The Dark Crusader Page 4

  Rhoenne released him. Stepped back. “Did we post guards?”

  “Two.”

  “Add more. Rotate them. We will sleep in stages.”

  “You truly think he’ll come for her? Surely he’ll reason that she’d be ravished by now...and. Well. They call us infidels. To be killed on sight. We are still at war. We routed the sultan’s men, destroyed his home. He may na’ give chase...unless he is in love. That is a possibility. There is much a love-struck man will do. He will even kill—! Oh. Blast my tongue! You said I would be flailed alive, or face banishment if I—.”

  Henry cut his words off. Rhoenne was breathing hard. That was one indicator of emotion. The tight fists he’d made were the other. Henry looked at him, then down at his half-eaten meal. Back up to Rhoenne.

  “I should...go back to the others,” Henry offered.

  “Too late,” Rhoenne replied.

  Henry swallowed. “Forgive me. Again. I have rarely had my own tongue so betray me. Do you wish to carve on me now? Or...later?”

  “Neither, if you cease the buffoonery.”

  “Verra well. You wish complete seriousness this morn? All I can infer is the woman has bitterness to her features and a tongue to match. You say she is a treasure. I shall have to bow to your judgment. It must be true. Otherwise, why would you worry? You truly believe the sultan will come for her?”

  “She is na’ the treasure. She had a treasure. That is why he will come for her. He may be on our trail already.”

  “Grant went that direction. He’ll send warning.”

  “Good thinking.” Rhoenne gave a shadow of a smile.

  “This treasure? ’Tis vast?” Henry asked.

  Rhoenne nodded.

  “How vast?”

  Rhoenne tipped his head, considering. “Enough to leave without these wares and these wagons and most of the horses.”

  “Leave it? All of it?” Henry’s brows rose.

  “Aye.”

  “The mercenaries may balk.”

  “We do na’ need them. Gift it to them.”

  “We are going home?”

  “Aye.”

  “Thank the Father! And the Son! And the Holy Mother, Mary!”

  “Inform me when Euan and Grant return. We move as soon as they report. Tell the clan. Be subtle.”

  “So now I am unsubtle? I suppose I deserve that. First a buffoon, and now loose-lipped.”

  Rhoenne regarded his man for long moments again. Henry finally relented, and looked away first. “Oh. Verra well. I shall attempt subterfuge. ’Tis that vast? This treasure she has?”

  “Aye.”

  “May I see it?”

  Rhoenne shook his head.

  “Because of the woman who wears it?”

  “She nae longer has it.”

  “You took it?”

  Rhoenne shrugged. “I have it, yes.”

  “She just gave it to you? Ah! My faith is restored. I knew you had a tale for me.”

  “Not much of one. I threatened her with the eunuch.”

  “I see. You used your ‘heartless Dark One’ pose.”

  “’Tis nae pose.”

  “You forget. I have known you since childhood, Rhoenne.”

  “I do na’ recall childhood.”

  Their glances met again. Henry broke eye contact first. Cleared his throat.

  “Fair enough. I forfeit. I shall cease pondering the vagaries of fortune while recalculating our journey.”

  “Try getting some rest, as well,” Rhoenne said.

  “Will we be taking the woman with us?”

  Rhoenne’s breathing stopped. He regarded his tent for long moments, while his heartbeat grew loud in his ears. Taking her with him was problematic. Leaving her or the eunuch was unmerciful. The mercenaries weren’t a chivalrous lot. There wasn’t one among them he’d trust.

  “Afore you remonstrate with me, I have a reason for my query. Does she ride? Will she require assist? How about her man? I will need to make allowances and add time to my assessment.”

  “I am na’ decided.”

  “Would you like an assist with the decision?” Henry asked.

  “I believe I need another bread bowl. With porridge. Salted.”

  “Another?”

  “’Tis for her.”

  “Are you perchance requesting...that I fetch it for her?”

  “Rouse her man. ’Twill be simpler.”

  “Simpler?”

  “The last thing I wish is anyone to think I am open to sharing. You ken?”

  “Wise words, my liege,” Henry replied. “Verra wise.”

  Strange.

  He felt a lot of things. None of them was wise.

  Chapter Five

  The woman was perched atop the wooden chest, elbows on her thighs to support her face in her hands...a picture of abject misery and complete defenselessness. She didn’t look up at his entrance, not even when he’d reached the center of his tent and stood looking down at her. Rhoenne regarded her for several moments while the weight in his belly didn’t even shift, despite her obvious attractions.

  She hadn’t taken the time to cover herself. She could have used the mass of multi-hued fabric that swathed her lower legs, his discarded cloak, or she could don a spare shirt from his trunk. He knew she’d rifled it. That begged the question of why she sat with so little covering. Her attire seemed crafted of mist. It skimmed every curve, making it impossible to avoid noting how womanly she was.

  Rhoenne regarded the picture she presented, pondering the reason behind it. This woman knew she was in the midst of a horde of armed men. Men, drunk on victory. Battle-hardened. Dangerous. Volatile. Yet here she sat, posed. Near-naked. Extremely vulnerable.

  Was she crazed, extremely foolish, ready and willing...or did she have plans to manipulate the situation? He decided on the latter. Her possession of the dagger cancelled out the first three. Rhoenne had enough experience with women to know they schemed and manipulated. She was probably a master at both...and she possessed additional skills that weren’t difficult to deduce given her previous status – harem woman. She could incite lust, foment passion...create sensual enticement. Rhoenne didn’t have any first-hand knowledge but just as Henry had remarked, he’d heard the tales, usually spoken after bouts of drinking, accompanied by a lot of lascivious gestures. This was an evil land, where a man could claim multiple women...all at once if he wished.

  All of that went through Rhoenne’s mind as he watched her at her pose. If any other man saw her like this, there would be trouble. Probably bloodshed. Most likely, that was her intent.

  Women!

  Rhoenne cursed the word. He’d been untruthful earlier with Henry. It was obvious. He definitely had woman trouble.

  Pinpricks of sunlight touched her, flecked throughout with the lazy floating of dust motes. The light turned streaks in her dark hair a burgundy shade. He hadn’t noted that earlier. Her hair was long. It looked thick, too. She wore it braided down her back. It ended on the rug floor behind her. He knew she was comely. Her hair only added to the sum total.

  He should probably alter his opinion. She was much closer to beautiful. Dark-haired, with fair, flawless skin. Despite being slight, she was perfectly formed. Extremely womanly. All of it easily discerned at the moment. None of that was odd. The Mamluk slave-king had his pick of women. The man obviously had a good eye.

  “Are you thirsty?” Rhoenne asked.

  She jerked, lifted her head, and speared him with an expression that cancelled out any thought of vulnerability. If she still possessed his dagger, several parts of his anatomy would be in danger. Her look promised it. Rhoenne’s lips twitched.

  “I asked if you thirst,” he repeated, and held out the tankard toward her.

  She licked cracked, dry-looking lips. “Water?” she asked.

  “Nae. Beer.”

  She made a face, but accepted the almost-full mug. Her hold was shaky, and the moment she had the drinking vessel to her lips, she was chugging liquid thirst
ily. He grabbed the bottom as he realized it.

  “Wait. Wait! You must sip it. An empty belly may...revolt.”

  She lowered the tankard slowly, met his eyes, and sent an effect akin to a lightning charge right through him. Rhoenne’s breath whooshed out, a high pitched note zinged through his skull, and – in spite of the impossibility – the ground shifted. Rhoenne swayed but caught it instantly. His legs bent, his right hand grabbed for his sword hilt. Every muscle went tense, every instinct alert and wary. He stayed in that position for uncountable moments, taut as a bowstring, ready to respond.

  Absolutely nothing happened.

  She regarded him throughout, her eyes wide. He wasn’t certain of her expression, but she no longer looked vulnerable, disdainful or remotely posed. She looked startled, even a bit alarmed. Her lips gapped. She breathed rapidly. The movement emphasized the size and shape of her barely-covered breasts. Rhoenne flushed as he realized it, attempted to avoid noticing, then tore his gaze away to make it a certainty. He blinked several times until the section of tent behind her head came into focus. He let go of her tankard. Stood. Pulled in a large breath that was audible.

  What – by the saints – had just happened?

  Rhoenne Ramhurst wasn’t one for flights of fancy. He didn’t waste time on whimsy or day-dreaming. Life was too short. Despite how the church preached, he didn’t believe in sorcery, the occult, or any of the dark arts.

  And he wasn’t about to start.

  Such nonsense was for the soft-minded and weak-willed. Rhoenne was the exact opposite.

  He’d heard the stories, however, tales of decadent potentates who kept paid sorcerers at their courts. They were rumored to deal in all manner of black magic arts, fortune-telling, alchemy, necromancy, and more. Was it possible he harbored such a woman? And she practiced on him?

  This easily?

  No.

  Rhoenne narrowed his eyes and glared at the porous texture of the tent wall. He didn’t believe in mysticism. He scoffed at the existence of banshees, poucahs, gobbe-shites, or any other mythical creature associated with his beloved Highlands. He sure as hell wasn’t going to accept such nonsense in a foreign land on enemy territory. There had to be a simple explanation. There always was. This one was easy to decipher.

  He needed rest.

  He’d delayed it far longer than he cared to reckon this time. The Dark One was said to be indefatigable. Tireless. He slept with his eyes open on occasion. He could go days without rest, and usually did. That alone could cause a man to feel a bit off-kilter, could even have him imagining a shift of the elements. Besides, nothing appeared changed. There was no swaying motion as if earth movement had occurred. No alarm sounded. No sounds emanated from outside that he could tell.

  Rhoenne concentrated. Listened to his breathing and the thumping of his heartbeat through his ears. Everything looked the same, even the dust motes filtering through the needle-fine bits of sunlight allowed through the weave of the tent walls.

  That settled it.

  He’d been too long without rest.

  That was one thing he could change. He reached over a shoulder and slipped a button loose on his cross-embroidered tunic.

  Cassandra watched the residue of foam wavering inside the mug she stared into. She didn’t know what had just happened, but she didn’t like it. If she couldn’t regard him with undying hatred, at least she could be indifferent. She’d spent years avoiding interaction with others. Hiding. She’d believed herself an expert at it. And one look into his intensely blue eyes, her wits not only deserted her, but every sense went haywire. By his own account, this man warred, and maimed, and raped, and plundered, and God alone knew what else. He’d threatened her. Stolen from her. One did not gaze love-struck into the eyes of a man like this, not even if he was fantastically handsome with an amazing shade of eye color.

  Oh, dearest God. Love- struck?

  Cassandra reeled inwardly. She hadn’t just thought that. Oh no. No. Never. She’d rather perish by her own hand. For that, she’d need the little dagger back, or something as deadly. He had other weapons. She’d just have to locate and pilfer another one. Cassandra took a sip of the brew as she considered. The mug was heavy. It took both hands to lift it, and one to hold it steady atop her knees between sips. She took another drink, lowered the tankard, and was just swallowing as his crucifix-bedecked tabard flitted through her view. She choked, starting a coughing fit.

  He didn’t seem to notice.

  She’d recovered and was wiping a forearm across her eyes as he bent to place the now-folded, blood-specked gray banner almost reverently on the floor rug, next to the mass of fabric at her feet. Cassandra dared a glance upward. He wore a blackened chain hauberk. A thick leather belt held his sword at his side. Several knives were stuck into the belt. She spotted her dagger. A thin strap of leather scored him from shoulder to hip, attached to the bag that held her pilfered jewelry. He removed his belt, wrapped it about his knives. Lowered it to the other side of his tunic just out of her reach. The bag was lifted over his head next, He wound the entire thing into a lumpy mass, and set it on the opposite side of his belt.

  She looked from the bag to him. Back to the bag.

  Hmm.

  Cassandra took another sip of beer. Resettled the mug on her knees. Looked back up. His hauberk had been made of smelted iron links, laced together, but it wasn’t much for cover. The weave was see-through, and the thing appeared molded to him. Chainmail clearly defined a very large and extremely fit male. Alarm sent shivers along her arms, across her shoulders, and right to the crests of her breasts. Nipples stirred into awareness against gauzy bodice material that felt thick and scratchy. All of it startling and completely unwelcome.

  Luckily, he wasn’t paying the slightest attention to her. His focus was on something well above her head as he lifted an arm and started opening metal hooks down his side, separating them by feel. His movements sent shadows across his chest, his upper arms, and his abdomen. Another rush of shivers flew over her skin, garnering the exact same result, and one addition. She could feel her cheeks warming.

  As if she blushed.

  Cassandra sent the order to ignore him and look elsewhere. She looked down at the mound of colorful material still encasing lower legs, moved her gaze to the items he’d placed beside it, his tabard, weapon-filled belt. The bag. Then to the bed-roll. The tent door was behind him. Her gaze slid quickly past, attempting to ignore the man obstructing the view. The samovar was next. And then she was back to the mass of palace curtain around her feet. It was useless. The tent was small, there wasn’t much to look at, and he took up most of the room. Aside from which, this Rhoenne was a truly stunning specimen. He eclipsed every male she’d rushed to the wall to peek at, point to, and then titter over. He even surpassed the eunuchs.

  Cassandra halted her own train of thought, instantly dismayed...and yet, who was to know? She had years of long, empty hours and nothing to fill them save her own thoughts. She’d observed the eunuchs often. Spent time assigning and debating attributes. That’s why she’d befriended Emin. He was one of the largest. Strongest. Most fit.

  Except when compared to this man.

  Cassandra swigged another mouthful of the beer, swallowing quickly. Her nose tickled, bringing an urge to sneeze. She barely held it back, but jerked with the motion, while a slight sputter betrayed her. She was being silly. She had some experience with observing large, fit males. Any reaction right now was odd, implausible, and completely senseless. This Rhoenne was just a man. He didn’t have any ability to affect her.

  He’s just a man, Cassandra.

  Her gaze went back to him. A flurry of goosebumps ran her skin, ending with the tightening of her nipples again. Another rush of heat hit her cheeks. All of it unbidden. Unwanted. Yet undeniable at the same time. There was something happening here, something that went beyond proximity to a handsome man with a fine physique. She’d never experienced anything like this. She didn’t know how to stop it. And then he
worsened it immeasurably with a deep breath that enlarged his chest, and flexed the chainmail.

  Cassandra quickly looked back to her drink. Lifted the mug. Took a large swallow. Another. She’d never imbibed beer before. She usually drank water, fruit juice, or tea. Sometimes coffee. But beer seemed innocuous. After all, it was the drink of the masses. Every non-Muslim outside the palace walls drank it - the poor, laborers, slaves, even the soldiers. It was extremely unpleasant at first, but the impression changed. She tilted the mug to get the last bit, pulled the empty tankard from her lips and held it in her hands. He’d warned beer might revolt in her belly? What a strange admonition. That was the farthest thing from what was happening. She felt slightly giddy, completely flexible, and all-over relaxed.

  “You ever drink beer afore?”

  His deep voice startled her. Cassandra slid off the trunk, but caught it with a hand to the tent wall. She wasn’t in time to stop a giggle. She slapped her free hand to her mouth while the mug settled into her lap.

  “Wondrous.”

  The word was hissed. Whatever he referred to, it didn’t sound wondrous, yet even that was funny. Sounds of merriment trickled from behind her hand as he plucked the tankard from her lap. She watched his lower legs move the two steps to the door. The flap of material lifted partway, allowing a flood of bright sunlight in. Her eyes narrowed in defense. Emin’s voice filtered through the opening.

  Emin.

  The eunuch mustn’t see her like this.

  It took a bit of effort, but Cassandra regained a seat, glancing down at thighs easily discerned through her skirt. Perhaps that was the meaning of his ‘wondrous’. She should change it. She brought skirt panels up from the sides, alternating them atop her thighs. That didn’t help much. She was still visible, and the design left her legs completely exposed. She smoothed the panels back out again. Now, she looked even more naked. She reached down for the wad of curtain, and everything rotated crazily. Cassandra gasped and sat upright, her heart pumping furiously, as she watched the view cease moving. She’d never felt so loose and uncontrolled. What a horrid realization. She laced her fingers together atop legs she pressed together. That helped a little. She turned her hands over and spread her fingers apart, noting traces of henna on her skin and nails. Her hands needed washing. All of her could use a bath. In a harem pool...