Black Lion's Bride Read online

  “Would you care for some?” he asked when he looked up and found Zahirah studying him.

  “It is a sin for a Muslim to take wine,” she said, and while she spoke softly, her words seemed to hurl at him in accusation.

  He gave no indication of insult, although he set the cup back down on the table without drinking from it. “There are many differences in our two cultures, as I am learning each day. Abdul has explained to me a few things about your customs. That is, in fact, the reason I asked you here this evening.”

  “To discuss our differences, my lord? I thought you might have asked me here to tell me there was no place for me in this house.”

  A smile quirked at the corner of the captain's mouth. He leaned back against the cushioned divan in a negligent sprawl, his legs casually braced apart, one arm flung along the back of the divan. “I see you do prefer candid conversation, my lady. Very well. You should know that it was never my intention to bargain with your brother for a bride.”

  “Nor was it mine to be that bride,” she replied, a truth that rolled easily off the tip of her tongue.

  “And yet, alas, my lady, here we are.”

  She blinked slowly. “So it would seem, my lord.”

  He studied her for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice, and his demeanor, had gentled. “I apologize for the way I reacted this afternoon, when I found you in here. I had not expected--well, you can see how unaccustomed I am to having a woman so close under foot. This may look like a palace, Zahirah, but it is a house of war. It's no place for someone like you.”

  “Like me, my lord?”

  “An innocent. One whose eyes are far too lovely to be tainted with the ugliness of war.”

  Was that how he viewed her? Part of her warmed to the notion, but a less forgiving part of her reminded her of the icy cold dagger she wore at her waist, of the years of hard training and ruthless discipline that had made her what she was: Sinan's own virgin blade, a weapon that had been honed in secret, kept pure from sin and stain and feeling for a single mission. There had never been a female fida'i in the history of her clan; by her father's design, she was ordained from birth to be the first--and last--of her kind.

  But an innocent? No, she was hardly that. And she was not about to let this Frank and his misguided sympathy sway her from her course.

  “I am here because you brought me here,” she said pointedly. “I have nowhere to go. If you turn me out, do not say it is out of concern for me when it is plain you would do so because my presence in this place suddenly inconveniences you.”

  It was unfair of her, certainly, the way she fought him with those words. The captain's expression grew harder the longer he stared at her, considering. He had likely never been spoken to in such a way, leastwise by a woman. Would he strike her, or bring her under his wing? Zahirah steeled herself for either reaction. He could do whatever he wanted; she would accept it, so long as she did not have to return to Masyaf in shame.

  “I will do anything,” she heard herself say, the tremor in her voice rising up from a well of true emotion. “Anything, my lord. I swear it.”

  He let out his breath in a long sigh, resignation etched deep into his brow. “This would be a temporary arrangement, you understand. Only for as long as I am here in Ascalon. I'll make no demands of you, nor will I make you any promises beyond these walls.”

  Zahirah nodded, feeling a wave of relief wash over her. “I will ask for nothing of you, my lord.”

  “Very well,” he said, although he did not look entirely convinced that he agreed. “You may stay in the chamber Abdul has given you. The palace is secured by guards at every gate. You are free to move about the grounds, but you will not venture outside without an escort. And no one may accompany you in without my express permission. Understood?”

  Although this was far more advantageous than being turned out, Zahirah felt the pinch of his limiting restrictions. “Have I gone from bride to prisoner, now, my lord?”

  He stared at her, one dark brow arching slightly. “You are neither, my lady. But so long as you are here under my protection, you will obey me.” He rose then, indicating their meeting was at an end. “I'll instruct Abdul to purchase some clothing and personal items for you from the bazaar in the morning. If there is anything else you require, you need only ask.”

  She murmured her thanks, but the captain's attention was since turned toward the corridor where the jangle of armor and a heavy-heeled gait announced an approaching soldier. A moment later, the big brown-haired knight with the strange manner of speaking had swaggered over the threshold.

  “The reports are in from the gates, my friend.” His glance lit on Zahirah and he paused, drawing up short. “Beg pardon. I dinna mean to intrude.”

  “It's all right, Logan. I believe Lady Zahirah and I have said all there is to say. For now.”

  At Sebastian's indication, Zahirah got to her feet and followed him to the open door. She wanted to feel triumph as she passed him to step into the corridor, telling herself that she had won this first skirmish with minimal sacrifice, but the nervous flutter in her stomach told her different. It warned that while she had succeeded in securing her place in the palace, she had just put herself directly in the captain's control.

  Neither bride nor prisoner, he had said, but she was shackled to him nonetheless. She felt the weight of her new bonds in every step she took down the corridor toward her chamber, her spine burning for the heat of his regard at her back. He would be watching her closely now, and if she were careless enough to slip at any juncture in her mission, she knew that his mercy would be spare; his wrath, swift.

  * * *

  “A beguiling lass, is she not?”

  “Persuasive,” Sebastian drawled, leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb.

  “I take it you decided to let her stay.”

  He grunted. “We have settled on a mutually acceptable arrangement.”

  “Ah, of course,” Logan chuckled. “An arrangement.”

  Sebastian pivoted his head and slid a narrow-eyed glance in the Scot's direction. “What the devil are you so smug about?”

  Like his captain's had been until that moment, Logan's appreciative gaze followed Zahirah's swift retreat down the corridor. “Me, smug? I haena said a word, my friend.”

  “And I'll thank you to keep it that way,” Sebastian growled. “If you've finished gaping at the lady, perhaps we can go see about those reports now.”

  Chapter 8

  True to his word, Sebastian sent Abdul to Zahirah's chamber that next morning with four new tunics and shalwar. The pretty silks were lovelier by far than any she had at Masyaf, their bright hues and intricate green-and-magenta embroideries glowing like jewels in the sunrays pouring in through the window grate. She luxuriated in the sight and feel of them all, finally settling on a ruby-colored outfit as the first she would wear. Abdul had scarcely departed the room and shut the door before she tore off her old tunic and pantalets to slip into the new.

  Indulgences such as this were not permitted at her father's house. There, she was a soldier first, treated thusly in both form and address, for the great Sinan would have it no other way. She was loathe to think what he would do to see her garbed as richly as she was now.

  Nor would she think about that.

  Not now. Not when the crisp silk felt so good against her skin, the fine fabric pleasingly scented with the warm, heady spices of the market. And if the ankle-length embroidered tunic was lovely indoors, she imagined the fiery color would be stunning under the full glory of this new day's sun. But why imagine, she decided, when it would take but a moment to see for herself?

  Zahirah fastened her veil across her cheeks, then quit her chamber. Her step was light as she navigated the corridor and maze of inner arcades. None of the servants or palace guards did more than glance up as she passed them on her way to the large courtyard, the folk evidently advised that she was free to walk about by the captain's leave.

  Near the pool at the
center of the dusty yard, a knot of women worked at washing clothes. They were Frankish, laundresses of varying age and appearance, brought along from their homeland to service the infidel army. From their bawdy talk and ease among the soldiers, Zahirah suspected their duties extended beyond the tub and board, yet they glared at her when she passed as if she were the whore.

  His whore.

  No doubt the story of how the formidable captain had unwillingly shackled himself to a Muslim village girl had already traveled the camp. And here she was the very next day, out among his folk, dressed as fine as a rich man's favorite concubine. Suddenly, her idea to stroll the courtyard seemed worse than foolish.

  Zahirah had been raised with great discipline to not call attention to herself, to blend in with her surroundings, one of the most vital weapons of the fida'i. Standing there now, she had never felt more conspicuous, nor more exposed. Her gaze strayed to the gaggle of hard-faced washerwomen. She would have needed no amount of studied training in the coarse lingua franca to understand what one of them called her through a gap-toothed sneer. Another slur quickly followed, then a third.

  Feeling cornered in the middle of the huge yard, Zahirah pivoted her head and found a group of infidel knights watching the scene from several dozen paces at her back. A couple of them were chuckling, clearly enjoying the sport.

  If they thought her defenseless, it only made her yearn to prove them wrong. Her skills were thorough enough that she could have fought off the washerwomen's taunts, showing by swift, lethal example what happens to a Frank who is fool enough to tangle with a fida'i. But the dagger she wore hidden beneath her tunic was meant for one Frank alone; she would not sully it with the blood of these squawking, petty hens.

  She spared the lot of them no more than a glance, turning on her heel and striding out of the courtyard as haughty as a queen. Her brisk steps carried her down a hall and through a wide colonnade, a path she quickly recognized for its pattern of intricate mosaic tile work. Her feet began to slow of their own accord. This was the same corridor she had traveled the morning before with Abdul, at the start of her troubles, when she had been summoned to join Sebastian as he broke his fast.

  To her dismay, she found that he was there now as well.

  She had sensed him even before she saw him, seated at the same table, his forehead braced on his fist as he studied something that sat on the table before him. After her embarrassment in the courtyard, the last thing she wanted was a confrontation with the captain. Hoping to slip by unnoticed, Zahirah picked up her pace, careful that her sandals made no noise on the tiles as she walked past the arched entryway.

  “That color suits you well, my lady.”

  Faith, but did the man miss nothing?

  Zahirah froze at the sound of his deep voice coming from within the garden alcove. Hands fisted at her sides, she reluctantly turned and walked the two steps back to face him.

  “Abdul has a merchant's eye for quality,” he said when she stood at the threshold, mutely meeting his gaze from across the distance that separated them. “I trust you were pleased with his selections.”

  She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

  “Won't you join me?” he asked, and although it was not quite a command, his invitation was compelling enough that she obeyed.

  As she drew near to where he sat, she saw what had so captivated his interest before she arrived. There before him on the table was a checkered game board, peopled with rows of white and black pieces, some half dozen moves advanced in play. The captain played the white side; he was about to lose a pawn to the black.

  “You know shatranj,” she said as he studied the board, somewhat surprised to see this Westerner playing at the ancient Arabic game of kingly war.

  “I am still learning,” he replied, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. “Abdul took it upon himself to teach me a few weeks ago, when I was good for naught but lying about in bed as an invalid.”

  “After you were . . . injured?” Zahirah asked carefully as she came to stand beside him.

  “Attacked,” he corrected, glancing up at her. “I stood in defense of my king when an assassin crept into our camp one night last month. The whelp nearly gutted me with his blade.”

  Chagrined to recall the events that led to his convalescence, Zahirah had to force herself to hold that steady gray-green gaze. “Not many would dare to stand against the assassins, my lord. They are said to move as phantoms among the villages and mountains of Syria. Some say they are enchanted by a black brand of magic--that they are devils possessed.”

  The captain scoffed. “Before he stabbed me, I held this particular devil tight in mine own hands. He was flesh and bone, same as you or I. When next I meet him, he will bleed the same, too.”

  Zahirah swallowed hard at the bald determination in that statement. Sebastian had since turned his attention back to his game, grabbing up his jeopardized pawn and moving it out of danger. It was a decision that would cost him the match in four more turns, if his opponent had half the skill of Zahirah herself in this game she had played since childhood.

  She saw where he had been heading, impatiently clearing a path for the white queen to challenge the black. It was a bold move, she would grant him that, but if he had thought it out more cautiously, he would have seen his mistake. Zahirah looked at the white ruhk suddenly made vulnerable, her fingers itching to sit in where Abdul had left off.

  “How eager you Franks are for blood,” she remarked in an easy, if somewhat provocative, tone. “You play at war the same way you play at shatranj.”

  Sebastian chuckled. “You sound like Abdul. He says this game will teach me the virtue of biding one's time.” He arched a dark brow. “Do you play, my lady?”

  Beneath her veil, Zahirah smiled. “A bit.”

  “Please,” he said, indicating the bench opposite him.

  Zahirah took her position as the black player and moved without the slightest pretense of hesitation. She advanced her faras two squares forward and three to the right, the horse-shaped piece neatly capturing the captain's unprotected ruhk.

  He grunted, meeting her unapologetic gaze with a look of wry understanding. “I see I can expect no quarter from you, my lady.”

  She shook her head. “None, my lord.”

  He smiled a smile that had likely melted a thousand maidens' hearts from England to Palestine. “Then I shall consider myself under no obligation to grant quarter, either, gentle lady.”

  “Do you presume I would need ask it, sir Frank?”

  He laughed aloud, and so began their dance.

  At once, Zahirah ruled the board, blocking his every stratagem and driving him back with a steady offense worthy of Saladin himself. Sebastian seemed to enjoy the contest, despite that he was losing the battle to a woman--or perhaps, she thought, because of that fact. More than once she caught him eyeing her with a look that she was want to describe as warmth or interest, maybe even a small measure of admiration. Oh, he glared and sputtered over each forfeited piece, and cursed a bit, too, but his laughter was never far behind, and soon, Zahirah found herself sharing his mirth.

  Worse than that, she found herself genuinely enjoying his company. So much so, that when the game came down to the last handful of pieces, she almost regretted the haste with which she had played. A quick glance at the board showed that, depending on what he did next, Zahirah could claim Sebastian's king in one more move. She sat back, rather hoping he would see the potential breach in his defenses and move elsewise to prolong the match.

  To her dismay, his hand hovered over the white queen, the piece blocking her swift victory. He thought for a moment, then started to pick it up.

  “M-my lord,” she murmured, shocked, and not a little bemused, to hear the warning slip past her lips. “Are you sure?”

  He paused, staring at her for a moment, as if weighing her advice. She could see the surprise in his gaze, the question he very likely thought but did not voice: Did she protect him now,
or lead him into defeat? He glanced back down at the game, his finger tapping on the piece he might have moved, and realization suddenly dawned.

  “Perhaps there is a bit of mercy in your heart after all, Zahirah.” He chose another tactic, a better move by far, then tilted his head to regard her across the table with a wry grin. “I confess, after this ruthless game, I was beginning to wonder if the heart of an assassin beat within your breast.”

  She laughed at his jest, but to her ears, it was a forced sound. That heart he wondered at was suddenly tumbling against her ribs. Did he possibly suspect? She dismissed the thought at once, certain that this warrior lord would not be sitting there, laughing with her and making jokes, if he thought for one moment that she was not what she pretended to be.

  What was it she pretended at now, she wondered, when she looked into the face of this Frank--her foresworn enemy--and felt nary a kindling of proper scorn? What game did she purport to play when she laughed with him, sparred with him, but a few moments ago?

  And what flimsy ruse could she claim when her fluttering heart beat as wildly simply to be near him as it did at the thought of being discovered for the betrayer she would inevitably prove to be?

  “It is your move, my lady.”

  Flustered by the droll reminder, Zahirah reached out hastily to take her turn. As she did so, the wide edge of her tunic sleeve caught on one of the game pieces and knocked it over, sending it rolling to the edge of the table. She made a grab for it at the same time Sebastian did. His hand closed over hers, large and warm and strong.

  For a moment, she was unable to draw her breath. She stared at that warrior's hand, the hard sun-browned fingers engulfing her nearly to the wrist in a firm, yet undemanding, grasp. It was light enough that she could have pulled away--should have, certainly--but to her utter bewilderment, she lingered in his hold.