Captive Rose (40 page)

She still had a ways to go when a loud cheer went up
from the gathered onlookers, which was echoed by those watching from the
stands. Then a deep, familiar voice said almost apologetically, "I fear
Gervais
got the better of me this time, my lords. That fall
knocked the wind right out of me. Or perhaps it was my wedding night that
proved my undoing. My beautiful wife was loath to let me sleep."

Leila froze, her face burning as male laughter rang out
on all sides. She did not know if she was more relieved or angry. Here she had
thought Guy was fatally wounded, and instead, he was making jokes and blaming
her for his mishap!

"Why, your wife is right here, Lord de
Warenne
," shouted a tall knight standing next to her.

As the men in front of her began to step aside, forming
a narrow path, Leila groaned inwardly, any hopes of retreating before Guy spied
her vanishing into thin air. Now he would see for himself just how concerned
she had been, for why else would she have run out onto the field?

Love had propelled her. She could no longer deny it to
herself, troubling though the realization was. She had never felt such
heartrending anguish as when she had thought he might be dead. Yet she couldn't
let Guy guess the truth. It would only foster his hope for something that could
never be.

Nothing had changed. She was as determined to leave him
as ever, as determined to prove to him the impossibility of their marriage. She
simply could not allow her emotions to override her will to return home to
Syria. Her lifelong dream was in Damascus; everything for which she had worked
so long and so hard was in Damascus. She would not forsake it. She had to think
of another reason for her presence on the field, and fast

"Leila."

Even as her name upon his lips filled her with joy,
Leila resolutely hardened her heart against him. She had to. How else could she
win the fierce battle that waged in her soul, this unsettling new love vying
for dominion over the life in Damascus that she had vowed to
reclaim.

As Guy approached her with a slight limp, his helmet
held under one arm, she thought of how he had mercilessly wrenched her from
everything she knew and loved, and felt a little stronger. Just a little.

"What are you doing here, my love? The tournament
field is no place for a woman."

"I-I thought you might be wounded," she
replied, steeling herself against the frank warmth of his gaze, "so I came
as quickly as I could." When a pleased smile spread over his
sweat-streaked face, she knew she had given him the wrong impression, but he
spoke before she could continue.

"I am touched by your concern, Leila."

With difficulty she feigned a nonchalant tone. "
'Tis
no more than any physician would do for an injured
man, unless you have forgotten that medicine was my life's work long before I
became your unwilling wife."

"I have not forgotten," Guy replied tersely,
his smile fading. His voice fell to a harsh whisper. "Wearing veils and
refusing to grant tokens is one thing, Leila, but if it is now your plan to
play the shrew, then I suggest you save your barbs for our bedchamber. It is
bad enough that I lost a joust to your brother. I will not be humiliated by my
wife before my fellow knights. Is that clear?"

Leila nodded, stung by his words, but before she could
reply, Guy muttered under his breath, "Speak of the devil."

She turned and was surprised to see Roger riding up to
them, his helmet off, an inscrutable expression on his face. He reined in his
lathered war-horse only a few feet away and surveyed them both coldly.

"What a touching sight you made, my sister,
dashing out onto the field to reach your fallen husband. Too bad you did not
find yourself a widow."

"Don't overestimate your skill,
Gervais
," Guy said. "Good fortune might have
played into your hands today, but there will be other matches in which you
might just as easily find yourself the one eating dirt."

"Is that a challenge, de
Warenne
?
If so, I accept. I would like nothing more than to have another go at ramming
my lance down your throat. I'll see that the opponent I draw on the morrow
yields his place to you."

"Done."

Roger bowed his head mockingly as he gathered the
reins. "Lady de
Warenne
."

"This is madness," Leila cried, watching her
brother ride away in a spew of dust. She turned back to Guy, not believing what
she had just heard. "Surely you can see he wants to kill you. My brother
wants vengeance."

"As do I," Guy muttered, his gaze still
following Roger's retreating figure. "And what better place than at the
king's tournament, where revenge may be hidden under the guise of lawful sport.
Your brother at least has the right idea there. I say, may the better man win."

Leila shivered at the bitter venom in his voice. Try as
she might, she could not suppress her deep concern for him. Nor could she bear
the thought that Guy might be killed because of her.

"But Roger defeated you once, my lord. What makes
you think it won't happen again, and this time to his satisfaction?"

"Enough!" Guy demanded
,
his eyes clouded with hurt and anger as he fastened them upon her. "As you
already pointed out to me, I will not flatter myself to think you might truly
care about my welfare. You fear my death only because of how it may affect you,
isn't that right, Leila?"

She wanted to answer yes, but she couldn't. It was not
the truth. Not anymore. Nor could she say no for fear of giving away her
feelings. So she kept silent, letting him think the worst.

"And after last night I thought . . ." Guy
did not finish, but scanned the knights who stood off to the side. "Langton!"

"My lord?" Henry asked, striding over.

"Escort Lady de
Warenne
back to the pavilion. I believe the crowd grows anxious for the next match."
He said no more, only turned away and walked toward his
destrier
.

The trumpets sounded, but Leila barely heard them. She
stared after Guy, overwhelmed by the hurtful tangle their lives had become.

Who could say what cruel trick kismet would play upon
them tomorrow when he and Roger met once more in the lists? Whatever the
outcome, the sooner she managed to leave this country the better.

Chapter 21

"Any trouble tonight, Robert?" Guy asked his
solemn-faced knight as he approached the door to his bedchamber. He
acknowledged with a nod the two men-at-arms standing at
Burnell's
side.

"No, my lord. Your lady has been as quiet as a
mouse, and we've had no unwelcome visitors come this way."

"Good. The ale and wine are still running freely
in the hall, but take care you're all able to ride at dawn."

"Aye, that we will, my lord."

Guy waited until the three men had disappeared down the
shadowed hall before he lifted the latch and entered the silent, dimly lit
bedchamber.

It was very late, and he barred the door carefully so
as not to wake Leila. Accompanied by an escort which had also served as her
personal guard while he remained in the great hall, she had retired from the
post-tournament feast hours ago, pleading a headache, which he was also now
suffering. The plentiful red wine he had consumed since losing the joust to
Roger had done much to soothe his foul mood, but had left his head pounding.

At least he could be thankful that there would be no
tournament for him tomorrow, Guy thought, pulling off his boots. After propping
them by the door, he crossed the floor quietly, very much aware of his unsteady
gait.

"Damn lucky thing, too," he muttered under his
breath, berating himself for drinking so much. He doubted he would have been at
his best, a disadvantage Roger would have seized upon with glee. But there
would be no more jousting tomorrow for any of the Marcher lords, including that
bastard
Gervais
.

An exhausted messenger had arrived from Wales only an
hour past with an important missive for Edward. Despite the ample number of men
who had been left behind to govern the region during the coronation
festivities, the restless Welsh were harrying English castles and the
surrounding villages with a vengeance. Anticipating a possible rebellion,
Edward had ordered all Marcher lords to return home at once and see to their
castles' defenses.

Guy had already told his men to be prepared to leave
for
Warenne
Castle at dawn. Most of the disturbances
were centered in northern Wales, but he didn't want to take any chances. Not
with his young son at risk. He was glad to be leaving anyway. It was time Leila
saw her new home.

As he drew back the
bedcurtains
,
soft light from a single oil lantern spilled across the bed. It was empty, the
mattress practically stripped but for a single linen sheet.

Suddenly he felt stone cold sober.

By God, had Leila fled? His gaze swept the shadows. No,
it wasn't possible.
Burnell
had been outside the door
all evening, and this room was on the third floor of the palace, which ruled
out the windows. Then where the hell was she?

He tensed when he heard a slight rustling coining from
the other side of the bed. Rounding it in a rush, he tripped when his foot
became entangled in cloth, and he caught the corner post just in time to keep
from falling. He was astonished to find Leila sleeping on the floor on a mound
of bedcovers and pillows.

A smile twitched at Guy's lips. What defiant game was
this? The day had already been full of such curious, surprises. It appeared
that she was fast asleep, one delicate hand tucked under her softly rounded
chin, yet he sensed she was only pretending. Her breathing was a bit too
regular, and her other hand was wound into a small fist that was curled rather
tightly for slumber.

Would she flail at him, he wondered
,
if he so much as made a move toward her? He could hardly blame her if she did.
He hadn't exactly behaved the chivalrous gentleman after his unfortunate match
with Roger.

His smile gone, Guy moved to the foot of the bed and
stripped off his clothes, throwing them on a chair with a good amount of
self-disgust.

What had happened to his firm resolve to be patient and
caring with her, no matter how she goaded him? Leila had certainly vexed him
this afternoon out on the jousting field, and how had he reacted? Like a
belligerent ass.

What had he expected anyway? That one night of
lovemaking would miraculously change her mind about him? Even if it had made
some small difference, he had probably destroyed any progress he had achieved
with his angry accusation. And even if she had been somewhat concerned for him,
he had been so incensed after that strained encounter with Roger that he would
have missed entirely any caring intent behind her words.

The devil take it, there was nothing like losing a
jousting match to one's mortal enemy to bring out the worst in a man, Guy
thought dryly. He went to the table and snuffed out the lamp, plunging the room
into darkness.

He had acted like a brash, hotheaded youth in the first
place by even agreeing to the change in opponents. He did not doubt his prowess
with the lance, but his lack of sleep—not that it hadn't been worth it!—the
night before had hardly put him in good stead to take on
Gervais
.
In the morning he would undoubtedly see a wealth of ugly bruises to attest to
his foolhardiness.

Guy walked back around the bed, wincing at his sore
muscles.

From now on in any of his dealings with that bastard,
cold reason would rule. Either that, or Leila would become a very beautiful
widow—hardly a thought he relished. He would have to watch his back once they
were in Wales. Roger probably had just such a grim scenario in mind, though he
would be a fool to act upon it. King Henry had forbidden them to make war on
each other, and the decree still stood under Edward.

Entranced by the lush rose scent of Leila's perfume
drifting to him from the floor, Guy forced away his unpleasant thoughts as he
gently picked her up. He knew she was awake when her slender body tensed in his
arms.

"I don't know what game you've been playing all
day, my love, but I will not have my wife sleeping on the floor like some
beggar."

Her guise of sleep discovered, Leila wriggled against
his bare chest, her heart racing. "I play no game!"

"No?" he asked, depositing her on the bed.
The pillows and velvet spread quickly followed, then Guy climbed in beside her,
hauling the covers to his waist. She attempted to slide away from him but he
easily caught her, gathering her close.

"Then what do you call wearing veils in the manner
of eastern women? After you left the feast tonight, Matilda was beside herself
as she told me how you ruined one of your new gowns to make a head scarf, and
Lady Blanche expounded upon your rudeness. You refused me a token during the
tournament, called people gluttons at supper, and lectured them to partake of a
more moderate diet. Then you demanded that the servants bring you pillows to
sit upon and olives, dates, and yogurt" —Guy raised himself on his elbow— "none
of which would they likely find in the king's kitchens. And now I find you
sleeping on the floor. Need I remind you,
Leila, that
you are not in Damascus anymore?"

"No, you do not need to remind me!" Leila
snapped, overwhelmed by the heat of his body pressed against her.

"Then what are you trying to prove? I would almost
swear you are purposely seeking to humiliate me—" He stopped when Leila
gasped. "That's it, isn't it?" he demanded softly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she
countered, astounded that he would so easily read her intentions. "I am
only being myself. I may have English blood in my veins, but I will not play
the part of a proper English lady."