No Price Too High

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  As she walked toward him, he turned to face her, his motions as light as a desert breeze. His face was etched with wary lines. She saw once more the man who had earned the name Renard du Vent from his enemies. She wondered, for the first time, how he had gained such a fearsome reputation when he was trying to halt the hill bandits.

  She paused in front of him at the door to the banqueting hall. He lifted her hand to his lips. The merest touch of his mouth pulsated within her, freeing her longing to be in his arms.

  “Milady, you are welcome among us this evening,” he said in a voice that rolled through the room. Under his breath as he offered his hand so she might place hers atop it while he escorted her to the table, he whispered, “You look lovely, az-Zahra, and far too tempting in that tunic that I had hoped only my eyes would see.”

  “It is the best compromise I could manage. If my father is angry about what I wear, he may be unwilling to heed anything else.” Without pausing, she said, “What has my father said to you about—?”

  “Not now, az-Zahra. We will speak later. Alone.”

  She wanted to melt in the heat of his gaze as his words promised that talking was not all he wanted to do with her tonight. It took all her strength to keep walking by his side as if they spoke of nothing of import.

  When her father stepped forward, pride swelled through her. He, like Gabriel, was dressed in his finest. The russet wool of his surplice was the color his hair had been in her earliest memories.

  Gabriel placed her hand on her father’s. “Milord.”

  “Thank you, shaykh.” He stepped between her and Gabriel. With a curse, he tore the yashmak away. He threw it on the floor and ground it beneath his boot.

  Melisande gasped, “Father, we are within this house. We should not insult their customs.”

  “I will not have my daughter look like an infidel whore.” He grasped her chin and tilted her head. “You have let them mutilate your ears.”

  She winced, for her ears were still tender despite Karim Pasa’s skilled work. “I thought the ear hoops to be pretty, Father.” That, once more, was the truth; but she could not reveal to her father how she had accepted the title of ikbal along with these earrings.

  “Remove them.”

  She reached up to loosen them, then lowered her hands. This could not continue, or she would be left naked. “Father, no lady undresses in the presence of so many men.”

  “I want them gone before we leave this accursed place. Gold has no value when it is infidel gold. Worse, the gold of a man who has turned his back on his father’s ways.” Tugging on her hand, he said, “This way, Melisande.”

  Again she did not dare to look back. Her father’s blatant insults were not aimed at her, but at Gabriel. The iciness between Gabriel and her father had not thawed. If either of them could look past their differences, they would find they were much the same—strong-willed, loyal, and worthy of the trust of those who served them. She wanted to beg her father to listen to what she had discovered about Gabriel—how he had to make the difficult choice, as his father had before him, between the ways of the Franj and the ways of these hills; how he had honored his own father’s obligations with the zeal of any English liege.

  Her father paused by some pillows that had been set by one end of the low table. Motioning for her to sit, he knelt beside her. His companions sat nearby. When more entered the room, dressed as Gabriel was, the older man’s fingers twitched at his side and she knew he wished he could pull his sword and put an end to this. As she had before, she put her hand on his arm. He shook it off as Gabriel brought his men to sit across from them.

  Melisande breathed a sigh of relief. She had feared that Gabriel’s men would claim one end of the long table while the earl insisted on sitting at the other. Her relief lasted only a heartbeat when, at the same time, Lord Vaudrey sat on her left and Gabriel selected the place directly across from her.

  “You look as if you have thrived as a captive,” Lord Vaudrey observed.

  “I have been made welcome here. The shaykh’s mother has insisted on that.”

  “And the shaykh?”

  She affixed a frown on her face. “He has been quite busy trying to put an end to the raids of the bandits that are swarming through these hills. The bandits killed Geoffrey and would have killed me if Gabriel had not intervened.”

  “So, he is your brave hero?”

  “He is my captor and your host.”

  His bland smile wavered. “Geoffrey told me you had a sharp tongue, milady. I see for myself that he was being honest about that, if nothing else.”

  Melisande turned away as food was brought and placed in front of them. She had not expected him to disparage her brother, who had been his friend.

  She saw her father’s men grimace when they peered into the bowls. Picking up a piece of flat bread, she dipped it into the olive oil and cheese. She took a bite. Her father continued to scowl, but motioned for his men to copy her motions.

  No one spoke through the whole meal. Although each course was graciously served and more delicious than the preceding one, her father’s men ate with as little appreciation as their horses feeding in the stable. On the other side of the table, Gabriel’s men were silent. She knew they would not speak until he did. Unlike the Englishmen who glanced at her again and again, Gabriel’s men kept their eyes lowered, not wanting to look upon the face of the shaykh’s ikbal and risk punishment.

  Had it been this way all day? Instead of negotiating for her release, they apparently had ignored each other. She understood none of this.

  Her father stood and held out his hand to her. “Melisande, we retire for the night.”

  “Yes, Father.” She was glad this meal was over. Kneeling again, she placed his hand to her forehead. “I bid you a good night.”

  “You will not return to that heathen harim.”

  Dampening her lips, she glanced at Gabriel. He was on his feet, granting her father the courtesy of rising when he had. His eyes were like two unfeeling stones, but she wondered how many more insults he would tolerate. All of them, came the answer in her head, for he would not risk her being caught in the middle of an argument that brought no honor to anyone participating in it.

  “Father, it is where I belong in this house.” She held her head high. “It is where the women live.”

  She did not give him a chance to disagree. Walking toward the closest arch leading to the passage, she knew every English eye was focused on her. She walked slowly, even though she wanted to flee back to the harim. She never had guessed it would become a haven from her own allies.

  Melisande could wait alone in her rooms no longer. It had been more than three hours since she had left the banqueting hall. How long would Gabriel remain there after her father and his men had left? She had been certain that Gabriel would come to her rooms as soon as he could, so she had asked Karim Pasa to allow no one to disturb her. Now she wished Lysias and Kalinin were here to sit with her. She could go to their rooms, but she did not want to chance missing Gabriel. She had so many questions. She hoped he could answer some of them.

  She did not want to think that something else was wrong. Wrapping her arms around herself, she rubbed her bare skin. The night was not cold, but she was. Going into her garden, she saw that the door connecting to Gabriel’s rooms was still closed. She suspected it was locked, as it had been when she’d checked it an hour ago.

  She went back into her rooms. She would wear the color from the floor tiles if she kept pacing, but she could not sit still. How much longer would Gabriel delay?

  Pausing by the door to the mabeyin, she opened it and saw that the circular passage was empty. She slipped in, closing her door behind her. She bit her lower lip as she tried to hear any sounds from beyond Gabriel’s door. Faint wisps of laughter and voices came from the harim, but only silence from his rooms. She should not enter his rooms without being called. He might be in council with his men or dealing with other matters that could not be delayed. Even as she t
hought that, she reached for the door.

  As it swung open, she heard his voice. “I wondered how long you could wait patiently, az-Zahra.”

  Gabriel clasped her hand and drew her into his rooms. He had changed from his best robes to the simple garments he wore in the privacy of his rooms. Her fingers brushed the hard muscles of his chest. Looking about, she saw no one else in his rooms.

  “Why didn’t you come to speak with me as you said you would?” she asked.

  “After you left, your father exacted a vow from me that I would not enter my harim tonight.”

  “And you never turn your back on a pledge?” She hated the abrupt bitterness in her voice, but she could hide her frustration no longer. Gabriel and Father were playing a game of chess where she was the sole pawn.

  “Come with me, az-Zahra. I know you must nearly be bursting with questions.”

  She halted as he led her across the room. “Why were you surprised to discover that my father was among the Franj?”

  “I was surprised to see all of them. According to your father, they observed the caliph’s party emerging from the tunnel, so they suspected there was water in this direction.”

  “Why didn’t your sentries alert you?”

  His eyes found hers. “I should have known that when we entered, you saw the men I posted by the tunnel entrance.”

  “I never saw them,” she admitted. “But I know you would not leave it unguarded.”

  “I sent Shakir to find out what happened to them, why they did not alert me.”

  “What did he report?”

  “He sent word that he will supervise the entrance until the Franj leave.” He pushed aside the curtains separating his bedchamber from the garden beyond. “We have much to say, but I find words difficult when I hunger for your lips.”

  Tossing aside the fears that had stalked her all day, she wrapped her arms around him. “Does that mean you did not enjoy our repast this evening?”

  “It means,” he said, his voice becoming a low, dangerous growl, “that I want you.”

  Her laugh faded into a soft moan as his mouth covered hers. His fiery lips lit the embers of longing within her. Each touch of his tongue against hers incited more passion to surrender to this pleasure. When he gently nibbled at the base of her neck, she shivered with the tingles exploding through her. She gripped his shoulders as he traced her pulse between her breasts, where her heart beat swiftly.

  “Az-Zahra, my shining one who lights my nights with pleasure, I want you in my arms,” he whispered as he drew her down to sit by the pool. As the fountain threw water into the night sky, he knelt beside her.

  She leaned her forehead against his chest. As he stroked her hair, she whispered, “I am sorry.”

  “Sorry? For what?”

  “For what happened in the banqueting hall tonight. They did everything they could to shame you.”

  His hands framed her face, bringing it up toward his. “No one can shame a man who has nothing to be ashamed of. Tell me, az-Zahra. Are you leaving at dawn with them?”

  She rose and walked along the pool.

  “I love you,” he said softly.

  She whirled. “You love me?”

  He stood. “How could I help but love you, az-Zahra? You are exquisite in my arms and you are courageous at my side. You cling steadfastly to your vows, although I wish I could have won your heart before you gave it to the Franj’s war.”

  “No,” she gasped, “do not speak of the Crusade. Not now.”

  “Not now,” he agreed as he turned her to him and drew her back down to sit by the pool.

  “Why are you telling me that you love me when I must leave with my father?”

  “Because I know you must leave to do as you vowed and I want you to know my heart goes with you.”

  “But my heart will stay here with you.”

  He ran his hand along her cheek. “Your father intends to leave at dawn.”

  “I know.”

  “Let us waste not a moment of this last night together.”

  With a groan, he swept her up against him. His kiss was so gentle, so giving, that the tears she had held in all day spilled onto her cheeks. As his lips wiped the drops from her face, she leaned her cheek against his chest.

  “Do you hear your heart beating within me?” he whispered against her hair.

  “Yes.”

  “Then listen and tell me what your heart tells you.”

  Without hesitating, she answered, “It tells me that I want you to kiss me.”

  Holding her face between his broad hands, he kissed her lightly. “Is that what you wish?”

  “I wish so much more.” She ran her fingers along his beard. “I did not realize the men of the East were so cold that they would want no more than that.”

  “Cold. Hardly.” He laughed, then tugged her up more tightly to him as his lips sought to vanquish every inch of her mouth. With his fingers entangled in her hair, he held her to him, slanting her across his legs.

  She moaned as his mouth left hers. His tongue caressed her skin, turning it to succulent fire before he recaptured her mouth with kisses which penetrated to the center of her soul. She clutched his shoulders as the tip of his tongue taunted hers before sliding along the slickest textures to inflame them with the craving which overwhelmed her.

  When he touched her breast, the thin silk burned more fiercely against her. Her hand slipped within his open robes. Strong sinews moved beneath her fingertips as he leaned her back toward the tiles.

  He whispered, “Stay with me, az-Zahra. You need not go on the morrow.”

  Melisande had no chance to answer, for a much deeper voice snarled, “Yes, she must.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Melisande choked back a scream as Gabriel pushed her away from him and stood to face the broadsword in her father’s hand. She jumped to her feet and gasped, “Father, do not kill him.”

  “He lied to me,” her father spat through gritted teeth. “He told me—”

  “He told you,” she cried, “that he would not go to his harim tonight. He didn’t.” She stood straighter. “Father, I came here to him.”

  “On his orders.”

  “No, because I love him.” She did not dare to pull her gaze from her father’s face as he blanched at her words. “And, Father, he loves me, too.”

  “He is saying that only in hopes of seducing you.”

  “Then he should have told me that before we became lovers instead of tonight.”

  Her father turned and reached behind him. She gasped again when he drew out a second sword. Gabriel’s sword. With a curse, he tossed it to Gabriel, who caught it easily, but lowered it toward the tiles.

  “You have dishonored my daughter,” the earl said.

  Gabriel shook his head. “I have offered her the greatest honor a man can a woman. I have offered her my heart.”

  “It will be of little value to her when it no longer beats.” He swung his sword at Gabriel.

  With a shout to Melisande to stay out of the way, Gabriel met Marlon Chapeleine’s sword with his. Each swing he parried, but did not attack as he edged around the pool. She realized he did not want to kill her father in front of her. Seeing the rigid lines of her father’s face, she knew the earl did not share Gabriel’s compassion. Only Gabriel’s death would rectify what he saw as her dishonor.

  She stiffened as she heard a scream, then another. Women’s screams. When Gabriel glanced at the wall separating the garden from the harim, she ran to the door and threw it open.

  Her arm was seized and she was shoved hard against the stone wall. She heard a shout, but could not guess whose voice it was because her head rang with the blow. Trying to pull her arm out of the tight grip, she faltered when she heard another shriek. Torches burned through the gardens in the harim where none should have been.

  “You shan’t escape this way, milady,” a voice near her ear said.

  Melisande looked up to see Lord Vaudrey. What was he doing in Gabriel’s priv
ate garden? Hearing the clang of steel behind her, she cried, “Please come and talk sense to Father. He is trying to kill Gabriel.”

  “Do you want me to halt them?”

  She grasped the sleeve dropping over the hand that held her arm. “If you can halt them, I beg this favor of you, milord.”

  “I would be happy to have you owe me a favor, Melisande.” He pulled her with him through the door.

  She heard another set of footfalls before the door closed. She did not look back, staring at her father and Gabriel. When she started to call out to them, Lord Vaudrey dragged her in front of him. She tried to pull away to run to where Gabriel still deflected each of her father’s blows. Lord Vaudrey’s arm tightened around her. Something cold brushed her neck. A knife. The scream burst from her before she could halt it.

  Gabriel cursed as he heard Melisande’s cry. He did not dare to turn. The earl would skewer him like a lamb over a fire.

  “That is Melisande!” he growled at Heathwyre.

  “She fears for you.” He jabbed at Gabriel. “As she should, for I shall see you dead.”

  Gabriel twisted his sword, forcing Heathwyre to shift so they could both look toward the back of the garden. Even in the dim light, he saw the flash of steel against Melisande’s throat at the same moment he heard her father whisper a prayer. He did not move as she was brought by her captor into the light flowing from his rooms. Meeting Vaudrey’s triumphant smile, he remained still even at the sound of shouts and of other swords meeting beyond the walls of his rooms.

  He was about to offer his sword to Heathwyre when the earl cried, “Raymond, what are you doing? Release Melisande at once.”

  In amazement, Gabriel saw that the anger had not eased on the earl’s face. Only now, it was focused on the baron who had ridden here with him. What was going on? His fingers tightened on the hilt.

  “I will release Melisande,” Vaudrey said, his grin widening, “when you order your men to surrender to mine, de la Rive.” He tilted the knife against Melisande’s throat, and the cold metal glittered again in the dim light. “Stay where you are, Heathwyre. Both of you, drop your swords.”