Black Lion's Bride

by Lara Adrian

  “Will it serve, my lord?”

  “Aye. It will more than serve,” Sebastian replied from beside Zahirah, turning to look back at the boy where he stood behind them, awaiting the captain's approval. “Who has my arrival displaced, lad?”

  “This tent was Sir Cabal's, my lord.”

  Sebastian grunted, quirking a dark brow. “Blackheart's? Well, perhaps the king was less pleased with my service today than he is letting on.”

  Smiling at the jest, the boy gave a quick shake of his head. “Sir Cabal is on guard watch tonight, my lord. In truth, I rather think he prefers sleeping out of doors than in the confines of a tent.”

  “Don't assume that one sleeps at all,” Sebastian quipped, winking when the lad's eyes widened in alarm. “What is your name, squire?”

  The boy drew himself a little taller, puffing out his slender chest. “Joscelin d'Alban, my lord.”

  Sebastian offered him his hand. “We are well met, Joscelin d'Alban. This is Lady Zahirah. Will you see to her needs while I am meeting with the king?”

  “Of course, my lord.” He bowed his head to Zahirah. “My lady.”

  Zahirah smiled at the Frankish youth, impressed by his courtesy. She saw no trace of falsehood in his greeting, no sign of hatred for the woman who was as much an outsider in this camp as the Christians were in Outremer. She turned away to look at her surroundings as Sebastian gave Joscelin orders for bathing water and refreshments, half listening as the lad departed the tent to carry out his tasks. A moment later, Sebastian's hands came to rest gently on her arms.

  “Will you be all right by yourself for a while?”

  Zahirah nodded, coming around to face him. “Yes. I will be fine.”

  His mouth curved at the corner, not quite a smile. His dark brows were pinched together over gray-green eyes that reflected an unspoken concern. “I might have lost you out there today.”

  “And I you,” she said, “but we're here.” She placed her palm against his beard-grizzled cheek. “By Allah's grace, we are both here.”

  He turned his mouth into her hand, kissing the tender skin of her palm. Reaching up, he took her fingers between his and held her hand to his chest. Although his touch was gentle, her wrist was yet too raw from where Halim had earlier crushed it into the stones of the road with his boot heel. Zahirah winced, drew in her breath. She tried to slip her hand from Sebastian's grasp but he caught her fingers and looked down to see the abrasions that crisscrossed her skin.

  “Halim did this?” he asked, anger flaring in his gaze. At her shrug of admittance, he exhaled a low curse. “He'll never hurt you again. So long as I have breath in my body, none of his kind will ever hurt you again.”

  How fraudulent she felt, hearing those words, seeing the concern reflected in Sebastian's eyes. Zahirah's smile wobbled as he brought her into his embrace and held her there, his heart beating steadily against her cheek, his arms warm and strong around her shoulders. Allah forgive her, but she clung to him, too, letting herself believe for one precious moment that she deserved his affection, that she might always know the peace she found within the shelter of his arms.

  “How I wish we could stop time right here, and stay like this,” she whispered, startled to hear the reckless words slip from her tongue.

  Sebastian stilled where he was stroking her hair. He brought his hand beneath her chin and lifted her gaze to his. Bending toward her, he brushed his mouth against hers in a kiss that was too sweet, and far too fleeting. He drew back just as the young squire returned with the requested water and food.

  “Set them over there, lad,” he said, his eyes on Zahirah as he directed Joscelin to the table with a gesture of his hand.

  Perhaps sensing the ill timing of his intrusion, the boy put down the tray as requested then made a hasty exit from the tent.

  “The king is waiting,” Sebastian said when the lad was gone. “I don't know how long I will be in conference with him, but if you need anything, summon Joscelin. I'll see that he maintains a post nearby until I return.”

  Zahirah gave a bob of her head, missing him already. “I shall be waiting for you, my lord.”

  Sebastian gave her cheek a brief caress, then turned and crossed the space of the tent to take his leave. He swept aside the flap, then hesitated, pivoting to look at her. “Join me at the feast tonight, Zahirah.”

  “Join you?” She shook her head. She knew how unwelcome women were where Arab men gathered; she could only guess at the reception she would receive amid a tent full of drunken warrior Franks and their king. Surely Sebastian knew this, too, but his expression showed no hint of doubt or reservation at all. Perhaps, rather, a calm defiance. “Do you really think that would be wise, my lord? No one there will want to see me at their table. After all, I am a woman, and the enemy.”

  Sebastian's gaze was steady, intense. “You are my lady,” he answered simply. “Join me, and you will make me the envy of every man in the room.”

  Although she was not quite fool enough to believe that, Zahirah blushed at his flattery, warmed beyond reckoning that he would want her beside him at the feast. “For a man who professes to recall little of courtly manners, you seem well in command of them now, my lord.”

  His answering smile sent her heart into a crazy flutter. “Is that a yes, my lady?”

  “I'm not sure I could refuse you anything when you are looking at me like that.”

  He grunted, lifting a brow in devilish interest. “A confession that will haunt me every moment I am kept away from you,” he growled. “Rest and refresh yourself. I'll send for you when the feast commences.”

  She nodded, giddy as a lovesick girl, and watched him duck under the tent flap to take his leave. With a gladness that left her smiling some long time after Sebastian had gone, Zahirah made grateful use of the wash basin the young squire had brought her. She rinsed away the morning's grit and grime, the dirt and blood and ash of Halim's ambush clouding the bowl of bathwater.

  It struck her, staring into the swirling filth of the basin, that with the cleansing of her skin--with Halim's death that morning--she was, for the moment, freed of the burden of her mission. No one here knew or suspected what she was about, least of all Sebastian. To him, as he had said, she was simply his lady. His lover, not his enemy.

  What a dangerous, delicious feeling that was, to be unencumbered by the weight of her destiny, unshackled from her commitment to her father and her clan. How easy it would be to pretend that deadly promise never existed, that the ruse she played to infiltrate Sebastian's camp could in fact be molded into some sort of truth . . . .

  Her heart raced so with the notion, Zahirah had to seek the chair to sit and catch her breath. What she was thinking went beyond blasphemy. To turn her back on her mission would condemn her to eternal damnation. Worse, it would doom her homeland to the continued destructive presence of King Richard and his infidel forces. And for what? To fulfill the romantic longings of her silly woman's heart?

  “Yes,” she whispered aloud, miserable, pressing her hand to her mouth as if to staunch any further corruption before it could spill from her lips.

  Allah, forgive her, but if she thought Sebastian would have her, she feared that she would indeed be willing to risk it all.

  Chapter 20

  “To victory over the infidels!”

  King Richard's voice boomed, lion-like, over the din of celebration and feasting. Seated at a long wooden table that dominated an entire side of his enormous meeting tent, he raised his goblet of wine high in the air, encouraging assenting shouts and thunderous applause from the knights gathered. To the right of the king at the high table, Sebastian lifted his cup as well, murmuring the credo that had become second nature to the crusaders.

  “Deus le volt! God wills it,” he said, his voice disappearing into the chorus of the other men, his gaze fixed not on the magnificence of his liege, but on the entryway of the lantern-lit pavilion.

  There, a succession of pages and servants scurried in like ants on
the march to their hill, their arms laden with trays of food and flagons of spiced Saracen wine. Sebastian looked past their numbers, searching for Zahirah's face and brooding with a scowl when he did not find her. Joscelin had been dispatched to get her and returned twice already, each time bearing a look that said Zahirah would not be coming to the feast after all. Wondering at her seeming change of heart, Sebastian began to calculate an excuse to leave the festivities and go see about her.

  “You've been watching that spot for an hour, Montborne,” remarked the king, eyeing him sagely over the rim of his jeweled goblet. “I’ve never known you to be so plainly distracted.”

  Sebastian tried to shrug off the observation with a chuckle. “I was just wondering if I should send a squire to fetch my sword that I might actually cut through this meat sometime tonight.”

  Lionheart laughed, stabbing a chunk of the tough, gamey brown stuff on the end of his poniard. “What, you don't care for roast camel?” He bit off the large mouthful and spoke while he chewed. “Apparently you have had things too good in Ascalon. Don't tell me your time recuperating has spoiled you for life on the march?”

  “Not at all, my lord,” Sebastian answered, turning now to meet the king's stare. “I am mended well enough and ready to march on your orders. Indeed, I welcome the return to action.”

  “Good,” Richard proclaimed, cuffing him on the shoulder. “I will need you when we join up with our allies in Beit Nuba and head for Jerusalem.”

  “Do you expect that will be soon, my lord?” Sebastian asked, well aware of the criticism the king had received for his continued delays in marching on the Holy City. The general feeling among the Christian leaders was that if they did not move to seize Jerusalem soon, their cause would be all but lost.

  “I came here to free the Sepulcher from infidel hands,” Richard answered soberly, as if recalling for himself the censure that had followed him on every minor campaign that seemed to take him farther away from that goal. “I will reclaim Jerusalem for the Cross, or,” he said, pausing in thought, “if it be God's will, I shall die trying.”

  It was not until that moment Sebastian noticed how drawn the king's face was beneath his trim, tawny beard. His cheeks were sallow, his eyes piercing but haunted, their blue hue somehow bleaker than Sebastian recalled. All of the men were thinner than they had been upon leaving Ascalon some weeks ago, but the king wore a sickly shadow under his eyes, and his mouth, which was always ready with a boast or a leonine roar, was bracketed now with deep lines that bespoke of a sickness or a pain he might have sought to conceal. He had never appeared more human, nor more frail, and, looking at him, Sebastian knew a jolt of doubt for the likely success of their remaining days in Outremer.

  “I am yours to command, Sire,” he told the ghost of his king. “My sword is, now, as always, at your service.”

  Richard eyed him for a long moment, then gave a curt nod, as if he expected no less. Then he blinked, and the apparition of his weaker self vanished, replaced with the bold façade better recognized by all who knew him as the great and mighty Lionheart. Rising from his chair, he opened his arms with a flourish of grand royal showmanship.

  “Bring on the entertainment!” he shouted, clapping his hands and sending a couple of idle pages scattering out of the tent to oblige.

  Sebastian nursed his cup of wine, deep in thought and scarcely paying attention as the troupe of Saracen dancing girls were ushered into the pavilion. They set up quickly, one seating herself cross-legged on a carpet near the center of the tent and propping a goatskin drum between her legs; another joined her on the floor, blowing a musical trill from the long reed instrument she carried. The remaining three women jogged barefooted into position, leaping up onto tables, their scant, nearly transparent attire and flirtatious looks rousing the lusty, drunken knights into a frenzy of whistles and stomping feet before the dance had even begun.

  The one who had propositioned Sebastian earlier that day--he had forgotten her name, but he remembered the gold tooth when she smiled at him now--headed directly for the high table, beating her tambourine and shaking her bosom as she sauntered forward with sleek, graceful strides.

  “Fahimah smells fresh blood,” drawled the king, grinning as he leaned toward Sebastian. “Keep your head around this one. The bitch bites when she's in heat.”

  Sebastian gave a reflex chuckle, but he was not the least bit interested in Fahimah or her companions. He downed the rest of his wine as the music started, the deep, staccato beat of the drum and the accompanying stomp of the dancers' bell-adorned feet on the tables filling the tent with a heady, primal rhythm. Before he could give the king his excuses to leave, Fahimah swung herself up onto the high table before him, leering suggestively as she pivoted on her rump and spread herself in front of Lionheart and his officers like a pagan altar offering. The king ran his hand over her smooth brown belly, then bent down and kissed her, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth.

  Mildly appalled at the orgiastic display, Sebastian turned his head away and rose from his seat at the table. The other two dancers were indulging in similar lewdness, shrieking and tossing their hair, spinning and gyrating to the music amid a sea of groping hands and vulgar shouts.

  And, there, in the far corner of the tent was a different disturbance underway, a disturbance that instinctively rose the hackles on the back of his neck. One of the knights, a craven nobleman whom Sebastian rather despised, was harassing one of the Saracen girls. She was petite, more than a head shorter than the half dozen soldiers who moved in to surround her, knitting her into the wall of the tent like a pack of wolves cornering a hare. Sebastian caught a glimpse of a torn blue tunic sleeve and the raven's wing gloss of a familiar ebony pate, and his blood went into to an instant, furious boil.

  “Get away from her!” he bellowed, vaulting over the high table and lunging across the space of the crowded tent. The reed player blew a discordant note, ducking out of his way as he shot toward the knight who pawed at Zahirah. “Fallonmour! Get your hands off of her!”

  He shoved past the few leering onlookers to seize the nobleman by the shoulder, forcibly throwing him out of the way. Logan was at Sebastian's elbow, the Scot having evidently noticed the trouble at the same time and rushed from his place at table to assist. He caught Fallonmour as he stumbled back on his heels, clamping his meaty hands down on the knight's arms and holding him away from Zahirah.

  “Did he touch you?” Sebastian asked, ready to tear the bastard apart if he so much as bruised her delicate skin. Zahirah shook her head, her gaze stricken, arms crossed protectively one over the other.

  “There's no cause for conflict here, Montborne.” Fallonmour shook off Logan's hold and sniffed, indignant as he straightened the hem of his mussed tunic. “If you'd but said you wanted some too, I might have been willing to share the chit once I was through with her.”

  Sebastian whirled on the arrogant lord. With a vicious snarl, he hauled his arm back and smashed his fist into Fallonmour's face. “Don't come near her again,” he warned, “or I'll kill you.”

  Doubled over from the cracking blow, the knight coughed and wheezed and spat out a mouthful of blood. His voice was shrill. “Ugh! You thun of a bitch--you broke my nothe!”

  Ignoring the sudden resounding silence of the tent, and the disapproving, sphinx-like stare of the king from where he stood, fists braced upon the high table, Sebastian reached for Zahirah's hand and led her away from the shocked assembly, his combative gaze daring anyone to say a word or to make an untoward move. No one did; those standing in his path cleared quickly to let him pass, some shaking their heads, others too stunned to do more than stare after him.

  Sebastian's temper cooled somewhat once he and Zahirah were outside in the crisp, starlit blackness of night. His pace, however, remained brisk, his pulse hammering, every muscle coiled and ready for attack. He realized belatedly that Zahirah nearly had to trot to keep up with his long strides, so he slowed and gave her hand a squeeze.

  “I
'm sorry,” he said, exhaling a sharp breath. “I'm sorry for what happened back there--all of it.”

  “No, I should not have come,” she answered. “I wasn't going to, but then I heard the music and it sounded so inviting, I could not resist. I didn't belong there.”

  He rounded on her, cursing aloud when he thought about what his countrymen might have done to her. “You belong wherever you wish to go. And any man who thinks to tell you different will have to answer to me.”

  “Even if you have to make enemies of every Frank and Saracen alike?” she asked, her eyes shining in the moonlight. She shook her head, calm as the gentling night breeze, but her smile seemed a little sad. “You would risk too much for me, my lord. I'm not worth all that.”

  Sebastian grunted. “Assaulting Garrett of Fallonmour was no great risk, I assure you. He's a court hound and an ass, and one of these days his arrogance is going to get him killed.” He reached out, touching the smooth line of her cheek. “And you are worth it, Zahirah.”

  She glanced down, silent as they resumed the path that led deeper into the camp. All was dark and quiet here; everyone would be at the feast for some hours yet. Distantly, as if in testimony of that fact, Sebastian heard the music start up again in the king's pavilion on the other side of the encampment. They passed the paddock that contained the army's horses, and the striped awning of the vacant dancers' quarters, then turned the corner that brought them before Sebastian's tent in the officers row.

  Sebastian released Zahirah's hand to unfasten the ties on the flap. He swept the panel aside and stood at the open portal, waiting for her to enter. She stepped in front of him, then let out a soft sigh. Hesitating, she turned toward him, shyly it seemed, her eyes downcast. Her hands came up slowly, her fingers spreading as she laid her palms on his chest. At that mere touch, his heart was slamming against his ribs. His body quickened at once, desire thrumming and thickening in his loins. She leaned into him slightly, tipping her head back to look at him.