A Flame Run Wild (24 page)

"Am I?" Liliane laughed faintly. "I cannot imagine why." Desire for Alexandre and the fear she had been fighting for the last few days were welling up together. In a moment, she thought she might become hysterical.

"I have never seen you afraid before," he whispered, unwinding her
haik
and casting it aside. Finding the tension at the base of her skull, his hand massaged the back of her neck until the muscles began to unknot. "But, then"—his voice was warm and caressing—"I cannot see you at all . . . just feel . . ." His hands slid down her back to the curve at her waist, the swell of her bottom. His tongue lightly teased her mouth, probing her lips. Her head slipped back as she began to forget rear, forget everything but his sensual invasion.

In her mind, a unicorn and leopard circled, brushed each other. The leopard's coat was warm, rough; the unicorn's neck arched, its mane blown silkily over the leopard's back.

The hot night air touched her skin as her aba slipped away. Alexandre's hands were light and tantalizing as he softly traced her bare breasts, her belly, moving lower. Then his mouth was upon her, seeking the night flowers of her nipples, bringing forth exquisite pleasure, then trailing lower to her navel, over the curve of her belly to her thighs' joining. When he found her, her fingers dug into his hair, knotted as she arched, shuddered with a silent cry.

The crescent moon whirled about her, sweeping her high and swift until her legs melted from beneath her and she was spilled onto soft furs and silent rugs. Alexandre's clothing whispered about her, then he was bare and upon her, his mouth sweetly ravaging, his skin gliding over her body, the hot hardness of him strong and high. The silence seemed breathless as he poised, then he entered her, joining them with the pulsing, velvet heat of his claiming. Without hesitation, Liliane arched her body, opened her thighs to ease the ache, only to feel him go deeper. His thighs shifted, opening her impossibly. Deeper he pressed until she moaned against his mouth. Her hips moved so slowly, almost invisibly, the shaft of his sex touching, pricking from her whimpers of unbearable need. His muscles were rigid, his heartbeat heavy against her breast.

The dangers they had run that night acted upon them like an aphrodisiac. The stillness of him within her against the clamor outside the tent gave her a heady feeling of safety and euphoria. Surrounded by running, swearing, fearful men, they were alone, joined together as a single, insistent heartbeat, barricaded against the chaos outside, leaving a living, breathless silence within.

Then his hands slipped beneath her, lifting her, moving her upon him until the burning ache changed to an ecstatic throb. His body tensed, flexing as his hips moved in seductive undulation. Liliane held him closer, offering herself entirely. With a low cry of triumph, he thrust into her, closing her buttocks against his surge, tightening her to increase the wild sensation. Fiercely she met his thrust, wrapped about him, lifting with him, taking him as he took her.

Their mating was primitive, centered, as explosive as the emotions that had soaked the land beneath them in conflict for countless centuries. This was a private war, a private passion. Sweat sheened their bodies, and they reached the pinnacle in a flash of white light and a crash of brazen cymbals that sent unending ripples shivering across their night.

They clung together, listening to the running footsteps and voices in the distance. "We are conspirators now," Liliane breathed, "between two armies." She caressed his face lightly, probing his mouth with her fingers. "Alexandre, my Alexandre, I would not sleep, but lie lustful and melt thy heart and loins until the dew of dawn is but a distant scattering of their cooling fine." She rolled over to lie upon him, then kissed his chest and throat, her hair falling about his face. "I have longed for thee beyond imagining, yet you conjure me to the height of that dreaming with the ease of a genie."

Alexandre laughed softly. "Poor genie. His conjuring is spent, in pursuit of his enchantress. He would love her foolishly even if she were to pack him in a bottle." His lips teased hers. "Tell me, temptress, how may I persuade thee to open the bottle every eon or so, that I may please thee and sate my longing?"

Liliane smiled bewitchingly. "Oh, I will need no persuasion. And as for eons, 1 shall unstop the bottle each night . . . so . . " Her hair trailed to his groin, her tongue lightly flicking the warm, still moist tip of him. As he caught his breath in startled delight, she whispered before continuing her tender torments, "Thy pleasure will be mine."

Chapter 10

~

Among The Lions

Acre

Next morning

D
awn came early for the lovers who had wasted little of the night in sleep. With smudged eyes and dazed smiles, they answered the morning call to arms, but not before Liliane received a firm lecture on the preservation of her neck. As the day wore on, she discovered that safety generally entailed being steeped in boredom. As her crossbow's quarrels would not carry to the city rampart, and defenders within the sapper tunnels rarely spilled into the open, she had no targets. To boot, Alexandre would not allow her near the front, assigning her to a huge Poitevin sergeant who seemed capable of snapping the necks of any three fools who might assail her. She also discovered that the sergeant, whose nickname was Turko, was a good deal brighter than he looked. Although he wasted none of his sagacity in conversation, he missed nothing that went on around them and snapped orders to his charges as if he had eyes in the back of his head.

As the day's heat and dust mounted, the scaling ladders fell and siege engines repeatedly broke down. Liliane's frustration rose. She had not come to Acre to be mollycoddled by a gorilla. Louis was stationed closer to Alexandre than she!

Noting a pair of trollops dispensing water among the men, she directed Turko's attention to the girls and ventured a ribald jest. His stare fixed on the wenches, he grunted. Liliane quickly slipped over the rear embankment, but seconds later, a hammy hand descended up on her neck. "I am to be with Count Alexandre," she protested warmly. "
Melek
Philip himself assigned me mere!"

Unimpressed, Turko shrugged. "Count Alexandre assigned you here. In the army, you obey. If you don't, you get people killed. Maybe you first!" His steady, beady gaze told her just how her demise might be accomplished should she err again.

Reluctantly, Liliane had to admit that Turko was right. She owed a responsibility not just to Alexandre, but to the men with whom he fought. Turko might have been shot coming after her, and had the Saracens mounted a rear attack just then, she would not have been in place to hold them off.

For several weeks thereafter, Liliane endured heat, monotony and ugliness. While no further assaults were made by Signe assassins, she was no less wary. The Christians were civil but made no pretense of trusting her any more than did Alexandre's castellans. Alexandre cut his social engagements to a minimum and saw only Philip and friends. Since he always took Liliane with him unless he was seeing Philip or another noble who had known her in France, invitations declined. These Christians were her own kind by blood, but Liliane became as increasingly alienated from them as they were from her. In all respects save birth, she became a Moor. Her only loyalty to the crusaders was tied to Alexandre. She was careful to make no mistakes, remaining obedient. And she kept a hawk's eye on Louis.

Louis was a good fighter, reliable, not flashy, but he took orders with a grim lack of expression that suggested he was biding his time. He had inherited a good bit of Jacques's patience. I could learn from Louis and Jacques, Liliane decided at length. Everyone's patience was tried. Richard had not arrived, and rumor was that he was still hashing heads in Cyprus. Richard could never resist a fight. She wondered if his love of war would not one day prove his undoing.

Only Philip seemed unperturbed by Richard's delay. He was content to conduct the rudiments of a siege without making a concerted attack. Guy fumed against Philip's indifferent tactics. He wanted Acre taken and an end put to the sweaty tedium.

Alexandre did not complain, but in the evenings when they were alone together, Liliane saw the lines of weariness about his eyes, the grim tension and disenchantment. For appearance's sake, he had caused a tent for her to be set up next to his own.

Hidden flaps were stitched in the sides so that with a deft flick, they might enter each other's quarters unseen and visit privately.

At those times, Liliane gave herself completely to Alexandre's comfort. She made sure that any delicacies and good wines she could find in the market were placed before him at their evening meal. Usually she contrived to arrive at the tent before him to make certain that water was heated for his bath and oils readied for his massage. Save that she dared not wear women's garb for fear of discovery, she created a haven of peace and beauty for him in the midst of war. When the camp was silent, he came to her in her own tent. Her own limbs were bathed in scented water and oiled beneath his hands before quietly, fiercely, he made love to her.

In July, Richard arrived victorious from Cyprus, and all Acre
heard the Red Lion's roar. "God's wounds, are we fighting a war
here or drooling gruel!" With his legendary energy, he assembled new crews of sappers to tunnel under the Accursed Tower
to either penetrate or collapse it. Contemptuously, he dismissed
Philip's prized siege engines as lumbering woodpiles and set his
engineers to build new ones'. At dawn's first-light, he was striding
around the siege ditches in foil sight of Acre's archers, rearranging troops and inspiring them to feats of glory. And glory he
got. Within a week, Acre's walls were cratered from collapsing
rock and the Christian assaults had tripled. Covered with blood,
trench-digging sappers boiled out of tunnels ahead of Moorish
raiders, only to wheel and return like ferrets after rats into their
dark holes.

"Richard is a genius, is he not?" commented Liliane one evening to Alexandre. "The men adore him. He has to break Acre if he keeps this up."

Alexandre stretched out on the pillows. "Oh, Richard will press Acre hard, but Saladin is no fool. He has the patience and foresight Richard often lacks. Richard gives not a damn for next year; he can barely keep his interest in next week. England's future, the succession, is all negotiable, so long as he can enjoy the thrill of the chase."

"But what does he chase, if not power?"

"Personal glory, like a posy in his cap," Alexandre replied wryly. "Richard will get the glory and his brother John the curses for the mess Richard will leave behind him."

"How strange that a man can be so strong and so weak at the same time," she murmured. "I wonder what Philip is after?"

"Whatever it is, he will likely get it." He pulled her down to the pillows. "Now, Delilah, about this weakness in men ..."

With a soft laugh, Liliane fingered his hair. "Your curls are becoming a bit long. Shall I trim them with my teeth?" Her lips drifted close.

"Will it hurt?" he teased.

"Oh, noooo." The last was a slow breath in his ear. "I shall think of something to distract you."

"For instance?"

"This." Her tongue flicked his inner ear. He squirmed slightly. "Restless, Samson?" Her fingers trailed up the inside of his thigh, and a slow grin widened on his face. He opened his legs invitingly. "I am yours to distract."

Straddling his open knees, she took a maddeningly long time to unfasten his braies. "They say Delilah sat addled while the temple crashed about her ears," she purred, gazing sloe-eyed at his rousing manhood. "What could she have been thinking of?" Feeling his muscles tremor, she trailed a finger about his groin. "I mean, a hero who slew so many Philistines with the jawbone of an ass, what could Samson have done to one delicate little courtesan?"

Her caresses grew more intimate, and Alexandre was soon gripping the sides of his camp stool. She lazily slipped off his chainse and began to tease his nipples with her tongue. In moments, he grasped her bottom and pressed her firmly down upon him.

Her bare feet levering against the rug, she moved on him, still tantalizing him with adroit nuzzles and pauses that were both delightful and maddening. Leaning forward, she let her breasts and hair tease his chest, her hands caressing him where he had entered her. With a harsh breath, he surged up within her, startling her with the raw, ripe power of him. He held her close down on him, inescapably captured, pinioned on his virility.

Victorious now, he brought her to eager submission. Liliane flowed with his driving movement, burning with it, melting with him until their bodies were incandescent, nonexistent but for the ancient, ringing pleasure. Wild, mystical music filled their skulls and senses, vibrating, humming until the piercing vibrato passed sound, whitened and obliterated.

Liliane was scarcely aware when Alexandre later carried her to the pallet and held her close against him. She shivered.

"What is it, sweet? What is wrong?" he whispered. When she did not answer, he stroked her neck. "You are very serious. I wonder if Delilah was so serious with Samson."

"At the end," Liliane replied pensively, "I mink she must have been, unless she was heartless altogether. Did she know what her betrayal would cost him? What did she feel when she saw him blinded?"

He laughed. "If you keep to this beat, I shall think you are feeling guilty about something."

Liliane settled on his chest. "Not yet." Suddenly she smiled oddly. "Have you not noticed how well behaved I have been of late?"

"That is what worries me." He ruffled her hair. " 'Tis so highly unnatural, that I am beginning to stay awake at night."

She laughed softly. "Well, then, shall I do something wonderfully natural that will persuade you to sleep like a baby?"

His teeth flashed in the dark. "You are not contemplating a lullaby, I suppose."

Her tongue insinuated itself m his ear, then trailed to his mouth. "Not quite," she whispered. "I was thinking more of a duet. A few high notes"—she kissed him lingeringly, her fingers playing lightly, flutelike, across his groin— "and a few low, long, slow notes. ..."

There was a long, luxurious silence, men a started cry of pleasure from Liliane. "Hush, now" came a lazy drawl from the darkness, "Baby has a few variations of his own."