Black Lion's Bride

by Lara Adrian

  Sebastian's breath leaked out of him in a harsh sigh as he looked upon his lover's naked body for what was truly the first time. “Jesus Christ,” he swore, staring at her in stunned disbelief.

  Beneath her clothing, beneath the honey-brown color of her skin--a color that faded away in a gradual band at her breasts and across the downy triangle of her pelvis--Zahirah was as creamy white as the finest pearl.

  As white as the fairest Englishwoman in any king's court.

  * * *

  So, now he knew, Zahirah thought, miserable as she stood before him, watching him gape at her like the freak she knew herself to be. Now he saw her disease, the thing that ate at her heart, at her soul. The sickness that set her apart from her countrymen and her clan. The secret, which, until this very moment, only she and Allah shared.

  “Zahirah,” Sebastian said, “what is the meaning of this?”

  She glanced down, ashamed. “I have been asking God that very question all my life.”

  “This must have something to do with your nightmares. Perhaps it explains your connection to the name Gillianne.”

  “No,” she said, desperate to deny the suggestion. “No, it can't have anything to do with this. My dreams are just that, dreams. They don't explain anything. They're not real.”

  “The fear they bring you is real enough. I think they would explain much, if you would only listen to them.”

  She thought about the anguish and violence of her night terrors, the hideous screaming, the feeling of helplessness and loss. If they held an explanation to anything in her life, she did not want it. She did not think she could bear that cold a truth.

  “What about your mother?” Sebastian asked, his voice pulling her out of her dark musings.

  “I never knew my mother,” Zahirah answered. “She died when I was a babe.”

  “Was she English? Could your mother have been Gillianne?”

  Zahirah gave a sharp shake of her head. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you don't know my father. He is--” She broke off abruptly, wary of treading down a dangerous path from which there would be no return. “My father is a devout man. He would never taint his blood by taking an Englishwoman to his bed.”

  “Then how do you explain it, my lady?” He paused, intensely watching her expression, as if he searched for gentle words but could not find them. “Zahirah, it is obvious. Your pale eyes, your fair skin. My lady, you are not Arab.”

  “Yes, I am,” she replied, the shrill forcefulness of her avowal betraying her defensiveness, her rising panic, at his challenge.

  It was a charge she herself had never dared whisper, not even when she was banished in punishment to the dank cell at Masyaf, a space so deep and dark within the bowels of the fortress that no one could have heard her, even had she screamed it. She had never dared speak the question aloud, not to her father certainly. Not to anyone.

  But she had thought it.

  She had thought it every time she bared her skin to the sun's rays, begging Allah to heal her. She had thought it in the throes of the nightmare that woke her in this very room just a few moments before. She had always been able to push the question aside, denying it by example of her devotion--her willing sacrifice--to her father and her clan, but hearing Sebastian voice it now stirred a fear in her so profound it nearly robbed her of breath.

  “I am Arab,” she whispered fiercely, needing to believe it. “I am Arab in every way it matters: my heart, my soul. My convictions.” To her dismay, a sob wrenched up from her constricted throat. “Don't you see? This life is all I know. It's all I have.”

  “No,” Sebastian said. He stepped toward her, reaching out to take her hand. “Not all, my lady. Only if you choose it to be so.”

  Zahirah looked up into his serious, steady gaze as he closed his fingers around hers and slowly brought her into his embrace. His chest was warm and solid against her naked breasts, the crisp mat of hair rasping against her nipples. He traced the line of her jaw, her chin, his eyes caressing her as sweetly as his touch.

  He bent his head down and kissed her mouth. “I love you,” he whispered, his lips brushing hers. “I don't care if you're brown or white. I don't care if you're English, Arab, half of each, or not of this world at all. I love you, Zahirah.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut against the flood of relief and sorrow and pure shattering joy that swept her upon hearing those precious words. That he could mean them, that his acceptance of her could be so genuine, so complete, humbled her as greatly as it elated her. She had never heard those words before, never felt this love. Never knew how keenly she had needed it until now.

  Tears burned behind her eyelids and in her throat. “Oh, Sebastian . . . I'm so scared.”

  “Don't be,” he told her. “You don't have to be scared, my lady. Not anymore.”

  He lowered himself before her, taking her breasts into his hands, into his mouth, kissing the variegation of her skin, worshiping the places where she was neither tan nor pale. He knelt at her feet, there, in front of God and the unblinking eye of the rising sun, and he learned every inch of her body, bringing all of her passion, all of her pleasure, into the light.

  And then, as she splintered apart in a wave of trembling, perfect rapture, he pulled her down atop him on the carpeted floor, and he loved her further, showing her an ecstasy that would never again abide the smothering pall of the dark.

  Chapter 23

  For better than a week, all the time they had been back at Ascalon, Zahirah knew the boundless warmth and light of Sebastian's love. It was a wondrous thing he gave her, a freedom of feeling that seemed to lift her very soul heavenward. It was joy just to look upon him and think that he was hers; bliss to know the wonder of his regard, his touch . . . the sensual skill of his glorious body. And when he was gone, doing work for his king in the city or beyond its sheltering walls, she missed him with a keenness that surpassed anguish.

  That morning, he had left the palace to oversee more repair work on the city walls. By noontide Zahirah was mad to see him, the empty space of the chamber they shared closing in on her and making her yearn to be outdoors. She would bring Sebastian a picnic, she decided, eager to surprise him with an excursion to one of Ascalon's garden parks. With a meal and a blanket and a board for playing shatranj bobbing along in the basket on her arm, she quit the palace. The knights on watch at the outer gate had come to know her as their captain's lady; they let her pass unmet to head into the bustle of the city.

  Beyond those guarded palace gates, the streets and market teemed with a new day's commerce: tight-fisted Muslims and Christians haggled over goods with squawking vendors; soldiers and peasants strolled the alleyways and loitered about the common square, each group eyeing the other warily, while a pack of dirty, laughing children and two yapping dogs raced hither and yon, oblivious to all but the merriment of their game.

  Zahirah saw a Muslim holy man heading for the mosque, his fine white robes looking crisp and pristine among the filth and dust of the city, and she realized with a jolt of surprise that this was Friday, the Sabbath. How could she have forgotten? A group of veiled women huddled in a knot near a fountain at the end of the main artery through town, whispering amongst themselves while they waited for the prayer call that would summon them to jumah. Zahirah passed them with her gaze averted, telling herself she should not feel ashamed that on this holy day she was going instead, bare-faced and eager, to break fast with her Christian lover.

  She spied him but a moment later, there, at the far end of the street where the brick in the soaring city wall was still damp with new mortar. He stood on scaffolding at the top of that high perimeter, talking with a mason, his legs braced apart, balancing him as easily as a great cat on a bough. His tunic was tied about his head like a kufiyya to shield him from the heat of the sun; the tail of the shirt hung down past his neck and huge bronzed shoulders, the edges of its hem lifting in the thready breeze. He gave an order to someone on the ground, then glance
d out and saw her approaching from up the street. Zahirah felt his welcoming gaze reach out to her across the distance, and her heart skipped a beat.

  Beaming, she sent him a wave of greeting. He said something to the mason, then clapped him on the arm and turned to descend the ladder. Zahirah did not even try to bite back her giggle of excitement as she watched him jump the last few rungs to the ground, disappearing into the thick crowd of folk that stood between them on the avenue. She took a quick step forward, about to rush on to the end of the street to meet him, when someone suddenly stepped into her path.

  “Oh!” she cried, drawing up short to avoid a collision with the hunched, slim form of a beggarly old man. “My apologies, sir. I did not see you--”

  The graybeard lifted his hooded head and Zahirah's gaze locked with a pair of chilling black eyes. Those knowing eyes stared hard at her, narrowed in something that went deeper than mere disapproval. She felt all the blood drain from her face. Her picnic basket hung on her arm like a weight of a hundred stones.

  “Father,” she gasped, scarcely recognizing the reclusive King of the Assassins for the unexpectedness of his presence there in public and his ragged commoner's disguise. “W-what are you doing here?”

  “Come to ask you much the same, daughter.” Sinan leaned heavily on the word, his calm voice sounding infinitely more lethal to her than would the loudest bellow. “I have been hearing nothing but disappointing news, Zahirah. News of unsuccessful attacks and delays, a score of my best men dead . . . these failures concern me greatly. Now it is my understanding that the Frankish king is here, with you, in Ascalon--here for a week or more, from what I have gathered. Yet still Lionheart lives.”

  In the periphery of the milling crowd, Zahirah saw three of her father's fida'i bodyguards. They were dressed to blend in, but she knew their faces, and she knew each of them would be as well-armed as Sinan most certainly was beneath his pilgrim's rags. Like hounds, they watched her, hanging at the ready and waiting for their master's command. From the feral looks in their eyes, she had no doubt that any one of them would be happy to tear out her throat. She swallowed down a knot of stark cold fear. “Father, I can explain--”

  “I'm not interested in explanations,” he cut in sharply, although his tone retained its deceptive calm. “I am interested in action. Swift action, Zahirah. I am tired of waiting.”

  “Yes, Father. Of course, I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  Zahirah nodded, but her attention was suddenly drawn elsewhere. Amid the hubbub and shuffle of the busy street, she heard Sebastian's voice, heard its deep masculine rumble as he greeted someone in Arabic. He was likely halfway through the crowd, drawing nearer by the moment. She did not dare venture a glance in his direction, fearing her father would scent her worry. Too late, she realized, nothing escaped the notice of the almighty Old Man.

  “The Frankish captain seems quite taken with you.” Sinan's thin lips flattened. “Oh, yes, daughter. I've been watching. Is he the reason you have not yet fulfilled your mission?”

  “No,” she denied in a rush. Then, with forced casualness, “No. There have been complications to my plan, that is all. He has nothing to do with it.”

  Masyaf's Old Man grunted, and slid a look to one of his hovering guards. “Perhaps I would be a better judge of that.”

  “W-what do you mean?” she asked, but there was a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that warned of her father's intentions.

  He would have Sebastian killed--right there, in the middle of a crowded street, if he thought the captain a threat to his goal. Sebastian would never see the daggers coming. And at this very moment, Zahirah was leading him directly into the trap.

  “Please, Father,” she whispered, desperation making her reach out to take a hold of Sinan's vein-riddled leathery hand. She gripped the lean fingers that would not respond to her touch. “Please . . . I beg you. Don't.”

  “You have a task to carry out, Zahirah.”

  “And I will,” she said, praying he would believe her, recommitting herself to her mission. “I have not forgotten my pledge to the clan.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” said Sinan. “You have two days.”

  “Two days,” she gasped. “But that won't possibly be enough time--”

  “Two days, Zahirah. And do not fail, or your Frankish lover dies.”

  “I will do it,” she vowed, sick with the blood promise that stood to cost her so much. “I will not fail you, Father. But please, swear to me you won't do anything to him.”

  Stoic and inflexible, he would give her no answer, and there was no time for further entreaty.

  Shrugging into his tunic, Sebastian stepped around a passerby and gave Zahirah a warm smile. Then his eyes flicked to Sinan and he paused, his easiness replaced with a look of mild suspicion. “Is anything amiss here, my lady?”

  “N-no,” she replied, shaking her head in quick denial. She released her father's hand and went to Sebastian's side. Her smile felt pasted on and tight; her lie seemed cemented to the roof of her mouth. “I'm afraid I was not looking where I was going, and carelessly I bumped into this gentleman. I was just offering him my apologies.”

  Sebastian's chin went up a notch in acceptance of her explanation. He looked once more to her father, who stood in watchful silence, holding himself as still as a viper waiting to strike. “Well, I'm sure he pardons you of any offense,” Sebastian said in their tongue. With a studying glance, he took in Sinan's rumpled clothing and gaunt features. “Are you hungry? We have food. Zahirah, what have you got in your basket for this man to eat, my love?”

  She winced inwardly at the endearment, feeling her father's condemning eyes fix on her like a slew of poison-tipped daggers. Nervously, she stuck her hand inside the basket and fumbled around for something--anything--to give him. Her fingers closed around a velvety peach and she jerked it out, bruising the tender skin and almost dropping it in her state of near hysteria. She held the fruit out to Sinan, willing her hand not to tremble as he took it from her and offered her a fractional nod of thanks.

  Sebastian added a large round copper to the gift, retrieving the coin from a pouch on his baldric and placing it in Sinan's palm. “Peace be upon you,” he said. “Go with God.”

  Though the Arabic blessing was customarily polite, it contained an undercurrent of dismissal that would not sit well with Masyaf's Assassin king. Unable to speak, unable to so much as breathe, Zahirah stared at her father while he absorbed the situation. She could almost hear the wheels grinding and turning in his head as he evaluated Sebastian, his gaze as emotionally vacant as a vat of the blackest pitch. Slowly, his fingers closed around the coin. Then, with a meaningful glance toward Zahirah, he simply turned away and left them, becoming just another faceless figure on the wide avenue, trundling along in a sea of the same.

  “This is a pleasant surprise.”

  Zahirah startled at the sound of Sebastian's voice beside her ear. He kissed her cheek and took the basket from her arm. Her pulse was racing. Willing it to slow, she returned his smile, praying her fear of the moment before would not be evident in her expression. “I'm glad you're pleased. I thought you might welcome a break from your work.”

  “Indeed, I would,” he said. “Shall we find a place to sit and enjoy this meal you've brought me? Perhaps there will be a spot of shade in one of the parks.”

  Although it had been her plan when she set out from the palace, suddenly the thought of sitting in a busy city garden held little appeal. Nor did she think she could force down one bite of food so long as her stomach was churning with worry over her father's deadly ultimatum. But as distressed as she was about the prospect of being forced to fulfill her mission with the king, she could not afford to let Sebastian know that anything was wrong.

  To chance that he might suspect something now, when her father and his bodyguards lingered around the city like ghosts, would be to place his very life in jeopardy. She had to keep him unawares; now more than ever, the totalit
y of her deception would be paramount.

  “Yes,” she said. “The park will be lovely.”

  Linking her arm through his and holding onto him perhaps a little tighter than she should have, Zahirah walked with Sebastian to an unoccupied pocket of lawn in a park that overlooked Ascalon's shore. There, some near dozen ancient Roman pillars stood among tall cypress and palm trees, creating a strange, sparse forest of stone and wood that shaded the edge of the silvery dune and framed the sun-dappled gem-green water that tossed and rippled beyond. Children's voices carried up from the beach on the breeze, their laughter and shouts of mock battle joining with the calls of sea terns that wheeled overhead, looking for charity from the folk who had come to rest and refresh at the park. Somewhere not far was a lemon grove; the citrus fragrance twined pleasingly with the perfumes of myriad spices wafting in from a merchant galley docked at the harbor.

  God had given them a perfect day, but Zahirah found it difficult to appreciate any of the peace and beauty surrounding her. There was only Sebastian, the enemy she had come to love. There was only this man, a noble man who had given meaning to the words honor and acceptance.

  And now, suddenly, there was only this moment and the precious few that remained between here and the time she would be forced to betray him. Two days. So little time.

  Sebastian was looking at her as she knelt in the grass and unpacked the basket. She handed him the blanket, returning his smile when their fingers brushed and lingered for a heartbeat. While he unfurled the large square of cotton and spread it on the ground, Zahirah set out their meal. She had brought them a round of flatbread and some cheese and wine. There was fruit in the basket as well--less one peach for the token she had been made to give her father. But she would not let him invade this moment any further.

  Pushing aside all thoughts of Sinan and the unpleasant business that awaited her, Zahirah broke the bread and offered a chunk to Sebastian as he took his place beside her on the ground. He must have been hungry, for he made quick work of his meal, eating like a ravenous youth still growing into his bones. It was pleasure to watch him at the simplest things, and she knew this day would be burned into her memory for all eternity. She wanted to wring everything from it, to make the day last, and so, despite that she was in no state to concentrate on strategy or diversion, when Sebastian found the shatranj board in the basket and offered her a game, Zahirah agreed.