Crusader's Lady

Now.

Her muscles bunched. She ground her teeth together and bent forward, hand raised level with her head, and stopped her breathing.

To her horror she found she could not move. Some otherworldly force seemed to grip her arm and hold it motionless. Trembling, she sat back and lowered the knife. She could not do it. Lord have mercy. I cannot take this man’s life. I cannot.

She stared at the blade. An eating knife, for cutting meat and bread. A simple, small weapon. She could easily toss it into the sea afterward.

But she could not kill him.

She closed her eyes in disgust. Am I then such a coward? I have not the heart of the weakest harem slave, the most spineless beggar in the market square. Lord, let me die now in shame.

She turned the blade in her hand, pointed it at her own chest, then lowered it until the sharp tip scratched her tunic just below her sore ribs. Above her head, the rigging creaked.

She clasped her other hand over the hilt to drive it deep, sucked in a shuddery breath and held it. She must be strong.

A fist shot out and grasped her forearm. The knife went skittering across the desk, and a cry of despair rose from her lips.

‘You pesky fool of a boy,’ the knight’s voice hissed. ‘What do you think you are doing?’

‘I swore an oath,’ she said, trying not to sob. ‘I have failed.’

‘An oath!’ he snapped in a voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘Think you that Allah hears an oath taken to commit a mortal sin?’

‘I swore not to Allah. I am a Christian.’

‘A Christian?’ For an instant surprise showed on his face, then was quickly masked. ‘All the more sinful,’ he growled.

Soraya rocked back on her heels. He thought she had intended to take only her own life! He was unaware of her original intent.

The knight rose up on one elbow, still gripping her wrist. ‘Do you imagine that God cares whether you live or die? What do you gain by sacrificing yourself? Honour? Wealth? Your name chiseled onto a stone in the desert?’

‘I gain self-respect.’ She spoke in jerky syllables, her voice clogged with hiccupy sobs.

He spat off to one side. ‘Self-respect.’

Soraya clamped her jaw tight to stop her weeping. Her body shook violently, her limbs twitching as if she had contracted the plague.

She dropped her chin to her chest and let hot tears drip onto her tunic. Think! What should she do now? The knight released her wrist, and she heard him exhale with a catch.

‘Aye, ye poor dumb lad. Come here.’ A strong arm reached to her shoulder and tugged her forward, and she tumbled against his hard chest. Overcome by her cowardice, she felt worse than seasick.

With a gentle hand he pressed her head against his warm neck. ‘Sha, sha, now. No one need know of your great failure.’

Soraya closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of his skin. He smelled of sweat and horse and a pungent spice, like cinnamon.

She swallowed, feeling a wash of heat course through her body. She wanted to taste him! Never before had she experienced such a strange feeling of excitement. Of…yearning.

She stiffened. He was a man. And a Frank.

She scrambled away from him, her heart beating like a caged bird inside her chest. Speechless, she stared into the knight’s face, watching his eyes harden, then narrow with distrust.

‘You are afraid of me.’

‘No, lord. Truly I am not.’’

‘You need not fear me, lad. I will not harm you except to protect myself.’

‘That is not why—’

But it was. She did fear him. More than any danger she had ever faced, this man threatened her. He was dangerous simply because he was a man.

No, not just a man. Her throat tightened. This man.

Chapter Seven

By the time the ship docked at Paphos on the western coast of Cyprus, Soraya could scarcely stand. Weak from retching, saddened by Khalil’s death and still stupefied at her inability to slay the knight de Valery, she clung to the railing watching the activity on shore.

Genoese merchants in flowing robes swaggered along the smelly quay, arguing with ship captains and food vendors. Templar knights with cross-emblazoned white surcoats surreptitiously eyed women who promenaded along the harbor walkway in provocative sheer caftans, their nails and cheeks painted red. Houries. The noise of the harbour gave her a headache. If she debarked, the crush of people at the dock would swallow her up.

‘Move on, then, lad.’ De Valery strode past her, leading his dark stallion toward the gangplank. ‘You will recover your sea legs by suppertime.’

Her throat convulsed. The thought of food made her nauseated.

‘Soray!’ the knight shouted at her from the top of the gangplank. ‘Make haste!’

Still, she could not let go of the ship’s rail. She knew little of this teeming place before her, full of unbelievers. She belonged in Palestine.

But in Palestine the man who sent the message she now carried for Khalil would kill rather than have it fall into the wrong hands. She glanced back toward her homeland and shuddered.

She could not go back. Perhaps even now an assassin was tracking her down to slit her throat in some shadowed alley. She sucked in a lungful of hot air that smelled of fish and thought she would be sick again.

‘Soray!’ His sharp tone cut through the cottony feeling inside her head and she stumbled forward.

‘Aye, lord, I am coming.’

De Valery tramped halfway up the gangplank, grasped the neck of her tunic and dragged her forward. ‘Hold on to Jupiter,’ he instructed. He thrust the animal’s brushy tail into her hands. ‘Now, lad, move!’

She took a single step, wobbled off to one side and would have tipped into the sea had she not accidentally stumbled against the horse’s hind end. By some miracle the beast did not strike out with his rear hooves, and she staggered after the animal, acutely aware of the knight’s quiet laughter.

So, he was amused at her plight, was he? He would be less amused if she tossed up her stomach contents onto his mount’s beautifully plumed tail. Better yet, on his blue surcoat.

Her head spun as he stalked beside her.

‘Steady, now. Move quickly, boy. We must not lose sight of the…monk.’ He stretched out his long legs and tramped down the walkway so fast Soraya could not keep up.

She loosened her grasp on the destrier’s tail and sped up her pace until she could touch the animal’s withers. Biting her lip, she gazed at the stallion’s saddle. Without thinking she flexed her knees, sprang upward and dug the fingers of both hands into the coarse hair of his mane. She clawed her way up into the saddle and clutched at the high pommel. Her brain reeled from the effort.

‘God!’ the knight muttered under his breath. ‘You are part mountain goat.’