No Price Too High (6 page)

He drew in his horse when they were even with the village. He dismounted and lashed the reins to a spire of rock. Taking her reins, he tied them to his horse's before facing her with a grim smile. “We walk from here.”

“The others—”

“Have their orders.” He grabbed her at the waist and swept her out of the saddle as if she weighed no more than the water bladder at his side. “Now you will listen to yours.”

“You give orders easily.”

“You have vowed to follow them.”

She pulled the fabric away from her face so he could not miss her scowl. “You needn't remind me of my pledge, Gabriel. I will never forget. I trust you can say the same.”

His dark eyes twinkled as he reached for the material and settled it back around her face. His fingers played along her cheek while he tucked the
tcharchaf
into place. “I never, milady, never forget a single vow I make.” Hiding the lower half of his face as well, he said, “Our task is to seek out our common enemy before he realizes he is surrounded.”

“Surrounded?” She scanned the hillside, but the other riders had vanished.

With a muffled chuckle, he motioned for her to follow as he walked toward the village.

Melisande hesitated for the length of a single heartbeat. The temptation to flee must be ignored until she had her vengeance on those who had killed Geoffrey. She almost laughed at her own silliness. If she walked in any direction but toward the village, Gabriel would halt her.

Her back was slick with perspiration by the time they reached the thin shadows of the building at the edge of the village. She yearned for a breath that was not soured with heat.

Up close, the buildings showed signs of neglect and a beating by the winds. She had not guessed a successful bandit would live so poorly.

“Appearances can hide the truth, milady,” Gabriel said, warning her how easily he could gauge her thoughts even when she was cloaked in this black wool. “Our prey lives like a Frankish lord with what he has gained by treachery and death.”

Images of Lord Vaudrey's glorious house, which was not appropriate for a man who had taken the vow of the Cross, filled her mind. Did Abd al Qadir live as well?

A dog leaped out of the shadows. With a cry, she jumped back from its bared teeth.

Gabriel snapped an order at the dog. It watched them closely, but did not attack again. Taking her by the arm, he led her around the closest building. He paused by a closed door. With a chuckle, he picked up a jar that once might have been painted. Now it was the same color as the dust.

“You'll need this,” he said.

She took the clay jar he handed her. Peering into it, she saw nothing.

“It's a water jar,” he explained impatiently.

Wishing he could see her frown, she nodded. She could tell him that he would be as uncertain of the most commonplace things if he found himself in her familiar world of Heathwyre. “Why do I need it?”

“You must appear to be one of the village women.” His lips became taut. “Keep your eyes lowered, for no woman of the East has eyes the color of yours.”

“You want me to go among the women? Why? I cannot understand a word they speak, so how can I learn anything about Abd—”

His eyes slitted as he growled, “Watch what you say, milady. You will betray us before we have begun.”

“I will not betray us.” She strode around the building. Let this begin so it would be over sooner. Then she would put an end to this absurd alliance and not have to listen to Gabriel's endless orders.

She faltered as she stared at a scene that could have been plucked from Heathwyre. Save for the
tcharchafs
and the odd mountains in the distance, this resembled a morning at her father's manor house, the serving maids chattering together as they gathered to prepare the first meals of the day.

These women spoke lightheartedly as they drew water from the well. A shove in her back forced her feet forward. She fought not to glower at Gabriel. He should remember that she was his ally, not his slave.

Balancing the water jar on her hip as the other women did, she walked to the well. Beside her, Gabriel was silent. Her words could betray them, but he spoke the language of this land.

He scanned the buildings around them. Did he expect to see his enemy at one of the few windows? When his eyes narrowed, crinkling his skin, she knew he was smiling with satisfaction. What had he seen? A furtive motion on a rooftop, she realized. His men must have reached the village, too, and were ready for the attack.

“Do not loiter here, milady,” Gabriel said softly. “Join the others.”

She stared at him, shocked that he risked speaking Frankish here where they might be overheard. Then, she realized he would chance anything to halt his enemy.
Just anything, or would he risk anyone
? That was another thought she wished she could ignore.

Again she wanted to ask why he had insisted that she walk among the women. She bit back her question as a woman strolled past them. Even though the woman's face was completely veiled, her steps slowed and her hips swayed as she passed Gabriel.

Melisande could only stare. She had not guessed a woman could eye a man even when he could not see her eyes.

She nodded when Gabriel glanced from her to the other women in a silent command. Taking a breath, she could not hold it. Her heart thudded against her chest like a siege machine against a manor's wall.

Melisande walked to the center of the common area that was as dusty as the surrounding plain. The only plants were shriveled in a pot by an open door. Listening to the women, she waited her turn to fill her water jar. She wished she could understand a single word, but their conversation made no more sense in her ears than the cry of the birds circling overhead.

The women glanced at her as she stepped forward to pour water into the jar. They continued talking. As Melisande finished filling the jar, she wondered what she should do next. If Gabriel had just told her a bit more, she—

A woman screamed. She pulled Melisande's
tcharchaf
back off her head. The water jar shattered in the dirt as Melisande whirled and groped for the material. It was too late. Her heavy braid slapped her shoulder, its color destroying her disguise.

The women stared at her, frozen with astonishment. Another one shrieked when Melisande pulled her sword.

“Gabriel, I—” She pushed aside the fabric over her head and looked around. Where was he?

Men flowed out of the surrounding houses as more women screamed and fled. Suddenly there were warriors everywhere. She had no idea which were allies and which were hill bandits. They all wore the same white robes. Holding her sword at the ready, she edged away from the well. She must find Gabriel. His plan might already be doomed.

Someone shouted behind her. Her arm was seized. She jerked it away and spun to face a man whose face was scarred from past battles. She balanced herself lightly as she raised her sword.

He met her sword with a blow that ached through her. Gripping the hilt with two hands, she raised it again. Her fingers stung when he knocked it aside. With a vicious swing, he sent her sword flying across the dirt.

She took a deep breath to scream for help. But who would heed her cry? Gabriel had abandoned her.

The man grabbed her braid and pulled her closer.

“No!” she cried. She kicked at him, but the
tcharchaf
had twisted around her legs. Curse Gabriel! She should never have trusted him. She should—

She screamed again when the bandit sliced her black wool sleeve with his sword. Pain pierced her upper arm.

She tried to run, but he caught her wide sleeve. Shoving her against a hard mud wall beneath a line of laundry, he laughed before pressing his mouth over hers. She clawed at him.

His fingers twisted in her hair as he ripped aside the rest of her
tcharchaf
. He tried to tear her gown away. Fighting him, she stiffened when he pulled a short blade.

Her hand whipped up. Years of trying to keep Geoffrey from pummeling her when they played roughly as children gave her the strength to knock the knife away. She squirmed from beneath him as he stared at her in shock, clearly not having expected her defiance.

He pushed past her to get the knife. She fought her way to her feet and grabbed her sword. Whirling, she thrust it. As he fell facedown on the ground, she collapsed, the line of laundry falling over her.

She did not release her sword. Her fingers were frozen around its hilt. Shouts came from the edge of the village. She did not look up. She did not want to see more death.

Pain seared her arm. Tearing a cloth from the line, she wrapped it around her bleeding arm.

She had to get out of here. Somehow she had to return to Tyre. Despair threatened to choke her. With Geoffrey and the knights of Heathwyre, she had traveled more than a day by horseback to reach the cliffs where Abd al Qadir had attacked. Somehow she would find her way back to resume her duties as a Hospitaller.

A shadow slid over her. She tightened her hold on her sword. Agony seared her arm. Could she heft her sword? She must.

When a finger tipped back her chin, she breathed, “Gabriel! Where did you go?”

“Not far.” He drew her up into his arms. His kiss was slow and hard as if he were trying to persuade himself that she was still alive. As his arm curved around her, slanting her across his chest, his mouth slipped along her face before his tongue caressed her ear. She grasped the front of his robes, but could not keep her arms from gliding around his shoulders. She shivered as the fire of his touch diminished even the escalating heat of the day. The whisper of his name lured his mouth back to hers, and she swept her fingers up into his hair, wanting the kiss to last and last. His arm tightened around her, and she gasped against his lips when he pressed her even more tightly to his strong chest.

“Come with me, milady,” he ordered as he raised his head. “It is time to leave this place.”

Melisande nodded as she looked past him. Most of the village was empty. A few shouts came from beyond the buildings, but around the well lay several corpses. She wondered which one was the hill bandit's leader.

She winced as she shifted her right arm. The pain that she had not noticed while in Gabriel's embrace had returned doubly strong. Looking at the horse she had ridden to this village, she hoped she would be able to control it. Again she winced, but not with pain. Would Gabriel grant her the use of the horse to return to Tyre?

He pulled her closer again as a man came around the edge of the building. When she reached for her sword, he put his hand on her wrist. “It is Shakir, milady.”

Melisande nodded as she recognized the short man who had led Gabriel's band on a different route to the village. Gritting her teeth, she was able to hide her pain as even the slight pressure of Gabriel's fingers on her wrist sent agony erupting up her arm.

He called something in his language. From every shadow came his men, some splattered with blood, others bleeding. No one spoke as the man he called Shakir walked toward them.

“Abd al Qadir?” asked Gabriel.

“He is not among the dead,” Shakir replied. He scowled at her. “Your plan to use this woman to tempt him from his lair has failed.”

Melisande twisted out of Gabriel's arms. She stared at Shakir. He spoke Frankish! Her astonishment became fury when his words oozed past her terror.

“You used me as bait!” she gasped. “To lure out your enemy.”

Gabriel's face became as emotionless as the hills. “Abd al Qadir let you live once, so I thought he would be intrigued with the chance to claim you again.”

“I could have been killed.”

“I had not guessed,” he said, turning to Shakir as if she had vanished, “that one of his men would dare to do more than take her to him.”

“And if he had,” she cried, refusing to be ignored, “you could have followed and killed Abd al Qadir. How long would you have waited to see if he would take me to the hill bandit? Until he was done attacking me?” She used the flat of her sword to push Shakir aside. Paying no attention to his curse, she said, “This alliance is dissolved now, Gabriel. I was a fool to believe your word had any value.”

His arm around her waist tugged her back to him. “You were a fool, Melisande, to believe this alliance had any value. I needed your cooperation in my efforts to stop Abd al Qadir from preying on the villages that seek my protection. Offering you what you wanted might have gotten me what I wanted, but this attempt to force the beast from his lair failed.” His gaze slipped along her. “Mayhap Abd al Qadir was not as fascinated with you as I had suspected.”

“You need not insult me more. Release me. We are no longer allies.”

A smile uncurled along his lips. “We never were allies. You are my captive.”

“I am not your captive.” She tried to break his hold on her, but his arm tightened, pressing her to the breadth of his chest. “I will heed no more of your lies.”

His hand cupped her chin, tilting her face back so she could not escape the ebony intensity of his eyes. “I am not lying, Melisande. You are now, as you have been from the moment you woke in my tent, my prisoner.”

FIVE

Gabriel listened in silence. His men were furious that Abd al Qadir had eluded them again. They had been so certain that, this time, the hill bandit would pay for his crimes with his life. Instead, Abd al Qadir was still alive and free.

Standing, he walked away from the fire that offered a bit of heat against the thickening darkness. He did not slow until he was beyond its light, so only the cool river of moonlight outlined the crags of a nearby cliff. Pushing his way into the tent, he saw the old woman was asleep in one corner. He tiptoed past her as he crossed to where Melisande also was asleep.

Her face was contorted in the dim light, and her arm flung out. Her fingers were closed in a fist. Squatting beside her, he could not halt his own fingers from gathering up some strands of her soft hair, which was such an incredible color. She mumbled in her sleep. Her brother's name.