No Price Too High (5 page)

“Step aside,” Melisande ordered.

The old woman grasped her sleeve and shouted.

Melisande shouldered aside the tent door. The sunlight nearly drove her back, but she strode across the bare earth. Staring at the dozen tents grouped together around the remains of fires, she wondered why no one was among them.

Shouts reverberated. She whirled, reaching for her knife. Her sash was empty, but she need not have worried. A cloud of dust beyond the camp revealed where Gabriel's men must be.

The old woman followed and called out. Melisande did not wait to see if she got an answer. She gauged the distance to the mountains, pleased, realizing she was not more than a league from where they had been attacked. It would not be an easy walk, but …

She heard a soft whinny. She raced to where a string of horses waited. Untying a sturdy gray, she grabbed the mane and swung up onto its back. She took the halter ropes and set the horse to a gallop. The old woman's shriek was louder than the horse's hoofs.

The sun burned down on Melisande. She pulled the material of her surcoat up over her head and bent over her horse as they rushed down the hillside. When the horse reached the plain, she set it racing. She looked again at the mountains. Turning the horse north, she smiled as she saw the crevice that narrowed to the width of a single rider. Her exhilaration tempered when she recalled how many times Geoffrey had teased her about her unerring sense of direction.

Poor Geoffrey. He never had aspired to anything but the pleasures awaiting an earl's son. While Melisande had ridden the manor lands with their father, he had been content to sample the manor's ale and kitchen lasses.

She steered the horse into the narrow break. Glancing up at the cliffs, she whispered an order to her horse. Its ears twitched, but it did not obey. With a grimace, she realized the horse did not understand English. She reached to slap its flank again.

Her fingers froze. She stared at the other end of the tunnel … and the silhouette of a mounted man. Sun flashed off the naked sword in his hand.

She had no weapon save the speed of her horse. She jerked on the ropes. The horse whinnied a protest, but turned. She set it to a gallop, risking a look over her shoulder. The man had not moved.

Had he seen her? How could he
not
hear the hoofbeats? Once out, she would—Ahead of her, she saw more riders. She slapped her heels, and her horse raced forward.

Shouts erupted as she cut through the riders. They scattered, save for one on a pale horse … right in her path. She jerked on the ropes. With a piercing scream, the horse rose to dance on its hind feet.

“Look out!” she cried.

The man did not move. Somehow she turned her horse past him. Hoofbeats pounded behind her. Before she could look back, hands covered hers on the ropes. She tried to pull away, but the horse turned at an awkward angle, nearly unseating her.

Melisande opened her mouth to scream as her shoulders were grasped. The sound died in her throat when she stared at Gabriel's furious eyes above the cloth covering his mouth. He ripped it aside to reveal his straight lips.

“Did you think you could flee this easily?” he demanded.

“Flee?” She bent forward to calm her horse and avoid Gabriel's rage. “I was not fleeing. I was going to bury my brother and the men of Heathwyre who died here yesterday.” She sat straighter. “I would appreciate your help if burying
Franj
would not offend you.”

His gaze burned into her. “It did not offend me when I ordered my men to do so yesterday.”

Her eyes widened. “You buried them?”

“You are my ally.” A hint of a smile eased his taut lips. “I owe you the respect I would offer any other ally.”

“Thank you,” she said, so softly Gabriel was unsure if he had heard her.

Putting his fingers beneath her chin, he brought her face up toward his. The sunshine added to the fire glowing across her red-gold hair, but the fire in her eyes drew his gaze. Her misguided fervor would betray her again. That he knew.

Her lips parted in an invitation to wash the dust away with his mouth against hers. If he took her to his tent, no one would stop him from taking what he wished from this beautiful
Franj
. He suspected Shakir would be happier if Gabriel bedded her, for his friend, although agreeing with what Gabriel had planned, would rather it did not include her.

She would not come into his bed willingly, although she had welcomed his kisses. Nor should he bring her there while they were allies. Later … he would explore far more of her soft skin than her luscious lips.

“Milady,” he murmured.

“Yes?”

Something stirred in his gut at her hushed question. “We should return to our camp.”

She drew away, and her gaze hardened. “That is an excellent suggestion, Gabriel. I have some ideas of what we might do to—”

He clamped his hand over her mouth, and Melisande stiffened as his voice dropped to a whisper. “The desert listens to all that is spoken within it, and the wind can carry your words to those who should not hear them.”

She nodded.

He released her. As she was about to speak, he pulled his knife and slashed through the fabric holding her surcoat over her shoulders. She held up her hands to halt him, but he knocked them away and sliced the other side. The material fell to the earth, and he ground it beneath his horses hoofs.

“You must obey me, milady, if you wish to get your vengeance. You must do everything I tell you without question.”

“No.” She tried to shake her head, but his grip on her cheeks halted her.

“You must say
yes
, milady, or our alliance dies here along with you.”

Melisande dampened her wind-scored lips. The man who had saved her life, the man who had arranged for his enemies to be given an honorable rest, the man who had been so wondrously gentle when he had held her in his arms … that same man would drive his knife into her heart without remorse.

Softly, fearing she was bargaining away her soul, she whispered, “Yes.”

“You will obey me while we are allies?”

“Yes.”

“Without question?”

She hesitated, and he brushed her chin with the flat of his knife. She owed her brother the duty of avenging his death, but the price … Somehow, she choked, “Yes.”

Abruptly he released her, and she wondered what he would demand of her. She suspected she would learn too soon.

FOUR

“Do you understand?”

Melisande nodded in answer to Gabriel's question as she tugged at the hot fabric draped over her. She understood the danger of what she was about to attempt with her unlikely allies. Looking at the men gathered on the hillside, where only twisted shrubs grew, she did not lower her eyes when she saw the distaste in theirs. Mayhap asking Gabriel to be her ally had been the most foolish thing she had ever done, but she could think of no other way to obtain vengeance for her brother's death.

She had not known where to seek this thief named Abd al Qadir. When Gabriel had led her and his men to this craggy hill, she was only a bit surprised that his target was so close to where he had been encamped. He had told her that the hill bandit was his enemy.

Because they were rivals in preying on the Crusaders
? She wished that thought had remained silent. Gabriel had not said why he was here or why he had this group of warriors with him.

“The village well is in front of the largest building,” Gabriel said in a hushed whisper as he turned back to her. He put his hand on her shoulder as he pointed at the village below them. “Do you see it?”

Again she nodded, not trusting her voice. His touch unsettled her too much. This was not how it should be between sword-sworn allies. She should be thinking only of his skill with a sword, not how his arm around her would draw her up against his strong chest as his mouth teased hers.

She tried to focus her gaze and her thoughts on the village below. Dawn was a milky wash at the eastern horizon, but she could hear voices from among the dozen flat-roofed buildings that were huddled together on the plain below them.

Gabriel said something to his men, and they rumbled with hushed laughter. She waited for him to repeat the words in Frankish, but he did not translate. Instead, he lifted the tube with the glass at the end and peered through it.

“Do not scowl, milady,” he said with a smile that twinkled more brightly than the first rays of sunshine. “The sun will cook your face into that unbecoming expression.”

“I wish to have this be done. Why do we linger here?”

He handed her the tube. “See for yourself.”

“This tube?” Two pieces of glass were lashed a hand's length away, wrapped in the leather tube.

“Raise it to your eye and look.”

Lifting it in front of her face, she peered over the top. What was its purpose?

Gabriel laughed. “No. Like this.” He stepped behind her. Grasping her hand, he raised the tube before her eyes again. “Close your left eye, milady, so you may see through it with your right.”

“It only works with one's right eye?”

“You may use either eye.” His chuckle brushed her cheek above the draped fabric, sending a heat, hotter than the sunlight, coursing through her. “Look
through
it.”

Lifting the tube again, she followed his orders. She ignored the snickers from around her when she gasped. The village leaped toward her, every detail instantly clear. Lowering it, she saw nothing had moved. Again she raised it. She could see women gathering around the well—which was in the center of the settlement, just as Gabriel had told her.

“This is a miracle!” she cried as he took it from her.

“No miracle.” He stared at the village. “Simply the use of knowledge that the West has forgotten.”

“If Geoffrey had had a tube like this—”

“He would have seen death approaching more quickly.”

Melisande's breath caught. How could she forget, even in wonder of this tube that let her see distant things, the reason she stood on this hill with Gabriel and his men? Her hands tightened into fists. She would see this hill bandit pay for the slaughter of her brother and the men from Heathwyre.

She wiped sticky sweat from her forehead as Gabriel again spoke with his men. Cursing the heavy wool, she wished she could sweep away the dampness on her nape. She wondered if this heat grew worse as summer waxed. Her father's manor house remained cool even at midsummer, for the thick stones reluctantly released the chill gathered through the winter.

Again she looked at the village. She wished Gabriel would offer her the tube again. The shadows were shrinking, and more people were walking among the buildings. A pair of dogs barked wildly as they chased something across the flat plain.

Melisande looked over her shoulder at the sound of hoofbeats. Her hand went to the sword at her waist. She had not been sure Gabriel would return it to her, but he had.

Seeing horses being brought to the men, she asked, “Gabriel, are we attacking on horseback?” She swallowed past the lump of fear in her throat. The ambush by the cliffs had proven to her that she had much to learn about battle tactics if she wanted to survive.

Putting the tube under his loose robes, Gabriel smiled. “My men understand their orders.” He took the reins of two horses from the short man. “Shakir here will see they obey them while we concentrate on what we shall do.”

“And what is that?”

He closed the distance between them with a single step. When she backed away, his smile broadened. He liked that she was frightened of him. What kind of man was he that he cared so little about his ally? She shivered, not wanting to know the answer to that when they were about to confront their common enemy.

“How can I tell you my plans if you flee me?” he asked in a reasonable tone that added to her irritation. “I cannot shout because the desert winds carry words to every eager ear.”

She almost believed him, then saw the glint in his eyes. He was her ally, but she would be a fool to trust him.

He reached toward her. She held her breath in anticipation of his touch. When he picked up a corner of the black fabric over her, she released her breath as something that seemed oddly like disappointment pulsed within her.

“You should wear the
tcharchaf
covering your face.” He drew the material forward. “No one must see that you are not of the village.”

The short man he had called Shakir began to speak, but Gabriel's single word silenced him. With the
tcharchaf
drawn about her face, she caught only a hint of a smile from the short man before he turned away to speak with the other men. Their intense expressions told her that he was giving them orders.

Again Gabriel did not interpret his words. He motioned for her to mount the horse being brought to her.

Melisande settled herself in the saddle that, unlike an English saddle, did not have the strips of leather over waist-high boards in the front and behind her. This offered a freedom which would have been exhilarating if her heart had not pounded like the hoofs of a runaway steed. She was no warrior. She was a Hospitaller, here to tend the wounds of the Crusaders.

Gabriel swung easily into the saddle. He raised his sword and snapped it down. Shakir copied the motion before the men sent their horses at a slow pace along the ridge.

With a satisfied smile, Gabriel watched for what seemed an eternity to Melisande. Just as she could restrain her questions no longer, he pointed toward the plain.

She gripped the reins as the gray horse edged down the hill with the same ease as when she had gone to find Geoffrey's body. Maybe Gabriel would lend her this horse for her return to Tyre after Abd al Qadir's defeat. It was more surefooted than the mount she had brought from Heathwyre.

When they rode close to the shadows at the base of the hills, she shivered. Not only from the chill that clung to the darkness, but with apprehension. What did Gabriel have planned? He had told her too little, she now realized.