A Flame Run Wild (39 page)

Raschid resumed the attack. "Why an annulment? Surely a skewer to the offending giblets is much quicker."

She ignored his sarcasm. "Alexandre does not love me. At least, not as much as he thinks he does ... as much as he did. ..."

"Better and better. I ask for sense and you give me the maundering of a butterfly.'' He handed Kiki a date.

Liliane glared at him. "Will you let me talk, you infernal little tyrant?" And so she did, in a way she could not to Alexandre or any other living person. All her shredded hopes, and battered illusions came pouring out. She and Raschid had walked the edge of death together. He was her celibate lover, her child and caustic friend. By ingenuity, he had saved her life, and some lost part of her prayed that he might save her love.

Raschid listened in silence while their tea arrived and, untouched, turned stone-cold. "Give heed to me now," he said quietly at last. He told her of a man gone nearly mad for love of her, of his rigid fear at her bleeding, of his stark, stumbling terror that he would lose her. "If you would be done with your Frenchman, let him follow Philip on his next campaign for he will not return." He stood and patted her hand. "Think on it. Nothing is so hopeless as the first handful of dirt cast on the dead."

After he left her, Liliane did think—hard and long. Then she fastened Alexandre's earrings in her ears.

Alexandre was late in returning. When he did not find Liliane in the bedchamber, he went quickly out to the rooftop, only to find her pallet vacant as well. He looked around the roof, anxiety edging his voice. "Liliane?"

"Here, on the parapet," she called softly. "When the clouds uncover the moon again, you shall see me perched here like an owl waiting for mice."

"Ever the huntress," he murmured as he noted her dim silhouette against the night sky. He went to the parapet and sat down a little distance from her.

"Come closer," she whispered. "Louis is having the villa watched. See, a beggar with little possibility of clients is a little way down the street. For a blind man, he stares this way a great deal."

Alexandre took a place beside her. Her nearness made him sick with a loss that no wine in the Acre inns had been able to' assuage. He had not the heart for getting drunk, so he had sat quietly on a street corner, much as yonder false beggar, and watched the flow of crowds, the stream of resurgent life through the city. He felt apart from humanity these days; even Liliane's return had not altered his detachment. Today, he had wanted to reach out to someone—some stranger filled with vitality, some brightly dressed child, and talk of inconsequential things, complain of the price of mutton, admire a toy. He wanted to snatch at the normal life he had rarely known, win back Liliane and go home. Instead, Liliane would return to Spain and he would go on marching across Palestine. I am never going to see her again, he thought, the knowledge hanging upon his heart with dull, murderous weight.

"Alexandre," Liliane said quietly, "I had a talk with Raschid. Even as a child, he seems to be wiser than either of us. Certainly, he sees life more simply than we do, perhaps because he is not in love." She touched his hand. "Quite simply, I love you. If you still want me, I will wait for you in France."

He stared at her, thinking that he must have heard her amiss out of wishful dreaming. "You do not want an annulment?"

"I never did. I only wanted you . . . and one other thing, perhaps."

"My love," he said huskily, "for you I will pluck down the moon for your mirror, bring back the jewels of Babylon to light your hair, tell another thousand impossible lies ... for grace of heaven, do you mean it?"

"With all my heart."

The look in her eyes made him tremble. As if she were a mirage that might disappear, he touched her cheek, traced a smile that in the darkness was shy, mysterious. "What would you have of me, my love? You need but name your desire, with my heart for a plate."

"Your confidence is reassuring, milord," she teased gently. "What say you to getting your wife with child?"

"You want a baby?" He was startled but delighted.

"Or five."

His hand covered hers. "I never knew you wanted children. You have never spoken of them, and I assumed that your mind was too full of Diego and your cousins to entertain a family."

"To some extent, that is true. I dared not dream of complete happiness when so much remained undone. Any heirs of yours would be a threat to Jacques's ambitions to acquire your fief, and yet I cannot know when that threat may be ended. Years may pass, until hope for children passes with them. Diego and I could have none; it was my one great disappointment in our marriage." She laid her head on Alexandre's shoulder. "I desperately want a child of yours, Alexandre. So much has been lost in Acre; we might have lost each other, as well. If I must share you with Philip, I will have your children to love, that our love may not be too far separated." Then, as if uncertain of where she had lighted, her head lifted, her eyes anxious. "Do you want babies, Alexandre?"

He smoothed her hair. "I have always wanted them; I only thought that you might not. Today, when I watched children in the street, they seemed a promise of hope, each new life a chance of making the world fresh and good-hearted, with no kindness and gallantry wanting." He paused before continuing. "Despite all our love, we have never committed to each other, rarely talked of our deepest needs; that we finally confide our want of children is the proof. Love came so easily to us that we have not seen the need of endeavoring to sustain k. We have taken love's flower and let its seeds scatter where they might in heedless trust that new blooms will ever spring forth." He touched her flat belly. "Here I will plant my seed of love with care and devotion, then watch over you tenderly. Be sweet earth to my rain and sun, and within a single span of seasons, our miracle may unfurl with all the joy of new and remembered paradise."

"Hold me close, my darling," Liliane whispered, "for I would dream of that joy and have long missed your arms about me."

Enfolding her in his arms, Alexandre cradled her. "You will stay with me, then? These little birds of gold that sing in your ears do not lead me to false hope?"

"Nay, I shall not run away again," she whispered. "Coward that I was, I am done with running. Whatever the future holds, I shall meet it, so long as it holds you."

His lips lowered upon hers and the old moon shone full upon them. A quick pulse beat between them, the rhythm of desire and impatience. Their kiss grew as hot as the moon was cool, their limbs heavy with passion, yet never did they move. The silk of Liliane's hair was crushed gold in Alexandre's dark fingers. Then, heart to heart, he swept her up with gentle yet fired intent. From moonlight to darkness, he carried her swiftly.

White linen spilled, then Liliane's ivory skin bared to Alexandre's tawny embrace. Long was their kiss, sleek and slow was their bodies' intertwining, the play of his dark fur upon her golden pelt. Secret places were caressed, tasted. All languor vanished as they conducted a trembling, delicate invasion. Passion's tender spies gained eager welcome, lured sweet treacheries that persuaded surrender. Tiny sprites of the moon danced in soft celebration upon pillow and wall, an ancient dance of lovers' joining, of conquest and glad defeat when two become one upon the field of delight.

Ghosts of lovers past seemed to hover near in the streams of moonlight, their smiles at once sad and pleased. Wraiths of myth these lovers parted in life to wander lost, only to find remembrance through living lovers' lips. Their murmurings echoed the sea waves with silken, somnolent sighs. Sweet, sweet, ah, sweet, return.

Upon this sea-sounded desert night, Liliane and Alexandre were aware only of each other. Their well-known bodies were newly formed, the pungent earth of their desire new-found and forgetful of past strife. Alexandre's ripened hardness found warm haven. Liliane threw her head back, her body arched and eager to receive his gentle, ever deepening thrusts. Their rhythm became a surging, a slipping of earth into sea. Wave upon wave of exquisite sensation washed over them, scattering their realities, renewing their need. Foam laced their bodies, spun them into one glittering rise of spume. The pinnacle was a wet, white light that hovered unbearably, only to spill at last against a beckoning shore. For a long while, they lay in each other's arms, listening, for in the sea they heard a singing harp, high and unbearably sweet.

" 'Tis Orpheus seeking his Eurydice," Alexandre murmured, burying his face between Liliane's breasts. "Poor fool. I think I should have followed thee as far as he his lost love."

"Fie on Eurydice that she lured her lover to such endless sorrow," Liliane returned softly. "Fie on me who brought you to such a despair."

"Could I choose, I would not love you less, my darling." He chuckled wryly as he turned upon his back. "Was youthful passion ever prudent?"

Liliane rose on her elbow to look down at him and affected a solemn tone. "Why, my good fellow, we have been two years married. Is not prudence merely a matter of time? Piffle to enduring passion, I say."

"What do you say?" He rose up and pressed her onto her back with a wickedly intent stare.

"Piffle," she replied in a stifled tone, "piffle, piffle ... piffle ..." He kissed her. When his head lifted, she dragged him down again. "Prudence can stay in its own mud puddle."

* * *

The next days were halcyon, for Alexandre and Liliane were alone together beneath a silent sun in a serene cerulean sky. Only for meals did they summon a servant to the roof. Melons, lemons, grapes and olives mounded a brass tray beneath the canopy. The Juice was cool and untouched. Their hours of lovemaking were spangled with poetry read from Alexandre's battered book; their lazy naps were interrupted by massaging each other with scented oils. They sang, they laughed, but most vitally, they talked. Childhood secrets were told, disappointments and joys recounted. For the first time in their marriage, they were free of intruding responsibilities, free to love without hindrance.

"What goats we are," Liliane teased one afternoon as they lazed together on the pallet just beyond the canopy.

Alexandre's grin flashed white in his darkly tanned face, then he stretched in unrepentant satisfaction. "I must concede some merit to pagan bacchanalia." He popped a grape in his mouth. "Ah, gluttony and sloth." He swatted her lightly on her bare bottom. "All hail, sweet lechery."

"Had, hail." She laughed, turning over to face him nose to nose. "How many times have we made love in the last four days?"

"I have not counted." He kissed her lingeringly, "Why do we not start again, so I can bite tiny notches on your earlobes . . . and shoulders . . . and throat and—"

Liliane's giggle was cut off by the sound of voices at the foot of the steps. A clipped, imperious tone subdued Yves's oddly querulous one. She sat bolt upright in dismay. "Philip!"

As she grabbed for her shift, Alexandre snatched up his loincloth. Hearing footsteps start up the stairs, they both looked desperately about for a place to conceal Liliane, but Philip was already in view—followed by Saida. Saida's jaw dropped; Philip, more accustomed to hiding his reactions, stared at Liliane briefly, then his lips curved in a thin smile.

"I should have known that you had mots diversion than a fever, milord, but then perhaps your fever has broken, only to be replaced by another." He strolled forward and kissed Liliane's hand. "My compliments, Countess. The southern sun agrees with you . . . much better than a Turkish stain."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Liliane forced her hand to remain steady in his grasp, for like a cat playing with a mouse, Philip showed no inclination to let her go. Now he was eyeing Alexandre with a thoughtful air that prickled her neck.

"May I ask how long your countess has been with us, milord?"

"She accompanied me from France, sire," Alexandre replied evenly.

Not about to let him shoulder responsibility for her, Liliane added quickly, "I came to Palestine against my husband's wishes and knowledge, sire."

"But not without his most grateful welcome," Alexandre finished unperturbedly. Ignoring the fact that Philip was still holding Liliane's hand, Alexandre warmly clasped the other.

Philip languidly released Liliane's fingers. "Any man would be gratified by such lovely company. What a pity to dress this beauty as a lurk." He dropped cross-legged onto their abandoned pallet and waved to Saida, whose surprise had given way to sullenness. She settled next to Philip and glared at Liliane with open loathing. "You have kept your pretty secret well, Alexandre,
mon ami
. Am I the only fortunate who is party to it?""

"Other than Derek Flanchard, yes, sire," Alexandre lied. If Philip decided to make trouble, Alexandre would keep the men of his raiding party clear of it.

"Ah, yes, Derek the Deceased; at least, I assume he is deceased; he never struck me as the sort to miss the kill, far less the profit. Did you, by any chance, dispatch him?" Philip's green eyes held a dangerous gleam.

"He attempted to force himself on my wife," Alexandre answered flatly. "I merely relieved her of the necessity of sticking him."

"Tsk. I would not have thought Flanchard such a lecher. His brain always seemed cast in steel. Ah, well, my mistake. I am too often misled in gauging men." After that pointed remark, Philip slid a glance at Saida, who now was draped over his shoulder: "I came, venturing to return a certain loan to you. I see I may now consider the obligation unnecessary."

"Indeed, sire," replied Alexandre. "The loan was more in the nature of a gift."

Saida, unable to comprehend a word, watched them with suspicion. Philip patted her knee. "I thank you, but I would be gratified if you would accept full repayment. The debt is more than I can endure; restitution alone will let me rest. My nights grow wearisome, my mind dulled for daily duties, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera." His set smile stated clearly: Take the bitch.

"If you insist, sire." Alexandre replied grimly. Saida's return could only cause trouble . . . and delight Philip. The trouble was already beginning, for Liliane had disengaged his hand.

"Do you like Acre, Countess?" Philip inquired sweetly as he observed Liliane's sudden coolness.

"Very much, sire, now that the siege is over."

"I confess that I find the city dull these days, but then I lack a woman's liking for peace.'' He rose and kissed her hand again, then purred over her signet. "Enjoy your stay, Countess, but mind you stay out of the sun; it ages European ladies." With a touch of his forehead to Alexandre, he trotted down the stairs.

That she had been abandoned quickly dawned on Saida. She ran to the wall to glare down into the street as Philip joined his retainers. A string of Saracen oaths were cast upon their heads, drawing a peal of laughter from Philip. With a kiss of his fingers, he turned his back on her. Saida rounded on Alexandre with an explosion of Arabic.

Sighing, he summoned Yves. "Fetch Raschid. Tell him I have a young lady here who is ripe for a business proposition."

In less than two hours, Saida was out of Brueil hands and into Raschid's. Neither Raschid nor his new acquisition was eager to long remain partners in trade. She was miffed that having been a king's concubine had not sufficiently impressed Raschid, and he knew a virago when he saw one. "I'll rent her out," he confided. "I know a rich merchant who loves to be browbeaten. He misses his dead mother."

That night, as Liliane dined with Alexandre on the rooftop, she toyed uneasily with her food. "What do you think Philip will do about my deceiving hint?"

"Our deceiving him." Alexandre grimly plunged a knife into a pear. "I do not know. Something. He has got a long, vindictive memory." The pear split. Alexandre gazed thoughtfully at the two halves. "Just now, I think he has other things on his mind. He is bored and he did not come to Palestine just to tag after Richard. If Richard is getting all of the glory from this campaign, what does Philip want, besides distracting Richard from carving up France?" He pronged a pear half and offered it to Liliane. "We had best make the most of our holiday, darling. I have a feeling Philip is about to drop a little rain on Richard's head that may wet us all."

Alexandre soon proved correct in his prediction. A few days later, a summons came from Philip. "You are wanted, milord," a stubby page informed Alexandre. "The king is ill."

In that moment, Liliane saw in Alexandre's concerned face his affection for Philip. Despite their differences, they had traveled many long roads together. Alexandre is stronger than his father, she reflected. He is loyal to those he loves, and so wins their loyalty. He treats weak and strong alike, and is fair when he need not be. Ah, Diego, I have been blessed in being wed to two such men. I wish you could have known Alexandre; he would have been both friend and son to you. Keep him from Philip's webs; let not his faith in Philip's friendship return a fatal reward.