No Price Too High (9 page)

Suddenly several women surged forward to grasp at her hair and examine her clothes. She slid along the wall. The whole world seemed filled with eagerly grasping fingers. Why had Gabriel imprisoned her here after agreeing to give her another choice?

A sharp voice halted the women. They backed away, and Melisande saw an elderly woman whose full body was emphasized by her pale-blue robes. Her ebony gaze settled on Melisande.

“You are welcome here,” she said in a lyrical voice. Her accent blurred her Frankish, but Melisande could understand her. “Come.” She turned, so sure of her power she did not wait to see if Melisande obeyed.

Melisande wondered if this woman was related to Gabriel. That would explain why her imperious attitude matched his.

“Thank you,” she whispered as they walked through a maze of rooms opening out from her bedchamber. She peered into several, but the pillows and low tables gave her no clue to how they were used. “I don't know what they wanted, but—”

“They wanted to find out if you were real, child,” she explained. “None of us has seen hair the color of yours. Some of them may fear you.”

“Why?”

“Your questions will be answered after you have a chance to remove the dirt of your travels. I understand your journey has brought you a very great distance.”

She nodded. “It has been months since I left England.”

The old woman looked at Melisande as if she had said she came from the clouds. “He told me you came from Tyre.”

“Yes,” she said quickly. This kind woman must have spoken with Gabriel. What else had he told her? Mayhap she knew of his plans for her. “We left for Acre from there, but we had been asea for months after I left England.”

“I don't know where England is, but Tyre is far from here. You must wish to clean yourself.”

The idea was so enticing, Melisande sighed in anticipation. For the moment, she would forget how distant Tyre was and how impossible it would be for her to reach it now. The oils the old woman in the tent had given her now made her skin feel as if lard had been rubbed into it.

Reaching for a curtain in a doorway, the woman asked, “What is your name?”

“Melisande Chapeleine, daughter of the Earl of Heathwyre.”

A smile deepened her wrinkles. “A fair name for a fair lady. I am Lysias, the mother of the
shaykh
.”

“Mother?”

“Come. Your bath grows cold waiting for you.”

Anything cool appealed to Melisande. As she entered the room, her mouth grew as round as her eyes. The roof, set so far above her head, seemed to fade in the distance. Tiles and engraved wood created a soothing pattern of greens, golds, and dark brown to remind her of a greenwood. Homesickness struck her.

England was a lifetime away. Someone else's lifetime, for, as she stood at the edge of a white trough, she was sure Melisande, the daughter of the Earl of Heathwyre, could not truly be in a
harim
somewhere in the Holy Land.

Lysias's voice freed her from the morass of anguish. “The water grows cold, Melisande.”

Nodding, she undid the sash holding her gown and pushed the sweat-soaked gown to the floor. When Lysias did not move, Melisande pulled off her linen underdress. “Thank you,” she said when Lysias collected the soiled clothes. She had not expected the old woman to act as her handmaiden.

“Enjoy your bath.”

Melisande stepped into the water, allowing it to embrace her, and she sighed with delight. Relaxing in its warmth, she closed her eyes and pretended she was in Heathwyre, enjoying a bath before the hearth.

She watched the water flow along her uplifted arm, then winced as it brushed the wound Shakir had bandaged. Pulling off the material, she was astonished to see how it was already beginning to heal. She shivered. This was another reminder of how far she was from everything she had known. She would find her way home somehow. Father would pay Gabriel what he asked for.

Lysias interrupted her musings by pressing a bottle into her hand. “So you may wash your hair.”

“Thank you.”

“I will be back. Let me find you something fresh to wear.”

Before Melisande could thank her again, Lysias had disappeared through another door. She opened the bottle and breathed in the fragrance. She wet her hair. Lathering it, she loosened the dirt. The scent rose to fill the room with the memory of summers in her mother's favorite garden.

She rinsed her hair. If she allowed the luxuries here to lure her into forgetting the reason why she was in the Holy Land, she would never escape. Her scalp tingled as she rubbed it with frustration. So many things she wanted to ask Gabriel, but she did not know when she would see him again.

The curtains moved at the far end of the room. A man entered the bathing chamber. She searched for something with which to cover herself, but nothing waited on the damp tiles. Crouching deeper in the water did not help.

He spoke in Frankish. “Milady, you fear needlessly.” Pressing his palms to his forehead, he bowed. His embroidered weskit drooped toward the floor to reveal the firm muscles of his smooth chest.

She stared at him. She had never seen a man so bald or so dark-skinned.

“I would not be here if I had not been sent to assist you,” he said. “Come, for I have oils to perfume your skin.”

Melisande hesitated, then a female servant appeared with a thin blanket to wrap around her dripping hair. She whispered her gratitude, but pulling the towel off her head, wrapped it around her.

The servant exchanged a puzzled glance with the man. He signaled her away. She put her hands to her forehead and bowed before backing from the room.

The man motioned toward a low table. When Melisande did not move, he murmured, “Milady, if you please?”

“Why?”

Lysias entered the bathing room and smiled. “Come, child,” she urged gently. “I have been told your ways are different from ours, but Karim Pasa shall do you no harm, even if he were capable.”

Melisande slowly understood what those few words meant. For the first time, she noted that not only was his head bald, but his cheeks were unbearded. He must be a eunuch.

“I—I—” She was unsure how to reply.

Lysias crossed the room. “Come, child,” she repeated. “Let Karim Pasa do what he can to show you the hospitality of
Mukhdarr
.”

Warily, she followed the old woman to the table. She climbed onto the table, which was padded with more thin blankets. She braided her hair again at his instructions.

His strong hands pushed gently on her shoulders to show her that he wished her to lie on her stomach. “If you will loosen the towel, milady.”

Melisande kept the towel close to her breasts but let it droop along her back. “This should do.”

“As you wish.”

She was grateful for his acquiescence. The scent of roses surrounded her as he poured some of the oil into his palms. She flinched, but said nothing as he began to rub fragrant oils into her skin.

Resting her cheek on her folded arms, she closed her eyes as his hands eased the tightness from her shoulder blades. In spite of herself, she relaxed against the blankets. The slow, deep kneading eased the tension from her shoulders which had been stiff with fear since she had left Tyre.

“Thank you,” Lysias said. When Melisande raised her head to see whom Lysias spoke to, she chided, “Enjoy Karim Pasa's ministrations. It is simply a servant bringing clothes for you.”

“Clothes?” Her shoulders grew taut again. Ignoring Karim Pasa's tongue clicking in dismay, she shook her head. “I can't wear as little as those other women wear.”

Lysias laughed and motioned to Karim Pasa. He put his hand on Melisande's shoulders, pressing her down to the table again.

“The clothing will please you,” the old woman said. “We wish you to be happy here.”

“I am a prisoner. I—”

“You are the
shaykh's
prisoner. You are
my
guest.”

Melisande almost smiled. Gabriel's mother shared his stubborn streak which brooked no debate on each of his edicts.

Resting her cheek against the soft sheeting, she closed her eyes as Karim Pasa rubbed the lushly scented oils into her skin. It tingled, but not unpleasantly.

He spoke with Lysias in their language. Their voices faded as she let the music of the fountains send her drifting on their light melodies. The aroma of the oil became sweeter, and she guessed Karim Pasa had chosen another of the bottles on his table. The tingle on her shoulder blades became a furious throb. What sort of oil sent this incredible warmth to her very toes? She considered asking, but the stroke of broad hands down her back was too luscious to halt.

She sighed with pleasure as his hands slid from her shoulders to her waist. This was even more heavenly than when he had begun. Had he warmed his hands and the oil? Her skin sizzled in the wake of his touch.

Her sigh became a gasp when his finger brushed oil along her ear. A quiver scored her. Raising her head, she asked, “Karim Pasa, what—” She looked over her shoulder. “Gabriel!”

His eyes blazed as his fingers had on her bare skin. With a hushed laugh, he grasped her shoulders and reclined her faceup onto the table. He leaned over her, his loosened hair falling forward, grazing her skin.

He did not speak while his hands caressed her shoulders. Again the flame coursed to her depths. His gaze held hers as his fingers spiraled along her toward where the sheet covered her breasts. When she put her hands over his, pinning them to her as she halted them, he smiled in the moment before his lips lowered. When they touched the pulse at the curve of her neck, she pulled away.

“What are you doing here?” She sat and held the blanket close to her. A quick glance told her that Lysias and Karim Pasa were gone.

“I wished to be certain you were quite comfortable here.” He twisted her hair around his finger. “I have never seen you look so comfortable as when you were here beneath my fingers.”

“You deceived me. You told me you would not imprison me in your
harim
.”

“You have your own rooms.”

“My own rooms?”

He spread out his arms. “These are your rooms from here back to where your bedchamber is.” He bent toward her and murmured, “These are your rooms. Your very private rooms.”

She turned away. “This is still your
harim
.”

“What bothers you so, Melisande? That you are here or that it exists?” His finger trailed along her bare shoulder. “This is the way of the East.”

“But you're a
Franj
!” She whirled to face him. “You should not be living like this.”

“This is where I was born. This is my life.”

“It is not mine.”

“It is for now.”

She bit her lower lip, then whispered, “So, you truly intend to ask my father for a ransom for me?”

“Shakir believes your father will pay well for your safe return.” His eyes narrowed. “Very, very well.”

“He will.”

“That waits to be seen. For now, this is where you will stay.” He walked toward the arch that she had not noticed before and pushed aside the sheer fabric.

She rushed forward, still holding the blanket close to her. “Gabriel, be reasonable. I can't stay in your
harim
. For me to stay here would bring dishonor to my father's name.”

“This is where the women live.” He ran his finger along the top of the sheeting. “And you, milady, are most definitely a woman.”

“But my father—”

“You are not thinking of the earl now.” His fingertip rose to curl about her ear once more.

She hated that he was right. She could not think of the future when his touch was so enticing. Fascinated by the smile drifting along his lips, she watched as it climbed along the crags of his face to his eyes.

“And neither am I,” he whispered.

Before she could answer, his mouth caressed hers like the breeze touching the anemones in the garden. His arms cradled her against him as he explored her lips with unrestrained passion. When her fingers slipped along his back to his nape beneath his long hair, tingles flowed along her arm as the water had. A soft sigh of longing bubbled from her lips as he bent to sample the length of her neck.

Melisande pulled back with a cry as the blanket came loose between them. Gripping it so it did not fall away, she was not surprised when he grinned. She had spoken of shaming her father's name, then had surrendered to his kisses as if she were one of his eager slaves.

“Dress,” he said with a chuckle, “and have Karim Pasa bring you to me.”

“Where?”

“To where I shall talk with you.”

“Do you always speak in riddles?”

He caught her braid in his hand and tilted her face beneath his. “I must, for you seem unwilling to heed any of the truth between us.”

“There is no truth between us.”

“No?” He seared a kiss into her lips before releasing her.

She watched as he walked away through the arch, free—as she could no longer be.

SEVEN

“Would you like help dressing?” The falsely bright tone of Lysias's voice warned Melisande that she had been listening at the door. “I know our clothes must be as strange to you as everything else is.”

“I don't understand,” she whispered, still staring at the curtains that waved behind Gabriel.

“What don't you understand? Mayhap I can explain.”

With a wry smile, she sighed. “I don't understand him.”

“The
shaykh
?” Lysias's laugh became more genuine. “He is a man. Women are not meant to understand men. Isn't that correct, Karim Pasa?”

He went to the table and put stoppers in the bottles of oil. “That is so.”

Melisande shook her head. “I have never failed to understand men before. My father explained himself clearly. His thoughts were always of the honor of his obligations to the manor and the king. My brother—” Her voice cracked, and she blinked back tears. “I never had trouble knowing what was on Geoffrey's mind.”