“I will not betray us.” She strode around the building. Let this begin so it would be over sooner. Then she would put an end to this absurd alliance and not have to listen to Gabriel’s endless orders.
She faltered as she stared at a scene that could have been plucked from Heathwyre. Save for the tcharchafs and the odd mountains in the distance, this resembled a morning at her father’s manor house, the serving maids chattering together as they gathered to prepare the first meals of the day.
These women spoke lightheartedly as they drew water from the well. A shove in her back forced her feet forward. She fought not to glower at Gabriel. He should remember that she was his ally, not his slave.
Balancing the water jar on her hip as the other women did, she walked to the well. Beside her, Gabriel was silent. Her words could betray them, but he spoke the language of this land.
He scanned the buildings around them. Did he expect to see his enemy at one of the few windows? When his eyes narrowed, crinkling his skin, she knew he was smiling with satisfaction. What had he seen? A furtive motion on a rooftop, she realized. His men must have reached the village, too, and were ready for the attack.
“Do not loiter here, milady,” Gabriel said softly. “Join the others.”
She stared at him, shocked that he risked speaking Frankish here where they might be overheard. Then, she realized he would chance anything to halt his enemy. Just anything, or would he risk anyone? That was another thought she wished she could ignore.
Again she wanted to ask why he had insisted that she walk among the women. She bit back her question as a woman strolled past them. Even though the woman’s face was completely veiled, her steps slowed and her hips swayed as she passed Gabriel.
Melisande could only stare. She had not guessed a woman could eye a man even when he could not see her eyes.
She nodded when Gabriel glanced from her to the other women in a silent command. Taking a breath, she could not hold it. Her heart thudded against her chest like a siege machine against a manor’s wall.
Melisande walked to the center of the common area that was as dusty as the surrounding plain. The only plants were shriveled in a pot by an open door. Listening to the women, she waited her turn to fill her water jar. She wished she could understand a single word, but their conversation made no more sense in her ears than the cry of the birds circling overhead.
The women glanced at her as she stepped forward to pour water into the jar. They continued talking. As Melisande finished filling the jar, she wondered what she should do next. If Gabriel had just told her a bit more, she—
A woman screamed. She pulled Melisande’s tcharchaf back off her head. The water jar shattered in the dirt as Melisande whirled and groped for the material. It was too late. Her heavy braid slapped her shoulder, its color destroying her disguise.
The women stared at her, frozen with astonishment. Another one shrieked when Melisande pulled her sword.
“Gabriel, I—” She pushed aside the fabric over her head and looked around. Where was he?
Men flowed out of the surrounding houses as more women screamed and fled. Suddenly there were warriors everywhere. She had no idea which were allies and which were hill bandits. They all wore the same white robes. Holding her sword at the ready, she edged away from the well. She must find Gabriel. His plan might already be doomed.
Someone shouted behind her. Her arm was seized. She jerked it away and spun to face a man whose face was scarred from past battles. She balanced herself lightly as she raised her sword.
He met her sword with a blow that ached through her. Gripping the hilt with two hands, she raised it again. Her fingers stung when he knocked it aside. With a vicious swing, he sent her sword flying across the dirt.
She took a deep breath to scream for help. But who would heed her cry? Gabriel had abandoned her.
The man grabbed her braid and pulled her closer.
“No!” she cried. She kicked at him, but the tcharchaf had twisted around her legs. Curse Gabriel! She should never have trusted him. She should—
She screamed again when the bandit sliced her black wool sleeve with his sword. Pain pierced her upper arm.
She tried to run, but he caught her wide sleeve. Shoving her against a hard mud wall beneath a line of laundry, he laughed before pressing his mouth over hers. She clawed at him.
His fingers twisted in her hair as he ripped aside the rest of her tcharchaf. He tried to tear her gown away. Fighting him, she stiffened when he pulled a short blade.
Her hand whipped up. Years of trying to keep Geoffrey from pummeling her when they played roughly as children gave her the strength to knock the knife away. She squirmed from beneath him as he stared at her in shock, clearly not having expected her defiance.
He pushed past her to get the knife. She fought her way to her feet and grabbed her sword. Whirling, she thrust it. As he fell facedown on the ground, she collapsed, the line of laundry falling over her.
She did not release her sword. Her fingers were frozen around its hilt. Shouts came from the edge of the village. She did not look up. She did not want to see more death.
Pain seared her arm. Tearing a cloth from the line, she wrapped it around her bleeding arm.
She had to get out of here. Somehow she had to return to Tyre. Despair threatened to choke her. With Geoffrey and the knights of Heathwyre, she had traveled more than a day by horseback to reach the cliffs where Abd al Qadir had attacked. Somehow she would find her way back to resume her duties as a Hospitaller.
A shadow slid over her. She tightened her hold on her sword. Agony seared her arm. Could she heft her sword? She must.
When a finger tipped back her chin, she breathed, “Gabriel! Where did you go?”
“Not far.” He drew her up into his arms. His kiss was slow and hard as if he were trying to persuade himself that she was still alive. As his arm curved around her, slanting her across his chest, his mouth slipped along her face before his tongue caressed her ear. She grasped the front of his robes, but could not keep her arms from gliding around his shoulders. She shivered as the fire of his touch diminished even the escalating heat of the day. The whisper of his name lured his mouth back to hers, and she swept her fingers up into his hair, wanting the kiss to last and last. His arm tightened around her, and she gasped against his lips when he pressed her even more tightly to his strong chest.
“Come with me, milady,” he ordered as he raised his head. “It is time to leave this place.”
Melisande nodded as she looked past him. Most of the village was empty. A few shouts came from beyond the buildings, but around the well lay several corpses. She wondered which one was the hill bandit’s leader.
She winced as she shifted her right arm. The pain that she had not noticed while in Gabriel’s embrace had returned doubly strong. Looking at the horse she had ridden to this village, she hoped she would be able to control it. Again she winced, but not with pain. Would Gabriel grant her the use of the horse to return to Tyre?
He pulled her closer again as a man came around the edge of the building. When she reached for her sword, he put his hand on her wrist. “It is Shakir, milady.”
Melisande nodded as she recognized the short man who had led Gabriel’s band on a different route to the village. Gritting her teeth, she was able to hide her pain as even the slight pressure of Gabriel’s fingers on her wrist sent agony erupting up her arm.
He called something in his language. From every shadow came his men, some splattered with blood, others bleeding. No one spoke as the man he called Shakir walked toward them.
“Abd al Qadir?” asked Gabriel.
“He is not among the dead,” Shakir replied. He scowled at her. “Your plan to use this woman to tempt him from his lair has failed.”
Melisande twisted out of Gabriel’s arms. She stared at Shakir. He spoke Frankish! Her astonishment became fury when his words oozed past her terror.
“You used me as bait!” she gasped. “To lure out
your enemy.”
Gabriel’s face became as emotionless as the hills. “Abd al Qadir let you live once, so I thought he would be intrigued with the chance to claim you again.”
“I could have been killed.”
“I had not guessed,” he said, turning to Shakir as if she had vanished, “that one of his men would dare to do more than take her to him.”
“And if he had,” she cried, refusing to be ignored, “you could have followed and killed Abd al Qadir. How long would you have waited to see if he would take me to the hill bandit? Until he was done attacking me?” She used the flat of her sword to push Shakir aside. Paying no attention to his curse, she said, “This alliance is dissolved now, Gabriel. I was a fool to believe your word had any value.”
His arm around her waist tugged her back to him. “You were a fool, Melisande, to believe this alliance had any value. I needed your cooperation in my efforts to stop Abd al Qadir from preying on the villages that seek my protection. Offering you what you wanted might have gotten me what I wanted, but this attempt to force the beast from his lair failed.” His gaze slipped along her. “Mayhap Abd al Qadir was not as fascinated with you as I had suspected.”
“You need not insult me more. Release me. We are no longer allies.”
A smile uncurled along his lips. “We never were allies. You are my captive.”
“I am not your captive.” She tried to break his hold on her, but his arm tightened, pressing her to the breadth of his chest. “I will heed no more of your lies.”
His hand cupped her chin, tilting her face back so she could not escape the ebony intensity of his eyes. “I am not lying, Melisande. You are now, as you have been from the moment you woke in my tent, my prisoner.”
FIVE
Gabriel listened in silence. His men were furious that Abd al Qadir had eluded them again. They had been so certain that, this time, the hill bandit would pay for his crimes with his life. Instead, Abd al Qadir was still alive and free.
Standing, he walked away from the fire that offered a bit of heat against the thickening darkness. He did not slow until he was beyond its light, so only the cool river of moonlight outlined the crags of a nearby cliff. Pushing his way into the tent, he saw the old woman was asleep in one corner. He tiptoed past her as he crossed to where Melisande also was asleep.
Her face was contorted in the dim light, and her arm flung out. Her fingers were closed in a fist. Squatting beside her, he could not halt his own fingers from gathering up some strands of her soft hair, which was such an incredible color. She mumbled in her sleep. Her brother’s name.
His jaw clenched. Melisande’s brother would have been avenged today if all had gone as planned. As he had planned. Sending her into Abd al Qadir’s village with this glorious hair visible in a braid falling along her back had been guaranteed to create an uproar. Then he finally would have seen an end to the hill bandits’ attacks on unarmed villages and discovered who was providing Abd al Qadir with men and weapons.
Everything had gone as he had hoped … until he realized Melisande’s captor was not taking her to Abd al Qadir. Instead of continuing to fight, Gabriel had gone to keep the bandit from raping her. Needlessly, for she had saved herself, and the leader of the hill bandits had escaped.
He released her hair and stood. Walking out of the tent, he saw Shakir watching him. He did not need to see the reproach on his friend’s face. He heard every accusation in his head. A red-haired temptress had kept him from fulfilling his oath to protect those of these hills.
It would never happen again. That was an oath he would not break.
The sun burned Melisande’s eyes as she stepped out of the tent. The stench of smoke hung in the air, but she did not look down at the plain. Gabriel’s men had burned the buildings after the women had taken out their few possessions. Now the hill bandits must seek another lair.
She held her head high as Gabriel walked toward her, his white robes flowing like the clouds overhead. Behind him, his men were tying cases to the back of horses. She guessed they contained what Abd al Qadir had stolen. Now Gabriel had taken it from him. What would Gabriel do with it?
No hint of a smile eased his stern expression as he said, “We leave.”
“Where are we going?”
He lifted one of her braids, which was as wide as her wrist, and rubbed it between his fingers. Slowly his hand moved up the thick strands to reach her ear, which he caressed with the same slow stroke. “We are going to where we are going.”
“That is no answer.” Her eyes strained to watch his finger as it moved along her neck. It gently followed her jaw and traced her chin. She gasped when he gripped her chin, tilting it back sharply. Too many watched them, but she could not pull her gaze from his eyes. They were devoid of compassion. She stiffened her shoulders against the shiver aching up her back. Had the sparse kindness he had shown her been as much a pretense as their alliance?
“You should not be outside the tent dressed like this,” he said in a voice as cool as his gaze.
“You were the one to undress me to this state.” Her face became as heated as when she rode across the desert plain. “If you will return my surcoat to me, we—”
“You know that is not what I mean.”
Stepping closer, he overwhelmed her with shoulders that appeared even broader beneath his bleached cloak. When she started to reply, he shouted something she could not understand.
The old woman rushed forward with more of the black wool.
Melisande frowned. “Gabriel, I—”
“Will do as I wish you to.”
She shook her head. “I vowed to obey you only as long as our alliance lasted.”
“But it never existed and you obeyed me.” He whipped the material around her. Before she could shrug it off, his hands clamped on her shoulders. Heat swept through her from beneath his fingers at the same time something flickered in his eyes. The same warmth that taunted her? That frightening thought turned the fire to ice.
Swiftly he wrapped the shorter section around her head and secured the end across her face. The thick scent of wool suffocated her, and she jerked it away.
“I do not wish to wear this ridiculous costume.” She focused her fury at her unwanted reaction on him.
“You will wear it.” His clipped words warned that he was as unsettled as she. With fury or with the unwanted desire? “Do not argue with me on this, for this argument you will not win, Melisande.”
She drew the wool up over her face, glad to let it hide her expression. She hoped it would hide that she was a fool to crave the touch of this man who had betrayed her.
Gabriel held out his hand in an unuttered order. She placed hers on his hard palm and followed him as he walked toward his horse. She looked about and scowled again when she saw that the gray horse she had ridden now had bags stacked on its back.
“If we are riding, I shall need my horse.”
He put his hand on his horse’s bridle. “You fret about the wrong things, milady. This is Shetan, whose name means devil in Frankish. He’s fleet enough to evade the evil one, even when he carries both of us.”
“You expect me to ride with you?” She backed away, although she had no place to go. “I can assure you that I’m quite capable of managing my own mount, even in these rough hills.”
“I know you ride very well, Melisande.” He stepped easily into the intricately stitched saddle and again held out his hand. “And that is the reason you will ride with me. We wouldn’t want you to become lost in these unfamiliar hills.”
“I never get lost.”
“I have no wish to prove you wrong, milady.”
She ignored the hand proffered in front of her face. Scanning the hilltop, she knew she had no allies here. The old woman had disappeared into the shimmering waves of heat bubbling up from the ground. Gabriel’s men were mounting their own horses. If she ran … Gabriel might kill her if she did not obey him.
Slowly she clasped his wrist with both hands. Many tim
es she had mounted like this when she had ridden with her brother. When Gabriel tugged her to sit across his lap, she gasped.
When she started to push herself off his legs, his arm tightened around her waist, surrounding her with his strength. Coldly, she said, “It would be more comfortable for me to ride pillion.”
“What would keep you from sliding off the back of the horse and scurrying away?” He laughed as he forced her back against him until she had to crane her neck to an awkward angle to see his smile. “And think how much more pleasant it is to ride like this.”
“I don’t find this pleasant.”
“Odd.” He added nothing else to her as he called out to his men.
The horse beneath them leaped forward at his command, and he pulled the cloth across his face to protect himself from the dust.
She looked away. He was holding her so intimately to show her, yet again, how easily he could control her. He did not have to show her. She knew. Through the night, her dreams had been haunted with terror of what might happen now. She had been too desperate to repay Abd al Qadir, and Gabriel had taken advantage of that. Now … she could not guess what might happen, because she had no idea who or what this man truly was.
The wind blew into her face as they traveled toward the rising sun. Her heart lurched. They rode farther from the lands held by the Crusaders. Every mile they traveled made it more impossible for her to return to Tyre on foot.
Dust burned in her eyes. The hot breath of the wind scored her face with dirt. She drew up the black wool and realized Gabriel had done her a favor by insisting she wear this accursed tcharchaf. She could breathe without tasting grit.
She choked back her gasp when Gabriel released her. She grasped the front of his robes before she could be bounced off his legs.
“Here,” he said, amusement in his voice.
Melisande’s fingers quivered as she reached for the leather bladder Gabriel held out to her. She lifted it beneath the flap of the tcharchaf and drank. The water washed away the dust irritating her throat. Although she was tempted to take another drink, she was not sure how long it would be before they could find more water in these wastes.
No Price Too High Page 5
