No Price Too High (13 page)

“You look rested.”

“I am.”

He glanced at her as he stripped off his loose shirt. The gleam of sweat across his skin accented his lithe muscles. Throwing the garment over the back of a chair, he rubbed his shoulder and winced.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“Hopeful, are you, Melisande?”

She bristled as he threw her concern back in her face. “After that comment, I should say
yes
.” She should be glad that he treated her with the same indifference as the furniture. If only she could do the same with him … It was impossible to keep from admiring the lithe flow of his muscles as he walked toward her. Again he was the hunter, sleek as a cat, tenacious as a fox, deadly as a falcon.

“I am pleased that something remains the same. You still are contemptuous of me.”

“What else has changed?”

He moved his arm stiffly and grimaced again. “This arm, for one thing. I had thought it healed after I hurt it several weeks ago, fighting off an attack on a village not far from here.”

“Why didn't you capture Abd al Qadir then?”

“You cannot capture a man who is not there.” His lips tightened into a savage scowl. “That day, it was not the hill bandits. Bored
Franj
, who tired of the siege at Acre sought other sport.” He stretched his arm again, drawing her gaze to the easy ripple of muscles along his abdomen.

“If they know who stopped them,” she whispered, abruptly sickened at the idea of this lovely place becoming a battleground, “they will seek you out.”

“Only if they can rise from their graves.” He muttered something she could not understand, then said, “Holding you on the way here has brought back this pain.”

“I told you I would ride pillion.”

Gabriel laughed. “I would have needed to spend the journey looking over my shoulder to be sure you did not slip away to hide behind each boulder we passed.” He offered his hand. “Come, Melisande. I would like to relax. Sit and tell me about your impressions of your new home.”

Her hand froze in midair. His home was not hers. She belonged in the gentle, green lowlands of England where Heathwyre towered over undulating fields.

Looking up at his face, she saw confusion. With her? Mayhap he thought she should be honored to be his captive, but she wanted her freedom.

He took her hand and lowered it to his. His fingers closed around it, holding it against a palm hard from hours of riding these hills. He lifted her fingers to his lips. His mustache caressed them as he kissed her hand. When he drew it toward him, she stepped closer to his naked chest. She was sure the desert sun had surged into the room, for its heat roiled over her.

The sleek dampness of his skin overwhelmed her. Mixed scents from the stables drifted from him to remind her of her life among her father's retainers in England. Other unfamiliar sensations stirred as she looked into Gabriel's face.

His arm encircled her waist and pulled her against him. “Do not look so frightened,
az-Zahra
,” he whispered.

As breathlessly as if she had run the length of the tunnel into this stronghold, she asked, “What did you call me?”

His smile contained the heat of his bare skin as his fingertip moved along her cheek. “You are
az-Zahra
, the Shining One.” He stroked her hair. “Fire-red hair and eyes as brilliant as the sun reflecting in a pool.” He brought her another step nearer.

“Gabriel, please do not say that.” Desperation crept into her voice. She feared she would lose all control of her craving if she touched his skin. When he released her, she could not hide her astonishment.

“Why don't you sit so I can explain why I asked for you to be brought here?” he asked.

She dropped into a chair, grateful because she did not know how much longer her weak legs could support her. When she realized how tightly she was gripping the chair's arm, she forced her hands to loosen. She wanted to ask why he had sent for her, but words refused to come when he sat and pulled off his boots.

“I suspect you might have information I would find interesting, Melisande.”

“Might I?” she retorted tautly. He had wasted his clemency, because she had no more information about her king's plans than Gabriel did. A shudder refused to be restrained as she thought of that room filled with arrows and swords.

“Mayhap you would not sound so suspicious if I gave some information to you. Your king landed in Tyre the very day you were ambushed by Abd al Qadir.” He stood and reached for the waist of his long breeches. “He—”

Laughing as she hid her face her in her hands, he walked away. She did not dare to lower her fingers, even when he told her to. Peeking between them, she stared at his bare feet. Slowly she raised her gaze higher and discovered he was covered by a belted robe.

“If you will stop acting like a frightened child,” Gabriel said with another chuckle, “I will tell you the rest.”

“There is more?”

His expression grew grim. “He entered the harbor of Acre two days later.”

“But how? An iron chain across the harbor keeps out any ships. That's why I went to Tyre.”

Sitting, he said, “Saladin's men depended on a single defense of the harbor. After more than a year of siege, their minds must have been weakened with boredom. Your king armored his strongest ship and drove it through.”

She whispered a quick prayer.

“So now the war begins in earnest,” Gabriel said, interrupting her. “How many more must die before it ends?”

Melisande was amazed at the regret in his voice. He was a warrior, determined to do what he must to protect those who sought his protection. Never had she heard her father speak so of the cost of his obligations. Seeing his sorrow, she longed to comfort him, to steal the grief from his eyes, to bring back the sound of his laughter.

She murmured, “If Richard asks for the surrender of the city, mayhap—”

“He will not be satisfied with their surrender. He wants a fame that will keep his minstrels singing for the rest of his days. He cares for nothing else.” He shook his head. “'Tis ironic that you, who seem so fervent in your pledge to the Crusade, should be the one denied the opportunity to become a martyr.”

“If Father sends the ransom soon, I may reach Acre before Richard—”

“He will strike quickly. He needs to while his warriors are inspired with his bold deeds.” He stood and went to peer out into his garden. “Your father will be busy with the attack on the walls of Acre. Many are doomed to die in that battle.”

She bit her lip. Already Geoffrey had given his life for this Crusade. She did not want her father dying, too, although it would be with great honor. “I should be there,” she said quietly, “to fulfill my vow.”

“You should have remained among
Franj
, where you belong.”

When he walked out into the garden, she followed. The soaring palm trees leaned their thick fronds down to create a shadowed grove. Beneath them, the shrubs would erupt again in a celebration of color at the heralding of dawn.

Melisande saw Gabriel by the pool. She sat on a bench. “This is so lovely.”

He lounged his shoulder against a prickly palm as he turned toward her. Folding his arms across his chest, he mused, “It restores my soul to return here.”

“Your family has lived here long?”

“My father came here from France as a young man. My mother was brought here when she was little more than a girl. She found favor with him, and he made her his wife.”

“Your family settled here so recently?”

“The stronghold of
Mukhdarr
has been here for many lifetimes. My father came here in search of the body of
his
father, who died at the end of the last Crusade. He became fascinated with this land and traveled widely, learning the customs of the people here. When he saved the life of the
shaykh
who held
Mukhdarr
, he was made the old man's heir, for he had no son to follow him. My father set aside his past and took this life for his own and vowed to hold this land and protect its people from invaders and the
shetan
who was believed to live here.”

“
Shetan
, like your horse? That means
devil
, doesn't it?”

His smile glistened in the dim light. “I decided that having a
shetan
among us would satisfy that old tale.”

“And would terrorize the foolish?”

“A simple task,” he answered with a laugh. “Fable grows around the most mundane men.”

“Such as
Renard du Vent
? The ferocious desert warrior who strikes with the wiles of the fox and flees on the wings of the wind?”

“Is that what they say?”

She laughed. “As you said, fable grows around the most ordinary.”

“No compliments will I ever get from you, will I, Melisande?”

“Do you need me to tell you of your strengths, of the wisdom you possess, of your quickness in discovering your enemies? Why don't you let me tell you instead about France?”

“I have no interest in it.”

“Have you never been curious about the country where your father was born?”

“He had no wish to speak of his past. Whom else would I ask?”

“Me.”

“But you are from England,” he protested.

“My mother was from France, born within a day's ride of Paris.” She put her hand on his arm. “She spoke to me often of her father's home. I would share what she told me with you.”

“I have no wish to speak of the past either. It is over.”

“It is part of what we are.”

“It is over.” He gazed down into the pool.

The face of the moon shone in the water. She picked up a pebble and dropped it into the center of the pool. Moonglow swirled in circles.

“I love to see the light dance,” she said. “Geoffrey and I would sneak from the house when we were very young to discover if we could see the pixies cavorting by the river. We never saw the fairy people, but we could make the moon dance.”

“You loved your brother very much, didn't you?”

“No.” She started to continue around the pool, but his hand on her arm halted her. “To tell you the truth, Gabriel, my brother and I had little in common when we left our childhood behind us. He was a bitter man who expected everyone to defer to him. He drank too much, slept with any woman he could force into his bed, and boasted of what a great warrior he was.”

He stroked her cheek. “But you loved him, Melisande.”

“He is part of what I was and part of what I am. I cannot leave my past behind as your father did.”

“You should remember your brother. He died bravely.”

She pulled away and stared down at the wavy face of the moon. “He did, didn't he? How ironic! He wanted to return to Tyre, but I insisted we keep going. We had been warned of the dangers of being attacked by …”

“By
Renard du Vent
?”

She looked up at him. It was impossible to think of him as the heartless bandit who exalted in slaying his victims. He was Gabriel, the man who was her enemy, her captor, and the first man to touch her heart.

Her heart? She must be ill with a brain fever. She could not be—she must not be—falling in love with a man who had gathered enough weapons to destroy King Richard's army. And she would never love that man. The man who had found his way into her heart was the one who worried that she was comfortable here and who set her afire with his kisses.

When she shivered, overwhelmed by her own thoughts, he asked in a husky whisper, “Cold,
az-Zahra
?”

“No, I'm fine.”

He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Mayhap, now, you will see I am not the demon you have painted me.”

“I still am not convinced of that,” she retorted with a laugh to hide her amazement. Could he discern her thoughts so easily?

“Is that so?” He sighed, surprising her. “Then I doubt if you will miss me while I am gone from
Muhkdarr
.”

“Gone?” She gulped as she thought of the weapons. “To fight King Richard?”

“My battle, as I have told you, is with the hill bandits. If the
Franj
come here, then I will battle them.” He put his finger under her chin. “The war has ended for you, but not for me. I must return to put an end to Abd al Qadir's attacks, although I am tempted to stay with you and begin savoring the rapture we could share.”

With a shiver, she whispered, “What do you wish me to say? Good hunting? That will bring more death.”

“Strange words for a warrior.”

“King Richard will not allow the English women in the battle for Acre.”

“Wait here.”

Melisande watched as he went back into his chambers.

He returned with two goblets. He held one out to her and motioned for her to sit again on the bench. “Enjoy this, milady, while our supper is brought”

“Supper?”

“I haven't eaten. Have you?”

“No.”

“I'm hungry.” He walked behind her. “Aren't you?”

She was about to answer, but faltered when his finger trailed along her shoulder and up her neck. Closing her eyes, she quivered when it sought beneath her hair and uncurled along her nape.

Putting his cup beside her on the bench, he whispered, “Do you not hunger for sweet pleasure and delirious ecstasy?” His fingers combed up into her hair, lifting it aside.

When his lips brushed her nape, a moan slipped from her lips. She gripped the bench, needing to touch him, afraid to move and end this delight. The soft caress of his tongue sent renewed shivers along her, but these were of craving. He lightly nibbled on her ear as his fingers glided down her side. When his hand rose to cup her breast, he drew her up against his hard chest. His lips tilted in a smile in the moment before they claimed hers.

Against her ear, he whispered, “Your king is a fool. If all
Franj
women are as brave and beautiful as you, you could defeat any army without a sword being drawn.”