by Lara Adrian
“Apologies, milady. I did not hear you call for me. Is there aught you need?”
She shook her head. “I did not call you, Joscelin. I am merely tired of sitting inside doing nothing. I had hoped my lord Sebastian would have returned by now. Have you seen him?”
“Aye, milady. When last I passed the king's pavilion, he and the other officers were yet in conference.”
Zahirah grunted in disappointment, loathe to contemplate any further hours of boredom spent in the lonely gloom of the tent behind her. Indeed, she could not abide the thought. Excusing herself to find the privy, she took a leisure stroll through the back fringes of the encampment.
In the adjacent plain, the lesser officers were taking the army through battle drills and exercises. At one end of the field, two groups of mounted soldiers were forming for a mock charge. Their horses stamped and whinnied, churning up a fog of yellow dust that snagged on the thin morning breeze and sped across the sandy space of land. Zahirah leaned against an outcrop of jutting rock, pausing to watch the start of the skirmish, waiting with breathless anticipation as the companies prepared for the charge.
Sebastian's wild Scottish friend was positioned at the head of the right guard, a position that would put him first in line of attack. On his order, the two groups of opposing soldiers lunged into action. Mounted astride his brown destrier, garbed as the others in full chain armor and steel helm, Logan brandished a long blunted lance, shouting orders to his men while he held off three enemy knights with the flat of his shield. With his head turned to watch his flagging rear guard, he did not see the man who rode up fast on his blind side.
Zahirah gasped when the Scot took the unexpected blow on his left shoulder. He lurched in his saddle, then righted himself with a roar, wheeling the beast around with the power of his thighs alone before bearing down on the soldier who struck him. In war, the offending knight would have been hacked in two; here, in training, a cuff to his helm marked him as a casualty and took him out of the game.
“It is called the melee,” boomed a richly schooled Frankish voice from behind her.
Zahirah jerked her head around, unable to mask her surprise at finding the King of England himself striding toward her, his fair head uncovered and glowing like a burnished crown in the morning sun, his hands clasped elegantly behind his back as if to frame the trio of yellow lions that emblazoned the front of his red silk surcoat. A jewel-studded weapon belt winked at his waist, not to be outdone by his fine leather boots and golden spurs, which gleamed in defiance of the dust that swirled and eddied around them as he walked.
At his approach, Zahirah scrambled away from her seat on the rock, worrying her hands in the loose fabric of her shalwar as she stood to face him. She could not force herself into a false show of deference for the reviled Frankish king, but neither could she hold his piercing blue gaze as he came up next to her.
“Excellent! Excellent, men!” he shouted to his soldiers on the plain, his lauds and hearty applause earning him low bows from all, and murmurs of salute from Logan and his men, who had emerged the victors of the mock skirmish. Zahirah felt the questioning stare of Sebastian's friend light on her from across the field and, knowing how it must appear, she tried not to squirm.
“If you will please excuse me, I imagine you would prefer to observe your men in private,” she said to the king, trying to sound casual and polite as she took the first step toward her escape.
“On the contrary,” he replied, bracing his legs apart and subtly blocking her path. “I would never refuse the company of a beautiful woman.” He flashed a disingenuous smile. “Stay. I insist.”
Cornered, she slowly backed away and took her seat once more on the jut of rock. For a long while, neither she nor the king spoke, both of them sitting in awkward silence, waiting for the army to regroup on the field to commence with another melee. More than once Zahirah ventured a hopeful glance over her shoulder, hoping to see Sebastian swaggering over to rescue her. Each time, her hopes met with disappointment.
“If you are worried about where Montborne is,” said the king, “he's still in conference with my advisors. Evidently, a few of them seem to think my health has been compromised of late. I disagree, of course, but all morning they have been trying to convince me that I should return to Ascalon and take some rest before I continue on in this campaign.” He turned his head to stare at her then, appraising her with an unblinking, appreciative gaze. Lust glittered in his eyes. “What do you think?”
Stunned by his question and his sudden encroaching nearness, Zahirah swallowed hard. “W-what do I think?”
He pinned her with his sharp, predatory stare. “Would you like me to return to Ascalon, lady?” he asked, not flinching in the slightest for the brashness of his overture. His smile, when she did not immediately answer, was arrogantly royal as he leaned into her, crowding her with the broad spread of his shoulders and chest. He reached out and confidently traced his bejeweled finger along the curve of her upper arm, the gesture just brief enough to escape undue notice, yet blatant enough for Zahirah to understand its intimation. She drew away from his unwanted attention, bristling when he chuckled low under his breath at her retreat.
“That was quite a display in my feast hall last eve,” he remarked, his gaze turned back to the practice field as the men charged into another bout of fighting. “You know, I have seen days where Montborne has slain a score of infidel soldiers as cool as you please, but never have I seen him so virulently enflamed--leastwise against one of his own.”
“What happened last night was my fault,” Zahirah blurted, hoping to curb some of the king's displeasure from the night before. “My lord thought I was in danger. He only sought to protect me.”
The king's brows rose slightly on his forehead, the only indication he gave that he was actually hearing her. “When a woman stirs that kind of passion in a man,” he said thoughtfully, “well, it does something to those who would look upon it. It makes them curious.” He pivoted his tawny-bearded chin, turning a wolfish look on her. “That kind of passion makes a man--even a man who is king--want to know what it is that woman possesses that makes her worth killing for.”
Zahirah's every nerve went taut as Lionheart's words sunk into her brain. In the awkward moment that followed, when all she could see was the leering smile and red-and-gold wall that was the enemy king, when all she could hear was the pounding of her heart and the din of combat rolling off of the plain, Zahirah felt the years of her own battle training begin to whisper to her of strategies and opportunity.
Right here, in the bald light of day, before the whole of his army just scant yards away, the king was inviting her to his bed. The idea sat in her belly like a stone when she thought of Sebastian's loyalty to this man, his willingness to pledge his life in service to a lord who would so easily betray him. But as appalled as she was, part of her--a colder part of her, bred to make use of any advantage if it furthered her mission--saw the providence here. That part of her warned this might be her best chance, her only chance, to fulfill her promise to her clan.
“You needn't fear Montborne finding out,” she heard the king say distantly, “Arrangements can be made . . . a mission to one of the coastal forts, perhaps. A few days on march. I will leave that to you to decide.”
But Zahirah was no longer listening to what he was telling her. Her mind was speeding ahead, calculating her options, factoring in the pleasant convenience that the king was sitting nearly shoulder to shoulder with her in that moment, unguarded, his dagger easily within her reach on his jeweled baldric. Surreptitiously, without moving even to draw breath, she slid her gaze to the golden handle of his blade; she could almost feel the press of its elaborately carved grip in her palm. One quick lunge and she could have it. One heartbeat more and she could drive the knife home.
The soldiers on the practice field were too far away to stop her. She would never escape them all, but in the time it would take the guards to realize what she was about, it would be much to
o late to save their king. They would be shocked dumb at first. They would kill her, certainly.
She would never see Sebastian again . . . .
Zahirah tried to thrust aside that miserable truth, forcing her thoughts around what she had been sent there to do--the mission that would liberate her homeland and fulfill her destiny as daughter to Rashid al-Din Sinan. How Sebastian would hate her when he learned the ugly truth. She tried to tell herself that her heart had no right to lament the inevitable loss of his love; it was never hers to claim. She tried to will herself to act, to seize this opportunity and see it through to its fruition--no matter the consequences. Sitting there in utter stillness, every muscle coiled to pounce, she was not a hair's breadth away from flying at the king and ending his life as she was sworn to do.
But she could not do it.
Allah, forgive her, but if she wondered before, she knew it without doubt now. When she thought of losing Sebastian, losing his love through this act of treachery, she realized that the cost of her pledge had become too great. Sebastian's trust, though she did not yet deserve it, was a gift too precious to forsake.
She understood, in this moment of ultimate inaction, that she was now less fida'i than she was simply woman.
Her stomach pitched at the enormity of what she was admitting. She braced her hands on the rough surface of the rock beneath her, clinging for balance while her world tilted on its axis. The king was saying something; she could not hear him. She felt his hand clamp onto her wrist and she jumped, wild-eyed, yanking herself out of his grasp. She leaped to her feet, scarcely registering the king's look of confusion and mild amusement as she backed away from him.
“Don't touch me,” she heard herself say, her voice coming to her ears as if in a vacuous tunnel while she edged toward flight. “Don't come near me again.”
She did not wait for the king's leave. Heart hammering, breath hitching, she ran for the safety of Sebastian's tent. To her relief, he was there, just arrived from his meeting with the other officers. Zahirah had never seen a more welcome sight. She went to him at once, throwing herself into his waiting arms.
“Where were you?” he asked, enveloping her in his steadying embrace. “You're trembling like a leaf. What's wrong?”
“N-nothing,” she stammered, trying to sound unruffled and failing somewhat. “I missed you, that's all. I'm glad you're here.”
She could tell from his silence that he did not entirely believe her, but he held her tight nonetheless, keeping near her for the rest of that day and for all of the journey back to Ascalon that night. A journey they made, to her great discomfort, in the watchful company of several dozen Frankish knights and their returning king.
Chapter 22
Zahirah was having a bad dream. Nay, it was worse than that, another savage nightmare, Sebastian realized as he held her restless, trembling body in his bed at the Ascalon palace. She had been exhausted from the eight hours of travel, dozing off and on atop her mount, until finally Sebastian had taken her onto his destrier to ride with him. She had slept fitfully then, too.
Something had been troubling her since Darum, although she seemed determined to keep it from him. Having observed the king's keen sidelong looks at her on the road, Sebastian hardly needed to guess at what caused her distress. Richard had his eye on her. Sebastian bristled at the notion. He had been too long on the battlefield with his king; he knew how relentless--how single-minded--Lionheart could be when he set his sights on something he wanted. But where he did not fully trust his king, he trusted Zahirah. As he knew she trusted him when he promised he would protect her.
He felt the weight of that pledge now, when she lay like a helpless babe in his arms, thrashing and fighting an enemy he could not see. She murmured something in Arabic, muffled, indiscernible words. She moaned, breathing quick and uneven, her lungs laboring as if they might burst. Sebastian tried to calm her, but she was too far gone, too lost to the demons that seemed to hunt her in her sleep.
“Noo,” she sobbed brokenly. “No, not her . . . not my Gillianne . . . “
God's blood, but here it was again, that English name Zahirah had called out before in her sleep. The name she claimed meant nothing to her.
Gillianne.
Although he wondered what more she might reveal if he let her play the nightmare out to its end, Sebastian could stand her suffering no longer. “Zahirah,” he said, smoothing a web of hair from her damp brow. “Zahirah, it's all right. It's just a dream.” He touched her shoulder, and gave her a small shake. “Wake up now, my love. You're safe.”
“Noo,” she cried, still engulfed in the shade of terror. She kicked at him beneath the coverlet, violent and bucking, scratching at his arm that still held her around the waist. Her voice climbed to a shrill, strangled gasp. “Oh, God, no. Let me go! Let me go!”
She threw off his hand and vaulted from the bed in a panic, abruptly jolted awake. Wild-eyed, her hand shaking at her mouth, she gave Sebastian a look of pure anguish before her bare feet carried her swiftly to the open doors of the balcony. She gripped the railing and sucked in great gasps of the pre-dawn air, her petite frame quaking, setting the cuffed pant legs of her dark blue trousers trembling with the aftershocks of a deep, terrible fear.
For a long moment, Sebastian could only stare after her, sitting naked on the edge of the bed. His arm burned where her nails had raked his skin; his legs would bear a score of bruises from her punishing heels. She had fought him like a wild animal, crazed and mindless in her fright. Like a tigress trying to claw her way out of a hunter's snare.
And now she stood across the room from him in shuddering silence, haloed like one of heaven's own angels by the pink-gold hues of the newly rising sun. She had never looked so fragile, or innocent, and Sebastian had never known a love stronger than that which he felt for her now.
He got up off the bed and slowly drew up behind her. She gave a ragged sigh as he wrapped his arms around her. She was cold, her clothing made damp from her distress. She did not withdraw from him, but it pained him to feel how very still she held herself within the circle of his arms, waiting, it seemed, perhaps uncertain of what she should expect from him in that moment.
Sebastian scarcely knew himself. He held her without speaking, listening to the fluttering beat of her heart, his own thudding hard at her back. He felt a tear splash onto his wrist and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
“I can't let you go on like this,” he whispered, not wanting to distress her any more than she was already, yet needing to know what haunted her. “We need to talk about this, Zahirah. All of it, here and now. You have to tell me who Gillianne is. You have to tell me what that name means to you, why the mention of it should terrify you so.”
She swallowed thickly, and Sebastian felt her head shake slightly beneath his chin. “I can't.”
He turned her around to face him. Her cheeks were ruddy and streaked with tears, her pale silver eyes shimmering and ghostly with unspoken pain. He scowled to see that pain, to know that she would not share it with him and let him help her through it. “Without honesty between us, Zahirah, we have nothing. You must know that.”
She tipped her head down, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to look at him. “I would tell you if I knew . . . if I thought it mattered--”
“It matters to me,” he cut in, not allowing her to dodge the subject. “It matters to me that you wake up some nights drenched and shaking, that you are plagued by something so awful you cannot bear to speak of it.” She let out a sob and he grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “It matters to me, Zahirah. We have an agreement. No secrets, remember?”
Her mouth quivered uncontrollably. “You don't understand. You couldn't possibly understand what it's like--”
“I want to, damn it,” he ground out, unable to curb the harshness of his voice. “God's blood, lady, I need you to make me understand.”
“Sebastian . . . “ She shook her head, twisting her arm against his hold. Desperation swam in
her eyes. “Please, Sebastian . . . “
He gripped her tighter, probably bruising her. He wanted answers, needed them, but he could see he was getting nowhere. He swore a gruff oath and released her. “You're shivering cold in those damp clothes. Take them off and let's get you into something warm.”
He waited for her to oblige, but she did not so much as budge. Quite the contrary, she wrapped her arms around herself a little tighter, a protective stance that spoke as plainly as a flat refusal. Sebastian scowled, suspicious. “Your tunic and shalwar, my lady. Take them off.”
She shrank back from him, her face pinched with distress and a dread that lanced him as sure as any blade. She shook her head. She would not look at him, but he could tell that she had begun to cry once more.
“Oh, yes, I forgot,” he growled, sounding every bit as savage as she was making him feel. “I am only permitted to see you--to love you--in the dark. Well, that's not enough, Zahirah. I need more than that.” He leveled a fierce glower on her. “From now on, if there is to be anything between us, we will share the daylight and the dark, my lady. No more hiding. Now, take off those clothes.”
For a maddening space of time, she merely stood there. Silent. Still. Even her tears ceased to flow. Then, slowly, while Sebastian's heart slammed heavily against his ribs, Zahirah brought her hands up to the neckline of her tunic and began to untie the network of laces that held the garment together.
It was hard to watch her obey him, hard to abide knowing he had pushed her into this wordless, damning compliance, but he forced himself not to flinch, not to sway. Not this time.
It was nearly impossible to hold her defeated, yet calmly defiant gaze, as she gathered up the hem of the tunic and peeled it up over her head, baring herself to him, just as he had commanded. She held her arm out and slowly released the long silk shirt from her fingers, letting it fall next to her on the floor. Her trousers followed a moment later; the waistband slackened, she slid the pantalets over her hips and left the fabric to crush in an indigo pool at her feet.
