Captive Rose (23 page)

"What—what are you doing?" she stammered, her
heart thumping with fear. She could feel his hard
sinewed
muscles pressing into her flesh as if there was no clothing between them. "Let
me go!"

"I should have known you would side with the
bastard," he grated angrily, his breath hot on her cheek. "Blood is
thick, even though you have never met your beloved brother."

"I've taken no sides!" Leila objected,
wriggling futilely in his arms. "Release me . . . I cannot breathe!"

She thought he might when he slightly eased his hold
upon her, then he seemed to change his mind and drew her even closer, his
embrace no longer cruel but overwhelmingly possessive. It frightened her all
the more.

"Ah, Leila, Leila, what spell have you cast over
me?" he whispered, his eyes glittering in the hazy moonlight spreading
like a pale shadow across the window. "I have never shared my soul with
any woman as I have with you this night."

Too shocked to speak, Leila balled her fists and pushed
against his chest, but to no avail. The heat of his body scorched her breasts,
her belly, and that secret place between her thighs that had never felt the
thrust of a man until now as he moved his hips seductively against hers.

She gasped at the rigid swelling pressing there. She
knew what it was, having learned of its power in the harem, and she thought
desperately to pull away even as her hips met his instinctively, her
mind
and body at total odds.

Guy groaned at her movement and buried his face in her
neck, his lips like hot brands upon her skin. His hands slid down her back and
he lifted her thin
nightrail
, cupping her bare bottom
to pull her even harder against him.

"Woman, you have bewitched me," he said
thickly, kissing her throat. "Bewitched me . . ."

Leila trembled at the primal sensations sweeping her
from head to toe, at the forbidden desire racing through her veins and warming
her skin like wildfire. Her mind screamed to resist what his touch was doing to
her while her body sought to meld with him, pressing even closer. The
incredible yearning building inside her was so much more than anything she had
ever created herself, infinitely wilder, hotter, sweeter . . .

His lips claimed hers, and all coherent thought fled.
Leila eagerly opened her mouth to his carnal kiss, their panting breaths
meeting
and tongues entwining. As he devoured her hungrily,
her arms slid around his neck. Giddy excitement swept her when his hand crept
between their bodies and caressed her belly. Then his splayed fingers slid even
lower, lower, one thrusting slowly into her moist softness. She
arched
against his hand, whimpering deep in her throat as
she dug her nails into his shoulder blades.

Guy
tensed,
his voice no more
than a ragged whisper. "Oh God, Leila, how I want you . . . Damn this vow!
It has become my curse!"

Suddenly she felt him pull away from her and she was
shoved back against the mattress, his hoarse cry ringing in her ears. She
watched in total astonishment as he strode from the cabin, so stunned she
almost burst into tears.

"Damn you, de
Warenne
!"
she shouted after him, dazed and shaking with thwarted desire. As she yanked
her
nightrail
over her exposed body, she gasped for
breath and fought back her inexplicable urge to cry. "What are you doing
to me?" she whispered brokenly. "Damn you, what are you doing to me?"

She seized a pillow, punching it again and again with
her clenched fists until the feathers were flying . . . hating herself for
surrendering so easily, but even more, hating him for making her want to surrender.

Chapter 12

It was late afternoon four days later when the galley docked
in Marseilles. One precious day had been lost to the storm, and Guy was more
than anxious to disembark and be on their way.

He had every intention of hiring a wagon and journeying
to Avignon that very night, where they would catch a boat in the morning that
would take them up the Rhone to Lyons. It would be a hard pace for Leila, just
as he had promised, but he would fix her a pallet in the back of the wagon
where she could rest if she grew tired.

Guy glanced down at her, somber and silent as she
walked beside him across the sun-washed deck. For the hundredth time he cursed
his wretched behavior of a few nights ago.

Leila had said few words to him since he had stormed a
second time from their cabin, and he couldn't blame her. For all of his talk of
not ravaging her and his vow to protect her person from any danger, he had
acted abominably.

He had sworn to himself from that night on that he
would not so much as touch her unless she needed his assistance, no matter the
longing which raged like a swirling vortex inside him whenever he was near her.
It was strange and frightening and growing more intense each day, like a fire
burning out of control.

God help him, he would see that they set a demon's pace
to London! This baffling, fascinating, and utterly exquisite woman was proving
too much of a temptation for his most chivalrous intentions.

They were almost to the gangplank when Leila hesitated,
and Guy quickly decided she could probably use his help now. Still a bit wobbly
on her feet from her prolonged seasickness, she was staring uncertainly at the
steeply sloping wooden plank.

"Take my arm, Leila," he offered gently, and
was almost startled when she did. He gazed at her small white hand resting on
his forearm, marveling at the elegant delicacy of her fingers,
then
caught her eyes. But she quickly glanced away. A
shallow furrow creased her brow, and she licked her lips nervously as she
surveyed the bustling waterfront.

Guy could well understand her apprehension. As soon as
she stepped from this ship, she would be entering a completely foreign world
from the one she had known in Damascus.

He hoped she would not think it a nightmare. His first
few days in the Holy Land over a year ago had been difficult, but he had looked
upon the experience as an adventure. Perhaps she might do the same, though he
doubted it. She seemed determined to resist him and what he was doing for her
every step of the way.

"Hold on tight," he bade her, walking slowly
down the gangplank. "If I'm rushing you, just let me know."

"I'm fine," Leila insisted sharply, although
she wasn't sure. The chink of Guy's heavy chain mail was a wholly new and
ominous sound to her, and the interlocking rings felt cold beneath her fingertips.
Just touching it gave her a sense of foreboding for what was yet to come in
this unknown land.

He was practically encased in metal, from the fitted
coif over his head to his feet, and the act of dressing himself had been a
laborious and lengthy process. As the ship had sailed into the harbor, she had
watched Guy's transformation from the tall, powerfully built man to whom she
had reluctantly grown accustomed into an even more foreboding warrior knight.
Now she felt as if she hardly knew him.

While he had dressed his demeanor had changed, his
expression becoming harder, almost grim as he first attached stout hose and
mailed leggings, or chausses, to his
braies
. After
that came an
undertunic
and a padded jacket like the
one her father had cut from him in the governor's prison—a gambeson, Guy had
called it. Then he had drawn on his hauberk, a long-sleeved mailed shirt which
reached to his knees, and a mailed hood that covered his ears and neck. Lastly
came
a white linen
surcoat
emblazoned with the now-familiar crimson cross and his waist belt with its
sheathed sword.

He had already explained he was wearing his armor
because of potential dangers they would face along the road. Thieves,
vagabonds
and outlaws would be much less likely to attack a
fully armed knight.

That unpleasant information had sunk her morale to a
new low. But she didn't hit rock bottom until he told her she would have to
play the part of his wife for her own safety until they reached London. The
ultimate charade!

"Careful as you step onto the dock," Guy
cautioned her, his warning drawing her thoughts instantly back to the present. "Good,
now stay very close to me . . . like a dutiful wife. As soon as we hire a wagon
and our chests are loaded, we'll be gone from here."

"Dutiful wife, indeed," she muttered. She
shot him a venomous glance which seemed to amuse him, but she did stay close to
him, avoiding the crush of humanity all around her, and clutched his arm
tightly.

The docks were crowded with all manner of folk,
mariners and richly clad foreign merchants, barefoot urchins dashing in and
out, ragged hawkers selling their wares, pilgrims and hooded clergy, and even
brazen women baring their breasts and calling out lustily to disembarking
passengers. Leila was so shocked she forgot her self-imposed reticence and
tugged on Guy's mailed sleeve.

"Are those women—?"

"Prostitutes," Guy finished for her, a wry
smile on his lips. "Incoming ships bring them a healthy trade, and from
the looks of this lot" —he nodded toward some dusty pilgrims coming
ashore— "they could use what these ladies have to offer."

"Ladies?" Leila scoffed. "Those women
would be executed without a trial in Damascus!"

"Then it's a good thing for them they're not in
Damascus," Guy quipped, waving off a russet-haired woman who was
sauntering toward him.

"Are you sure now, my lord?" the woman
queried skeptically in heavily accented English, flashing Guy a wide,
gap-toothed smile. "That little lady doesn't look to me as if she can bear
the weight of you like these lily-white thighs! Why don't you give 'em a try? I'll
give you a ride you won't forget!"

"Better yet," another harlot shouted, shoving
the red-haired woman aside, "you're such a fine-looking man I'll pay you
for the tumble! If the rest of you is as big" —her eyes fell to his crotch
and she grinned lustily— "ah, now that would be a sight to see!"

"How—how dare
they
!"
Leila blurted, her cheeks firing as both women laughed and pushed their way
back into the crowd when Guy merely smiled and shook his head.

"Ignore it," he suggested, guiding her to
where a line of horse-drawn wagons were waiting for hire. "You'll find the
peasants are a crude lot, but they generally mean no harm."

Crude wasn't the word for it, Leila thought, her head
beginning to ache. More like vile, base, and barbaric, just as she expected.
She felt as if she had been dropped into some sort of swirling hell, such was
the raucous activity and babble of languages all around her.

"Wait here," Guy said, leaving her beside a
stack of wine barrels before she could protest and walking toward a group of
coarsely dressed man gathered by the wagons.

Leila didn't like being left alone in this motley
throng, but she had the distinct feeling Guy was maintaining a watchful eye on
her, which made her feel a little better. She kept her gaze trained on him,
trying to ignore the curious and leering glances being cast her way from male
passersby.

It shocked her that men would stare at her so openly.
In Damascus, women were treated with respect, and of course in public they wore
numerous veils to shield themselves from any unwelcome attentions.

Without a face veil she felt exposed and naked, and she
wondered how long it would take her to become used to the fact that women here
wore no such veils. She hoped she would be back in Syria soon, and wouldn't
have to worry about it!

Leila watched Guy through her lowered lashes and was
astonished to see the men sweep off their caps and bow their heads in deference
as he approached. Was he a great man, that they would treat him so? She decided
they were probably acting out of fear. Guy towered above them, the rugged
breadth of his shoulders equal to that of two men. With the sunlight glinting
off his polished mail, he was a formidable sight.

She surmised the transaction was completed when one of
the men ran to a nearby wagon and jumped into the driver's seat, snapping his
whip across the two draft horses' rumps while Guy strode back to her. She
experienced a rush of pleasure in his commanding appearance, but she quickly
brushed it off, angry that she would feel that way.

"The driver will load our chests and then come
around to pick you up," Guy said, glad to be back by her side. He didn't
like leaving her alone, even for a moment.

Leila looked lovelier than any woman had a right to,
despite the gray linen tunic and matching
surcoat
he
had insisted she wear for their journey overland to Avignon. He would see that
she continued to dress plainly until they were out of France. He did not trust
these foreigners, even though it was from this land that his own ancestors had
sprung. In England few would dare to assault them, but here. . .

"Won't you be riding in the wagon?" she
asked, glancing sideways at him.

"No." Guy nodded to the dappled gray stallion
being led toward them. "If I need to fight, I want to have a good horse
beneath me."

He saw a flicker of fear in her eyes, and she seemed about
to respond when she was distracted by a wild brawl that had broken out between
some sailors. He paid the men no heed, studying her face instead. An
overwhelming sense of protectiveness surged through him as he wondered if their
journey would take any further toll upon her health. He hoped not.

Leila had lost weight during the voyage, due to her
seasickness but also to the galley cook's indifferent fare. He, too, had had
trouble stomaching the poorly prepared food, but he had forced himself to eat
while Leila could not. Her high cheekbones were more finely
etched,
her eyes large and darkly violet in a face that had grown too pale. He would
have to see that she ate well to restore the healthy glow she had possessed in
Damascus. Thankfully he still had plenty of Lady Eve's jewels to amply provide
for their needs.