Captive Rose (16 page)

"My oath is sacred. It cannot be undone. If, when
we reach England, your brother grants that you may return to Syria, then so be
it. That decision is not for me to make."

"No!" Leila cried. "You do this against
my will. You are kidnapping me!"

Guy shrugged dispassionately. "Call it what you
like, my lady. Tomorrow we sail for France, the first leg of our journey. I
have bought you some new clothes. I will bring them to you later when you have
calmed down." His gaze fell to her beautiful breasts, for the coverlet had
fallen into her lap. His desire to caress her smooth flesh was overwhelming,
and he decided it was best he leave. "You certainly can't travel like
that. It will be hard enough protecting you from the shipboard rabble without
your displaying yourself for all to see."

Leila glanced down at her sheer bodice and then back at
him, feeling her cheeks grow red with fury.

"For the last time, I tell you I won't go with
you—"

"And for the last time, my lady," Guy said as
he strode to the door, looking at her over his broad shoulder, "I say you
will!"

He left the room, slamming the door behind him so hard
that she couldn't possibly misunderstand the vehemence of his words.

Leila heard a bolt slide across the door, and the
finality of it proved too much for her. She looked frantically around the room,
along the floor, at the sparse furnishings, searching for anything with which
to pound on the door. She found it in the small copper table next to the bed.

Springing from the mattress, she seized the metal
tabletop from its wooden stand, paying no heed as the crystal water goblet
crashed to the floor. She ran to the locked door and began pounding wildly,
screaming,
"
Damn you, de
Warenne
,
let me out! I won't go with you! I won't, I won't! You can't do this to me!"

She shouted and hammered until her ears rang with the
noise, but still no one came to the door. Exhaustion finally swept over her and
she crumpled to the carpet, overwhelmed with despair.

Ah, how cruelly kismet had turned against her! Now she
was the prisoner, the unwilling captive.

God help her, what was she going to do? Everything was
slipping like desert sand through her fingers . . . her hopes, her dreams, the
bright, perfect future she had envisioned as a respected physician and wife to
Jamal Al-Aziz.

"No. You can't just stand by and let this
barbarian ruin your life," Leila whispered to herself. "Think, Leila!
Think! There must be something you can do."

She slowly raised her head and spied the two high
windows covered with intricate wooden grillwork on the opposite wall above the
bed. The bright sunlight outside seemed to beckon to her, a promise of freedom.

A flicker of hope kindled within her. If she could
reach the windows, maybe, just maybe . . .

Chapter 9

Guy breathed in
Refaiyeh's
musk perfume as she slept in a state of contented satiation, her voluptuous,
body nestled against him. Though he himself was not wholly satisfied, the
aching fullness in his loins had been eased. There was nothing like anger to
fuel a good bout of lovemaking.

Yet
Refaiyeh
had nothing to
do with his anger.

She had been preparing Leila's food tray when he found
her in the kitchen, and she had seemed to know instantly what he wanted. After
shooing
Hayat
outside into the walled garden, she had
smiled seductively at him, and that was all the invitation Guy had needed.

He had taken her right there on the lacquered kitchen
table, rocking it so violently that grapes, figs, and olives had bounced from
bowls and tumbled onto the tiled floor.

Guy smiled wryly. After that, he and
Refaiyeh
had retired to her private bedchamber where they
had rutted and sweated until she had cried out she would have nothing left for
their last evening together if they did not stop.

So he had stopped, although he could have kept right on
going in a vain attempt to force his unsettling encounter with Leila from his
mind. It had never happened before that he took one woman in his arms but could
not stop thinking about another. It was a most disconcerting preoccupation.

When he smelled
Refaiyeh's
musk perfume, he wished it was a far more intoxicating damask rose. When he
looked into her dark eyes made liquid with desire, he saw another gaze, one of
flashing amethyst filled with fury, disbelief, and spite. When he sank his body
in
Refaiyeh's
, he imagined Leila's white, white skin,
satiny smooth beneath his touch, and her glossy black hair slipping through his
fingers . . .

Cursing softly, Guy rubbed his eyes as if to dispel the
wanton sensory images. God's blood, their journey had yet to begin! He would
make his life a living hell if he didn't stop thinking of her in this way.

Like the living hell he had made of Leila's life.

Yes, he had seen that in her stunning eyes, too, but he
had sworn to take her to England, and he could not rescind his vow. A knight's
oath might as well be written in blood for its inviolability.

Yet would he allow Leila to return to Damascus and this
Jamal Al-Aziz even if he could forswear the vow he had made to Eve
Gervais
? No. A Christian woman had no place in that heathen
city. It was bad enough that she considered Damascus her home, Syria her
country, and England nothing more than a pagan land. Hadn't Eve told Leila
anything about her true homeland? He had the distinct impression she had not.

Guy pounded his fist upon the mattress. No, he was
doing the right thing. Leila would be better off in England, and he was not
going to question his judgment any further!

"Ah . . . what was that?"
Refaiyeh
asked drowsily, raising her tousled head from his shoulder and regarding him
with half-closed eyes.

"Nothing. Go back to sleep," Guy murmured,
kissing her soft cheek. He lifted her limp arm from his chest and rose from the
bed, covering her tenderly with the silken sheet.

Truly, he would miss
Refaiyeh
,
he thought, drawing on his clothes and sword belt. The young widow had made his
life more than bearable while he'd been in Acre; she had become a friend. When
he knocked on her door late last night, dusty and spent from the long ride from
Damascus and with a bedraggled Leila in his arms, she had asked no questions,
just ushered them quickly into her home.

Only later, after she had made Leila comfortable, had
they had a chance to talk. He had described the journey to Anatolia, then his
incredible ordeal in Damascus, and she had shared what information she had
gleaned from the crusaders still lingering in Acre. From her lips he had
learned of King Henry's death, and that Edward had sailed home to claim the
English throne. Yet even with this knowledge, Guy still did not believe Edward
had left him to die in prison.

His faith had been affirmed this morning when he had
spoken with Simon
Renier
, a grizzled crusader who had
decided to stay in the Holy Land, having neither lands nor titles to entice him
home. Guy had just bought passage on a ship to Marseilles using some of Eve's
jewels when he felt a heavy hand clap his back.

"By the breath of God, is that you, de
Warenne
?"

Recognizing the voice, Guy had spun around, a grin
spreading across his face when he beheld the stout, red-bearded warrior.

"Indeed it is, friend."

"And all in one piece, I see," Simon said,
cuffing Guy heartily on the arm. "Where are Reginald and the others? You're
the first one I've seen back. Did he decide to stay with the Mongols? I've
heard their women are as wild as yellow tigers and ride naked across the
steppes—"

"Reginald is dead. They're all dead," Guy
said tonelessly, his throat constricted as he realized no one yet knew of his
companions' fate.

"Who did this? Where?"
Renier
blustered, his broad freckled face mottling with rage.

After Guy grimly explained what had happened, the older
knight seemed thoroughly shaken and puzzled. "Lord Edward never received
any letter of ransom for you, de
Warenne
. If he had,
he would surely have let the rest of us know. He believed all was well with
your embassy to the day he sailed. He even left a message for you."

"What message?"

"He wanted you and Reginald and the other knights
to follow him back to England as soon as you returned to Acre."

If Guy had harbored any uncertainty at all, he knew
then that Edward had not deserted him.

"That was already my plan," Guy said, nodding
toward the docks. "I just bought passage for two aboard that galley."

"Two?"
Renier
blurted, his pale, blue eyes lit with curiosity. "Will you be taking that
pretty Arab wench of yours home to
Warenne
Castle?"

"No.
Refaiyeh
has chosen
to stay here in Acre. Lady Leila
Gervais
will
accompany me to England."

"
Gervais
?" the old
warrior asked, astonished. "Does she share any blood relation with Roger—
"

"His younger sister," Guy cut him off dryly.
At Simon's expression of complete incredulity, he gave a short laugh. "How
about a pint of ale, my friend? I'd rather tell you the story in a cool tavern
than out here in the hot sun. Agreed?"

"Aye, though I imagine this tale will warrant more
than a pint, de
Warenne
," Simon said heartily,
shaking his head. "More like a half barrel!"

Refaiyeh's
long drawn out
sigh snapped Guy's thoughts sharply back to the present. As she smiled in her
sleep, a twinge of guilt tugged at his heart.

He had done
Refaiyeh
a great
disservice to dwell so on Leila during their lovemaking. Too bad she had turned
down his offer to accompany them to England. He was very fond of her . . . as
fond as he had been of any woman, including Christine, his late wife.

Guy turned away and quietly left the shadowed chamber.
His inability to return his wife's love had also been a disservice, but one
that could never be remedied. At least he loved Nicholas, their young son, as
he had never been able to love Christine. He hoped that had been some
consolation for the pain they had shared from the day they were wed until her
tragic death.

Putting away such dark memories, Guy went to the
kitchen and quickly finished the food tray
Refaiyeh
had been preparing before he had so lustily interrupted her
.
 
Leila had more than likely calmed
herself by now. Two hours had passed since he had left her room. She was
probably ravenous and light-headed after not eating for several days.

When he reached her chamber, he balanced the tray in
one hand and unbolted the door. He ducked slightly, as he seemed to have to do
when going through most entryways, his gaze sweeping the silent interior. The
bed was pushed away from the wall and a clothing chest moved there, empty of
its contents and turned upright on one end. The grille on the window directly
above e the chest was opened just wide enough for a slim young woman to escape.

"Damn!" Guy shouted, setting aside the tray.
Why hadn't he thought Leila might try such a stunt, and maybe even succeed?
Railing at his own stupidity, he ran toward the back of the house and then out
and around to the attached stable, trying to determine which direction to try
first.

Acre was a bustling port city on the rocky shores of
the Mediterranean, but it was only a third the size of Damascus. Given Leila's
head start, she could be well into the surrounding hills if she was on
horseback. Those grassy slopes and craggy hollows were swarming with Bedouin
herdsmen and
Mameluke
spies who would recognize at
once the monetary worth in helping an Arabic-speaking Christian woman return to
Damascus.

Those men would have nothing to lose. If she proved to
have lied about her family, they would sell her in the slave markets. If she
was telling the truth, they would be rewarded in gold for her safe return.
Either way, the smell of money would easily gain Leila their eager assistance.

Guy flung open the wide stable doors and was relieved
to see that none of the four horses was missing. That meant she was on foot.

His mind sped as he saddled one of the sleek black
stallions. First he would search the twisting city streets for any sign of her
and, if that failed, he would recruit several crusaders and their men-at-arms
and set out for the treacherous hills.

As Guy slapped the horse's flank with the reins and
took off at a fast trot down the narrow street, pedestrians, squawking
chickens, and bleating sheep scattered in all directions. He was almost at the
comer when he spied
Hayat
racing toward him as fast
as her short legs would carry her, her flapping skirt held well above her
knees.

"My lord! My lord!" she cried, dodging
passersby and dashing between the spindly legs of a large camel blocking the
street.

Guy dismounted just as
Hayat
reached him, falling breathless and panting into his arms.

"The . . . pretty lady, my lord! I saw her . . .
jump from the window . . . when I was in the garden. I followed her . . . those
men!"

"What men,
Hayat
?"
Guy demanded, his heart hanging hard against his chest. He shook her none too
gently. "Where is she?"

"Three Genoese sailors, my lord!"
Hayat
cried, her large brown eyes filling with tears. She
began to hiccough, her small body trembling. "They caught her . . . they
were laughing . . . They dragged her into a tavern—"