Black Lion's Bride

by Lara Adrian

  Happily, she watched him set up the board, admiring the agility of his strong fingers as he placed each piece into position in its proper colored square. “Ladies first,” he said when the last pawn had been set in its spot. He propped himself on his bent elbow, stretching out to recline on the blanket, his long legs extended, big leather boots crossed at the ankle.

  Zahirah glanced at the new game and bypassed her vanguard of pedestrian white pawns with nary a hesitation, instead moving the horse-shaped faras into play.

  “Feeling a bit ruthless today, are you, my lady?”

  She laughed at his jest, though in truth she felt anything but ruthless. His gaze on hers in challenge, he moved a black pawn and the dance of mock war began on the board. It went back and forth for some time, an equal match; they had been playing often, and Sebastian had a natural skill for the game--a skill that had come into its own when they played in the privacy of his chamber as he preferred, where the cost of each lost piece meant the surrender of a kiss, as determined by the victor. Zahirah blushed, thinking on the many games she had lost to him in the past week, some not entirely accidental.

  “I am loathe to intrude on whatever it is that has you smiling so prettily, but it seems you have left your ruhk wide open.” He slid one of his pieces onto the square and neatly captured hers. His smile was dazzling. “Sorry, my love.”

  “Hah! As sorry as a falcon on a mouse,” she replied with arch humor, giving him a suitably offended glare. She sized up the board with a shrewd glance, then moved her faras deeper into his ranks, getting a minor revenge on an unsuspecting pawn.

  Sebastian's eyes were on her as she collected his lost man and set him aside; she felt their heat, felt the potent male interest in his gaze as surely as she felt the sun, warming her skin through the silk of her clothes. He reached out then, taking her hand in his and bringing it to his lips. His kiss sent a tingle of desire through her, but she could not keep from nervously glancing around, could not keep from withdrawing her hand when her gaze lit on the inquisitive and mildly disapproving stares of a group of Muslim matrons.

  “Let them stare,” he said as she averted her eyes, embarrassed, and sat back on her heels. “In England, it would not be improper for a gentleman to kiss his lady's hand in a public park.”

  Zahirah felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. “In England, you also eat off the ends of your knives and dance around bonfires like moonstruck wild animals.”

  Sebastian let out a bark of rich laughter. “We are not entirely lacking sophistication, my lady. We have manners of our own, much like here, and we have parks and pleasure gardens and places of higher learning. I wish I could show you. You'd like England, I think.”

  How easy it was to forget he had another life, a privileged life far away from the scorching deserts and forbidding mountain crags she called home. That life of castles and court and loving kin awaited him, and she should not feel sorrow at the prospect that he would one day go back to it. “I'm sure it's beautiful,” she said, somewhat wistfully. “You must be eager to return.”

  “Oh, not so eager, my lady.” He gave a nonchalant shrug, but there was an intensity to his gaze when he looked over at her. “England has much to recommend it, but it doesn't have shatranj.”

  Zahirah smiled. “A problem easily remedied. In the souk just the other day, I saw a merchant selling a fine board with carved ivory pieces--”

  “It doesn't have you.”

  At first, she did not think she heard aright. She sat frozen, unable to do more than stare at his serious expression, her heart squeezing as though caught in a vise. “Me? My lord, I . . . “

  “Come with me,” he said when her voice drifted off and abandoned her. “When this war is over, should God will that I survive, I want to take you with me back to England. Back to my home at Montborne.”

  Stunned, humbled, miserable with all that he was offering her--with what she could not possibly accept--Zahirah felt her head shaking slowly back and forth. She wrapped her arms around her waist where a steel-cold knot had begun to settle. “Sebastian, I . . . I don't know what to say.”

  “Say you'll come with me.” He put his hand out and gently turned her face back to him. “Say you'll spare my pride and think about it, at least.”

  Zahirah smiled despite the cumbersome weight of her heart. “Oh, Sebastian,” she whispered, “you have no idea what it means to me that you would ask. That you would think so much of me--”

  “I think the world of you, my lady. I ask because I love you.”

  “And I love you,” she said, her throat thick with emotion. “I love you, Sebastian . . . so much.”

  “Well, that's a good enough start,” he replied, grinning. He leaned in and kissed her.

  Zahirah closed her eyes, wishing for things she would never have, things she would never know. For a moment, while she was kissing him, feeling his arms around her, she could almost believe that she might one day know another life with him--a life far away from the pain and brutality that was so much a part of her homeland. She could almost believe that there was a way, somehow, for them to be together.

  In the shelter of Sebastian's arms, she could almost believe their love might be stronger than the power of Rashid al-Din Sinan, and that was dangerous thinking, indeed. That sort of thinking could get Sebastian killed, a prospect she would do anything to avoid, even if it meant she would lose his love forever.

  “I must go,” she said, breaking out of his embrace before she had no strength to leave him at all.

  He arched a brow. “You will quit now, when the game is this close? You're hardly one to walk away from a challenge, my lady.”

  “It is the Sabbath today,” she said, pressing her forehead to his. “The third call will come soon, and I really should be in prayer.”

  It was an excuse, but one he did not rise to challenge. Growling in exaggerated protest, he released her. “We will finish our game--and our conversation--later this evening. Agreed?”

  Zahirah gave him a small nod. He pushed himself to his feet and helped her gather together the shatranj board and pieces. While she packed it away and threw their food scraps to the gulls, Sebastian shook out and rolled up the blanket, then returned it to the basket. With his hand resting easily on the small of her spine, he walked her out of the tranquility of the park and back to the sweltering chaos of the street.

  “I'll take you back to the palace,” he said when she hesitated to bid him farewell.

  “No. There's no need,” she replied. “It's not so far. I'll be fine.”

  “You're sure?”

  Nodding firmly, she caressed his face, savoring the feel of his strong jaw against her palm. “I will see you tonight, my lord.”

  She pivoted before he had a chance to say anything more, and stepped into the busy current of the street.

  * * *

  Sebastian waited where she left him, watching as Zahirah weaved back into the throng and headed up the avenue toward the palace. He had surprised her with his offer to bring her home with him to England; in truth, he had surprised himself with it. But he had meant what he said, and now that he had said it, he was determined that he would not leave the Holy Land without her.

  Behind him some distance, someone hailed him, drawing his attention away from the place into which Zahirah had since disappeared. It was Logan calling him, he realized, hearing the brogue roll off the soldier's tongue. The Scot had been patrolling the city that morning with a group of other knights, assigned to help keep order on a busy Muslim holy day.

  Sebastian turned to greet his friend's approach when something else drew his attention. He jerked his head to the right, where his scalp prickled with warning. The sun's midday rays were strong, beating down in a heavy wash of light that bent off a roof tile to blind him. But something was there, buried deep within the crowd. A pair of coal-black eyes, watching him, the gaze steady where others darted or hid within the folds and shadows of veils and kufiyyas.

  Could it be the
queer old man Zahirah had bumped into in the street? He had seemed peculiar somehow, his reticent manner oddly belligerent. Sebastian brought his arm up to shade his vision from the glare and get a better look. He peered hard into that knot of shuffling, talking people, but the eyes--and the gaunt, gray-bearded face he felt certain he would find--was gone.

  “Damn,” he swore, scanning the crowd to no avail. Logan drew up beside him nearly without his notice.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “I thought I saw something--or, rather, someone.” Sebastian ran a hand over his scalp, scowling.

  Logan followed the direction of his gaze, and gave a shake of his head. “Things have been quiet for more than a week, my friend. No sign of trouble anywhere, and we've been looking. I reckon we got our man when we got Halim and his pack of fida'i dogs.”

  “Did we?” Sebastian asked. “I'm not so sure. Something doesn't feel right to me.”

  The Scot grunted. “Well, at least we can take some comfort in the fact that Lionheart is out of danger now that he's here under guard in Ascalon.”

  “He may be under guard,” Sebastian said, turning a serious look on his friend, “but I don't think the king is out of danger yet at all.”

  Chapter 24

  The knights on watch at the palace gates nodded to Zahirah as they parted their crossed lances and opened the heavy iron grate to admit her entry. Her sandals clipped on the tiled walkway of the interior hallway at nearly a run, she unable to shake the feeling that her father, now that he was there at Ascalon, was watching her every move. Zahirah had felt his eyes on her in the street outside, felt that cold, cunning gaze following her as she had left Sebastian to wend her way through the crowds, fleeing for the palace as if bedeviled by Shaitan himself.

  Down the corridor, coming from within a large meeting room but a few paces ahead of her, Zahirah caught the sudden sound of a brash baritone chortle. It was met with an echoing chorus of the same, then a murmur of Frankish male voices. Someone offered fawning praise for the king's political acumen, commending Lionheart on his recent victory at Darum and pledging his support when the king moved the battle on to Jerusalem. There was a general round of agreement, then the shuffle of furniture as chairs were backed away from tables, followed by the jangle and clop of shifting armor and heavy soldiers' boots as the meeting broke and the attendees began to disperse for the hall.

  Too late to turn and avoid it, Zahirah found herself standing face to face with King Richard and several richly attired officers. One of them wore a long shaggy beard and a belted surcoat of white silk, its front divided in four quarters by a large red cross. His garb marked him as one of the Christians' warrior monks, a Knight of the Jerusalem Temple, a man of some import, judging by the haughtiness of his expression. Piously arrogant, he seared Zahirah with a disdainful look, as if it offended him to be sharing the same space of hallway with her. Lionheart, on the other hand, looked like a cat who had just been handed a dish of cream.

  He dismissed the Templar and the other men with a brevity of words, his gaze fixed on Zahirah in unapologetic interest. She clutched her basket in tight fists, holding herself very still, her eyes downcast as the group of Franks said their good-byes to the king and strode on past her up the corridor.

  “My, my, this is an unexpected pleasure,” he drawled once the officers were out of earshot. “Here I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

  Zahirah gave a weak shake of her head, and forced herself to bare her teeth in a smile. His widened exponentially.

  “No? Well, then. It would seem my good fortune knows no bounds today.” He took her in with a slow meaningful glance, pausing when his eyes lit on her basket. Without a thought toward permission, he leaned forward and flicked open the lid to peer inside. “Shatranj? Hardly a maiden's sport, this game of kingly war. Tell me, lady, are you good?”

  He closed the basket, but his hand lingered, his cabochon-ringed fingers skating up her forearm. Zahirah recoiled inwardly at his unbidden touch, but she saw the purpose in it, and with her father's threat still ringing in her ears, she knew she had to put that purpose to prudent use, no matter how it disgusted her to play the role of whore.

  “I would not presume to guess at my own skill, my lord,” she said, carefully measuring her words. “Your opinion, however, would be of great interest to me. I've no doubt there is much I could learn from you.”

  Richard's answering chuckle was more a purr than reply, low and throaty and very self-satisfied. Zahirah ventured a look up and saw over his shoulder that two armed knights had since come out of the meeting hall to stand in the doorway, guarding the king's back. One of them was the demon warrior she had come to recognize as Blackheart; the other she had seen about before but did not know by name. Stone-faced and silent, the two men hung back, far enough to grant their liege a modicum of privacy, yet near enough that they could see, and hear, all that transpired in the corridor. That these men knew Sebastian, and no doubt knew that she was his intimate, needled her with unbearable shame, but Zahirah tried to put it out of her mind, concentrating instead on the trap she baited for the king.

  “I knew you would come around eventually,” he said, grinning as he planted his hand beside her head, boxing her in against the stone of the corridor wall. “Perhaps you'd like to start your lesson now.”

  He bent forward to kiss her and Zahirah jerked away, a reflex reaction that brought a perturbed scowl to the king's brow. She covered the slip quickly. Tilting her head, she feigned a sudden shyness. “Not here, my lord,” she said quietly. “I must insist on discretion. No guards.”

  “My chambers, then. Tonight.”

  “Too soon,” she said with a shake of her head. Her father's threat provided her two days to fulfill her mission; she refused to forfeit this one last night that she would have with Sebastian. She could not go through with her deadly plan until she was certain she had no other choice. And she needed to be assured that Sebastian would not be there to see her betrayal firsthand--nor the aftermath, for there would be no escaping once Richard was dead, and she had decided that she would not attempt to elude his guards when they moved in to kill his assailant. She could face their hacking blades, but she did not think she could face Sebastian once the ugly mask of her deception was stripped away. “When we spoke at Darum, my lord, you mentioned that you could make certain arrangements . . . “

  Lionheart inclined his head, his blue eyes glittering. “Consider it done.”

  The smile she gave him hurt her cheeks, but it paled compared to the stab of misery that pierced her when she thought of what she was about to do--not only to this immoral and arrogant man who would cuckold one of his most loyal subjects, but also to Sebastian. And to herself.

  A feeling of sickness began to churn in her belly. Before it could seize her entirely, she hissed out the rest of what needed to be said. “Tomorrow evening, my lord. After sup. I will come to you.”

  At his nod of agreement, Zahirah sidled away from him and began a hasty retreat down the corridor. Her hands were shaking and damp, her heart beating furiously in her breast. The shatranj pieces clacked and rolled in her basket, their bobbling racket bouncing off the high walls of the corridor as she dashed around a bend and headed down the harem colonnade.

  She was nearly out of breath, her legs quaking beneath her. Her stomach clenched in revolt, twisting violently. Zahirah flung one hand out to brace herself on a tall column, doubling over and on the verge of retching into the bed of bright flowers that lined the walkway. Behind her some way, a group of knights came in from an adjacent courtyard, talking about their eagerness to march on the Holy City. Zahirah straightened before they could notice her, and willed herself to calm. Gathering her wits as best she could, she took off at a dead run toward her chamber. Distantly, from the minaret tower of the city mosque at the center of town, she heard the muezzin call the faithful to prayer.

  * * *

  The city had settled down for nightfall by the time Sebastian returned to
the palace. Not that he had wanted to be kept away for so long. The building on the wall had taken most of the daylight hours, and, come dusk, he and Logan had decided to make one last sweep of Ascalon's streets and courtyards, looking for any hint of the unusual.

  Their search had yielding nothing out of the ordinary, but the day's long hours had left him tired and hot and hungry. Those petty needs fell away at the welcome sight of Zahirah waiting for him in his chamber when he opened the door. She quenched all his wants . . . all, save one.

  She poured him a cup of wine from a carafe on a nearby table while he unbuckled his sword belt and laid it down near the door. He took the drink gladly, tossing back the rich red claret in one long draught, then setting the cup aside to take his beautiful lady in hand instead. He fell back on the room's plush divan and pulled her down onto his lap. “I've been wanting to kiss you like this all day,” he said, plunging his hands into her thick black hair and covering her mouth with his.

  She was sweet and clean, and he suddenly became aware of how filthy he was from being outside, standing in the hot sun and working with the brick and mortar. “I should bathe,” he murmured against her lips. “I'm getting my dust all over you.”

  “I don't care,” she whispered. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him with a needfulness that seemed but a shade away from despair. “I've been waiting for you too long, my love, and I'm not about to let you go now.”