Captive Rose (14 page)

Yet the wagon stayed put and Guy began to sweat,
fearing the worst. Had Leila moved? Had he? His fingers itched to reach for his
sword, but that would surely give them away.

Suddenly the canvas was tossed back over them and the
wagon wheels began to creak and turn again. Overwhelmed with relief, Guy willed
himself to relax.

The wagon rumbled on, bumping over countless rocks and
deep ruts in the road. Guy's only clue that they were a safe distance from the
Gate of the Sun came when Thomas muttered vehemently, "Damn bloody
heathen, may the devil skewer them all on his fork and toss them into hell's
fire!" Then the friar gave a strange laugh, between a grunt and a chuckle.
"If you don't mind me saying so, my lord, me being a man of God and all."

"Not in the least," Guy replied, grateful for
Thomas's levity. He felt his spirits rising despite the stench. He had seen
plenty of dead men in his day, but
lying
this close to
moldering corpses was stretching the limits of his endurance.

To get his mind off his own discomfort, he wondered how
Leila was faring. Now he firmly believed he and Eve had done the right thing to
drug her. No woman could have endured such a ghastly experience without being
reduced to frantic tears.

"This is the place," Thomas said finally,
loud enough for Guy to hear. "You can get up now, my lord."

Guy couldn't throw off the shroud and tear away the
canvas fast enough. He leaped from the wagon and gasped in great breaths of
fresh air. "Where are we?" he asked hoarsely, his eyes watering.

"Three miles south of Damascus, just past the
cemetery. We'll have to walk the rest of the way to the camp."

"What camp?"

"Bedouin traders. Desert nomads. They camp outside
the city, preferring their camel-hide tents to any inns Damascus has to offer.
We must buy horses if you want to reach Acre swiftly, and the Bedouins possess
the finest Arabian steeds in the land. We'll leave the lady here—"

"No. She goes with me."

Thomas shook his head firmly as he covered his bald
scalp with a pointed hood. "If those traders catch one glimpse of her, no
amount of precious jewelry will
fend
them off, my
lord. Beauty such as hers is rare and worth a sultan's price. They'll kill us
both to have her. She must remain in the wagon. Believe
me,
no one will come near the dead." The friar went so far as to grab Guy's
arm, insisting, "Come. We must hurry. The guards will set out looking for
me if I don't return to
Bab
Charki
within a few hours."

Guy glanced at the wagon and decided to trust Thomas's
judgment. After all, William
Gervais
had been
murdered by such ruthless men. Guy had no desire to share his miserable fate.

"Very well," he said. "We will leave her
here.

"Most wise, my lord," Thomas murmured,
walking with him toward the red glow of distant campfires. "When we reach
the Bedouin camp, keep silent. I will bargain for the horses."

"An easy task. My Arabic is pitiful."

The friar chuckled,
then
quickly sobered. "We will buy two strong mounts in case one goes lame
along the way. The journey from here to Acre will take you a full day, perhaps
longer, even if you travel swiftly. You would do well to ride directly
southwest following the ancient caravan routes to the coast."

Guy nodded, his hand moving to his wide sash as they
neared the first low-slung tents. "Lady Eve gave me jewels—"

"Those are for your journey," Thomas
interrupted, patting a pocket in his dark brown robe. "
Majida
gave me an emerald necklace when she found me at the church. It will amply
cover the cost of the horses, which, knowing these
traders,
will be excessive." His voice fell. "Here they come. No more talking,
my lord."

Guy recalled Eve's heavy necklace and surmised that was
the one the friar now possessed, but his thoughts quickly turned to the danger
at hand as they were approached by a dozen silent Bedouins. He followed the
friar's lead and stopped, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. It was
all he could do not to reach for his sword. These desert men in their coarse
sheep's wool robes were as menacing as any Arabs he had seen, their dark eyes
cold and suspicious.

Brusque greetings and many words were exchanged between
Thomas and the Bedouins, whose guarded expressions gradually became shrewd and
calculating. Guy was amazed when large tasseled pillows were brought from the
nearest tent for all of them to sit upon. He lowered himself warily, while one
of the traders issued a string of sharp commands to bareheaded slaves standing
nearby.

"Take nothing of the food or drink they may offer
you," Thomas whispered in an aside, clearly distrustful of their hosts'
overt hospitality.

In the next instant Guy did just that, shaking his head
curtly when a tray laden with figs, dates, and
honeyed
almonds was
held before him. The Bedouin seated next to him looked
slightly affronted, but they were all distracted by the shrill neighing and
snorting which filled the air and echoed from the sloping hillsides surrounding
the camp.

The light from the campfires and smoking torches
illuminated the wild and colorful scene as prancing Arabian horses led by
barefoot slaves were paraded in front of the gesticulating and highly vocal
traders. Guy watched Thomas choose two magnificent black stallions, the same
ones he would have picked if it had been his decision,
then
the real haggling began. He guessed the deal was drawing to its conclusion when
the friar rose to his feet and pulled the emerald necklace from his pocket,
holding it up to the firelight.

A breathless hush fell over the traders as their eyes
riveted on the glittering green stones.
One by one they
touched the necklace, weighing it in their callused palms, though none went so
far as to take it from Thomas, who seemed to be extolling the jewels' matchless
quality. At last the Bedouin who seemed to be the leader gave a signal, and the
two black stallions were saddled and led forward.

"Mount one of the horses. Quickly," Thomas
said, still holding on to the necklace.

Guy did so, reveling in the sensation of having a
powerful animal beneath him again. He wondered fleetingly what had happened to
the huge roan
destrier
he had brought with him from
England and then left in Acre when he journeyed to Anatolia. Trained to
perfection, Griffin had far surpassed any other war-horse he had ever owned. He
hoped Edward had shipped the animal back to England along with the rest of his
knights' descriers.

Thomas mounted the other horse, and only then did he
hand over the necklace to the Bedouins' leader. As the traders clustered
excitedly around their priceless acquisition, the friar jerked on the reins,
veering his mount in the opposite direction. "Ride, my lord!"

Guy dug his heels into the stallion's sides and rode
after the friar, his mount catching up in a few forceful strides.

"Do you think they will reconsider?" he
shouted over the thunderous sound of hooves striking the earth.

"They're a crafty, avaricious lot," Thomas
shouted back. "Best to get back to the wagon and then on your way!"

Guy searched the darkness and some of his tension eased
when the wagon came into view. He pulled up hard on the reins and dismounted at
a run, holding his breath against the horrid stench as he gathered Leila's limp
body into his arms. Mumbling a quick prayer for the departed souls who had
protected them, he remounted and settled her in front of him, waiting
impatiently while Thomas tied the other stallion's braided reins to his saddle
and handed him a blanket.

"For the lady. The night is cold," the friar
said, grasping Guy's wrist. "God grant you both a safe journey."

"You have my eternal thanks, friend."

Then Thomas stepped away and Guy kicked his mount,
holding Leila tightly as the stallion snorted and broke into a hard gallop, the
other horse cantering five feet behind them. He glanced over his shoulder to
see if the Bedouins were in pursuit, but he saw only vast darkness, the friar
and his wagon already faded from view.

Guy gave out a laugh of pure exhilaration. His
powerfully muscled thighs hugged the saddle, his hands sure upon the reins as
he veered the charging stallion to the southwest, toward Acre and freedom.

With the wind whipping at his billowing robes and wild
euphoria streaking through his veins, he had never felt so alive . . . or so
protective. The heat of Leila's body was like a hot brand burning against his
chest, reminding him of his sworn obligation to see her safely to England.

By all that he held true and sacred, he would not fail
her!

Chapter 8

Leila's head was pounding mercilessly when she opened
her eyes. She immediately threw her arm over them, crying out at the blinding
sunlight that had pierced her brain. With her head now hurting all the more,
she trembled with nausea and lay very still, dazedly hoping the sickness would
pass.

It did not. She rolled
over,
her eyes squeezed shut and her hands groping at thin air, and vomited. When she
was finished she lay still, dangling over the edge of something soft that
smelled of musk. The heavy fragrance made her sick again, this time so
wretchedly that she thought her stomach would burst from the heaving pain. With
her head upside down, she felt warmth rushing to her face, but she was too weak
to move.

Long, agonizing minutes dragged by before she dared
open her eyes again. She did so very, very slowly.

The first thing she saw was something bright red, and
she thought she had vomited blood. She screamed long and loud, the stoicism she
had developed after years of medical training evaporating at the terrifying
sight. Other people's blood was one thing; her own was an entirely different
matter.

"May the heavens protect us, what a screeching
noise you are
making!
" Leila heard a woman shout
in Arabic as she drew a ragged breath and prepared to scream again. Two hands
gripped her shoulders, hoisting her up and then pushing her back upon the soft
surface, but she could not see for the hair streaming over her face.

"I'm bleeding! I'm bleeding!" she cried, hot
frightened tears mingling with her black tresses as she tried frantically to
wipe the whole damp mass from in front of her eyes.

"No, No, no, you're not bleeding. Here, let me
help you," the female voice said soothingly, a musk-scented palm pushing
the offending hair aside. "There now, that's better."

Leila blinked through her tears at the young woman
staring down at her, her forehead crinkling as she tried to place the
unfamiliar face.

The woman was Arab and perhaps only a few years older
than
herself
, with beautiful eyes rimmed with kohl, a
generous red mouth, and thick black hair falling below her shoulders. Her
clothes were elegant, a white linen
thob
and
sirwal
that accentuated her lovely olive complexion, yet
the cut of the woman's blue brocade vest was unlike any style Leila had seen in
Damascus.

After a futile moment, she gave up. She had never seen
the woman before.

Leila's gaze swept the room with its
tapestried
walls and spare yet luxurious furnishings. It,
too, was wholly unfamiliar. She had no idea where she was, nor could she
remember

"Someone drugged me she suddenly recalled in a
hoarse whisper, her head aching at the effort. She had gone to her mother's
apartments . . . Both Eve and
Majida
had acted so
strangely. Then she had heard footsteps and that awful sponge had covered her
mouth, reeking of opium and henbane. No wonder she felt so sick.

Leila looked down and noted she was still wearing the
same lavender silk clothes, though her linen robe was
missing
and her hair was upbraided. She also noticed for the first time the raised bed
on which she was lying, the soft mattress set atop a square wooden frame with
stout corner posts, and the crimson coverlet pulled up to her waist. She
touched the cool satin, her eyes darting to the side of the bed and the
disgusting puddle on the carpeted floor.

Relief filled her, mixed with chagrin at her
foolishness. It was the red coverlet she had seen, not her own blood. She
slumped back upon the propped pillows behind her and wiped the silly tears from
her face with the white linen sheet.

The woman also looked down at the carpet, frowning. She
clapped her hands, and a young slave girl appeared in the room, her dark oval
eyes wide and curious as she studied Leila.

"Please clean up this mess,
Hayat
,
and stop your staring."

The slave girl bobbed her head and disappeared,
returning in a moment with a basin filled with water and linen rags. Leila
watched silently as the woman walked with sensuous grace to the other side of
the bed and sat down while the slave girl knelt on the floor and began to scrub
the soiled carpet.

"My name is
Refaiyeh
,"
the woman said, her friendly smile revealing even, white teeth.

Refaiyeh
. Leila could swear
she had heard that name before, but where? Her mind was still so fuzzy.

"Where am I?" she demanded shakily, trying to
sit up. Another wave of queasiness forced her back upon the pillows, and she
crossed her arms over her stomach. "I don't know you . . . why
am
I here?"

Refaiyeh
did not readily
answer, busying herself instead with pouring a goblet of water from a tall,
crystal pitcher. She offered it to Leila, her expression kind. "Drink
this. It will make you feel better. Whatever Guy drugged you with must have
been very powerful. You've been asleep for almost two days counting your
journey from Damascus."