too. It was that part of her that finally could take the avoidance no longer, and set her feet on a determined, if reckless, course down the palace corridor.

  It was easy enough to find him. A succession of servants and soldiers filed in and out of the courtyard alcove where he seemed to like taking his meals. Slowly, she stepped into the arched entryway of the garden and paused there, respectfully lowering her gaze as one of the crusaders brushed past her. He had delivered something to his captain--a scroll of some sort. The large roll of parchment lay on the table where Sebastian sat, eating a kingly supper of lamb and cheese and flat, aromatic bread.

  He was garbed in a tunic of polished steel links and a surcoat of red silk that drew her eye to the broad width of his shoulders. He was dressed for war, she realized, frowning at the idea. He glanced up as his man departed the courtyard and his gaze locked with Zahirah's. She smiled warily beneath her veil but he did not return the gesture. As quickly as it had lit on her, his gaze was gone. He turned his attention back to his half-eaten meal, stabbing a chunk of meat on the end of his knife and washing down the mouthful of food with a long draught of wine.

  Despite that she had not been invited to enter, Zahirah walked forward. He saw her coming toward him, surely, but he neither acknowledged her nor instructed her to go.

  No, he ignored her entirely.

  Flanking his table some six feet on either side of him were two Arab servants dressed in white robes and turbans. They eyed Zahirah's intrusion with looks of marked discomfiture, waiting, evidently, to see if they were expected to serve her, or pretend, as their Frankish lord was doing, to not see her at all.

  Uncomfortable with this prolonged, and, she suspected, fully intentional, silence, Zahirah tipped her head up to observe the late afternoon sky that soared high above them. A heady breeze ruffled in the twisting tops of the cedars. The tall palm trees were swaying slightly, their wide green fronds shifting and clacking against each other in a lazy, almost hypnotic, rhythm. There was, she noted, a hesitance--a mild, but building, chill--in the air that could not be entirely attributable to the unresponsive man seated before her.

  “It feels as though it might storm this evening,” she remarked, watching a thin gathering of clouds drift overhead and begin to bunch together like tufts of newly culled cotton. “Perhaps we might even get a bit of rain.”

  Sebastian set his cup down with a thump. “Why are you here, Zahirah?”

  She flinched to hear his clipped tone, wondering at first if he was questioning outright her presence at the palace. She knew a jolt of alarm, and was unsure how to reply. But then, seeing the irritation in his eyes, she understood that he spoke now out of impatience rather than a warrior's blunt suspicion.

  Nevertheless, she felt her smile wobble a bit under the coolness of his glare. “Why, I-I suppose I thought perhaps we might play a game of shatranj this afternoon. You seemed to enjoy it when we played before, and as you said you were interested in bettering your skills, I thought, if it pleased you, I could set up the board inside and we could play a round or two. I mean, if you'd like that . . . “

  She was rambling, her sudden nervousness lending speed to her words even as it reduced them to little more than a whisper. Sebastian listened, his gaze narrowing in scrutiny before dismissing her altogether with a downward sweep of his lashes. He looked back to what had been brought to him by the soldier and unrolled what appeared to be a map of the kingdom's southern coastline. “I haven't the time for playing games with you, my lady.”

&n
bsp; She was sure there was more to his refusal and his queer tone of voice than a merely casual dismissal. No doubt he was still angry with her after their confrontation over Abdul's death and the uninvited intimacy they had shared in her chamber the night of her bad dream. In truth, she was still somewhat angry herself, but she was determined to put it behind her.

  She wanted to make peace with Sebastian, to end the stalemate that had kept them apart these past couple of days. She wanted to be back on friendly terms with him--for the benefit of her mission, of course, she assured herself.

  “Actually,” she said to the top of his dark glossy head, “I thought that perhaps we could talk, my lord.”

  “Talk?” That impatient gaze flicked up once more, his chin rising to an arrogant, expectant level as he leaned back on the bench. A nod to one of the waiting servants brought both pairs of hands to the table to clear away his ravaged meal and refresh his cup of wine. While they attended him, Sebastian folded his arms over his chest and stared flatly at Zahirah from across the table. “Then talk if you will, my lady, but pray, do it quickly. As you can see, I am rather busy at present.”

  Zahirah waited for the two servants to depart the courtyard before she ventured to speak again. “I had hoped that we might talk in private, my lord.”

  Pursing his lips, he seemed to consider for a moment, then gave a curt shake of his head. “If you have something to say, it must needs be said here and now, Zahirah. I've a mission awaiting outside with my men. I'll be leaving Ascalon within the hour, and I cannot indulge anyone with a private conference at the moment.”

  “Of course. I understand,” she said, stung by the inference that she was of no greater import to him than anyone else he might deign to speak to at that moment. But aside from the smart of her pride, she was surprised, and more than passing disappointed to hear that he would be leaving the city. His stoniness chilled her thoroughly, but she swept aside her own discomfort and held his icy gaze to say what needed saying. “I wanted to apologize for what I said to you that day on the roof terrace, my lord. I was upset, as you must know, and I'm afraid I spoke rashly. I didn't mean the things I said to you. I don't hate you.”

  A long moment passed, a moment filled with an agonizing, endless waiting. She swallowed hard, watching a muscle tick in Sebastian's tightly clenched jaw. Finally, when she thought she might go mad for the weight of his damning silence, he spoke. “Is that all, then?”

  “Yes,” she replied quickly, praying that her apology would thaw some of the frost still lingering in his eyes. “I wanted you to know that I was--that I am--sorry, Sebastian.”

  His answering grunt did not bode well for her hopes of winning his cry of peace. “Well, you needn't have troubled yourself, my lady. It wasn't the first time I tasted a woman's scorn. I don't expect it will be the last.”

  Then, as if he could tolerate the interruption of her presence no longer, he gathered up the map and rose from his seat to take his leave, pausing only to grab his cup of wine and drain it. He set it down somewhat heavily, and gave Zahirah an exceedingly polite, if dismissing, nod. “Was there anything else you wished to discuss with me, my lady?”

  She shook her head.

  “Very well, then. This supply escort should take no more than a few days. Once I am returned from Darum, I think it best if we seek more suitable living arrangements for you elsewhere in the city. Your protection will be assured, but I expect you'll be happier, and rest more securely, away from here. No doubt you'd agree.”

  She should have been alarmed that he was intending to remove her from the palace, but it was something else he said--his mention of the supply caravan heading for Darum--that sent her pulse into a crazy lurch. Sebastian was providing personal escort to the shipment.

  The same shipment that Halim and his band of fida'i soldiers were planning to ambush before it reached King Richard in Darum.

  “Everything is in readiness,” said a familiar voice from somewhere behind Zahirah. It was Sebastian's friend, Logan, she realized dully, catching the wildness of his accent in his rolling baritone voice. “The carts are packed and assembled, and the men are eager to ride. I must tell you, my friend, I don't like the look of the sky. With the way the winds are kicking up, I reckon we've a healthy storm brewing along the northern coast. It could well be upon us within the hour.”

  “Then let us be off without further delay,” the captain answered, looking past Zahirah as if she were no longer there. His sheathed sword scraped the table as he came around it, and Zahirah had a jarring, all too vivid vision of the violence that awaited him on the road to Darum.

  There would be carnage and brutality. Bloodshed and death.

  And he was walking into it wholly unawares.

  “Sebastian, wait! Don't go.” Before she could stop herself, Zahirah was reaching out to him, catching him by the arm as though to physically prevent him from leaving. “Please . . . I . . . I don't want you to go.”

  “Why not?” He paused, scowling down to where her white-knuckled hand gripped his tunic sleeve, the hard steel links biting into her fingertips. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Why should I stay, Zahirah?”

  She sank her teeth into her lip, thinking of a hundred reasons why she did not want him to ride escort for the king's supply caravan, but numerous as they were, they all amounted to the same basic fact. If he left on this ill-fated mission, Zahirah was afraid she might never see him again--at least, not like this. Not as they were in this moment: merely man and woman, at odds certainly, but not, as yet, mortal enemies.

  The threat of the ambush Halim was hatching was very real. Sebastian could be hurt in the skirmish--or, Allah, forbid, he could be killed. But even if he survived, he would return to the palace wise to the conspiracy. He would know for certain there was a traitor in his ranks, and, before too long at all, he would know that traitor was Zahirah. He might well suspect her, even now.

  But if he stayed . . .

  Allah, if he stayed, he would be safe from Halim and his assassin troops, but then what of her mission for her father, Rashid al-Din Sinan? Halim had said the caravan could not reach Richard, that without those supplies the king would be forced to return to Ascalon where Zahirah, and his preordained fate, awaited him.

  Her head was swimming with this mess of conflicting concerns, her heart entangled in this sudden, confusing jumble of warring alliances. She could taste them all equally, but not one would make its way to her tongue.

  When she could only stare up at him, shaking her head, mute in her torment, Sebastian exhaled an impatient, mirthless laugh. He wrested his arm from her slack grasp and stood there for a moment, considering her at length.

  “Goodbye, Zahirah,” he said at last.

  Then he turned away, and he was gone.

  Chapter 16

  Zahirah stood on the very edge of the roof terrace, watching in helpless frustration as the caravan departed. The groaning calls of the camels, the creak of cartwheels burdened with their heavy loads, and the jangle of the soldiers' armor, had all since fallen into silence as Sebastian and the supply escort left the city and started off on the ancient trade route that would lead them to Darum. She watched them until they were out of sight completely, until the dust left in their wake had blown away, leaving naught but an empty stretch of road as far as the eye could see.

  And, still, she stood there . . . watching, worrying.

  She tried to tell herself that for the sake of her mission, she had done the right thing by letting Sebastian go. That she had no choice. She tried to tell herself that he and his soldiers were not in grave danger, that Halim's intent was to stop a shipment of supplies, not needlessly slaughter the men who were carrying it. And even if the ambush were to escalate into something worse, Sebastian would survive. She had seen his skill with the sword, and knew of no one in Sinan's army who could match him steel for steel.

  But still, fear niggled at her heart, cold and unrelenting.

  She heard a great clap of thunder in
the distance and realized it was raining. Her tunic and trousers were already soaked; her veil hung, sodden and limp, at her chin. The air had begun to churn, dark clouds wheeling overhead, gray and roiling, fat with rain. The tiles of the roof terrace had grown slick with water. It ran between her feet and over the ledge in rivulets, smacking hard as it spilled onto the stones of the empty courtyard below.

  It was a sign, surely, this freak, violent swell of rain in an otherwise arid season.

  Perhaps it was the voice of Allah issuing a warning, a portent of evil soon to come. But if it were, did the message bode ill for the fate of the Frankish caravan, or for her own designs? She waited, contemplating the fury of the gathering storm, and praying for guidance. God gave her nothing, save the steady pound of the rain and the grim crackle of lightning above her head.

  A huge crash of thunder followed, shaking the building beneath her. Zahirah turned and ran for the shelter of the balcony. She sluiced off the chilling wetness that drizzled from her hair and nose, then dashed inside the palace, heading for the warmth of her chamber.

  But as she neared the room, her feet would not slow. They carried her past her private apartments, then past Sebastian's quarters, too, and down the corridor, to where the colonnade leading to the palace outbuildings was located. She was running by the time she reached the stables.

  “I need a horse!” she shouted to the stable master, her accented lingua franca echoing in the cavernous building. “Please, I need a mount at once!”

  When she started inside, her eyes looking past the sturdy Frankish destriers to find a horse bred for speed, the gray bearded guard stepped in front of her. “Now, wait just a moment, girl,” he sputtered. “These beasts belong to the king--”

  Zahirah pushed him aside with a cry of impatience, hastening to the stall of a sleek black Arabian mare. She unlatched the gate and quickly walked the beauty out. Her saddle and tack were draped over the far wall of the berth; Zahirah retrieved them and began readying the horse for riding.