Captive Rose (19 page)

Leila reluctantly sat down and watched as the slave
girl deftly drew the stockings over her legs and secured them above her knees
with matching silk ties. She turned her left leg to one side and then the
other, scrutinizing the strange casings. She decided she didn't like hose at
all.

"I will not wear them!" Leila declared just
as the door was cracked and Guy's deep voice startled her.

"Another outburst, my lady, whether in Arabic or
English, and I will finish
Hayat's
task myself. In a
few moments I will open this door, and I shall expect to see you dressed as a
true English lady."

The door slammed shut again, and Leila's face turned as
white as the bed sheets she had grabbed to cover herself. She released them and
rose
shakily, her lips drawn tightly together, saying
not a word as
Hayat
handed her each mysterious
article of clothing.

"A
chainse
, my lady.
Your undergarment."

Leila slipped the thin linen shift over her head, her
fingers touching raised embroidery as she smoothed the low rounded neckline. "Where
are the
sirwal
?" she asked, feeling the bottom
hem of the
chainse
brush her toes.

"No
sirwal
, mistress.
There are no pants at all."

"Savages," Leila muttered, shocked. That she
was to go about with no covering for her lower body was too indecent to
consider.

"Your kirtle, my lady."

Leila felt numb as she drew on the sky-blue silk gown.
Hayat's
hands expertly smoothed the rippling folds which
also fell to the floor,
then
the slave girl adjusted
the long fitted sleeves and simple collar, saying in a hushed voice, "Ah,
how beautiful you are, mistress. Lord de
Warenne
will
be pleased."

Leila did not waste any breath responding to that last
comment. She didn't care two
whits
if the crusader
was pleased! What about her? She wanted to wear the clothes to which she was
accustomed. She wanted her family, her home!

She watched stonily as
Hayat
moved behind her and wrapped a girdle embroidered with silver thread around her
slender waist. The girl crossed the flat belt in back and then brought the long,
tasseled silk plait attached to each end forward to below her hips, where they
were knotted and left to dangle down the front of her gown.

"Your slippers, mistress,"
Hayat
said, rushing back from the
chest
and setting the leather footwear on the carpet before her.

Leila slid them on, deciding the buttery soft slippers
were the only comfortable thing she was wearing. She felt trussed up and
smothered by her foreign garments, regardless of the silk gown's light weight.

"If you would kindly sit again, mistress, so I may
brush your hair."

"I can do that myself," Leila snapped, but
quickly regretted her harsh tone at the slave girl's hurt expression. None of
her misfortune was this child's doing, she chided herself. "Why don't we
do this?" she suggested more kindly. "After I brush my hair, you may
braid it if you'd like."

Hayat
bobbed her head, a
small smile on her lips. She watched enrapt as Leila quickly worked through the
tangles and then brushed out her long hair until it shone.

"Have you never cut it?" the slave girl asked
curiously, tentatively touching a silky strand.

"No. Where I come from, a woman's hair is her
glory and after marriage, her husband's pride . . ." She fell silent,
swallowing hard against the rush of homesickness that threatened to bring on a
useless bout of weeping. She sat heavily on the bed, handing
Hayat
the brush. "
Here.
You
may braid it now."

She scarcely paid any attention as the slave girl
deftly plaited her hair with nimble fingers, only noticing when
Hayat
ran to the chest and pulled out a square of patterned
silk and a thin silver circlet that glinted in the lamplight.

"Englishwomen wear veils?" she asked,
surprised, as
Hayat
folded the silk and placed it
over her head so that the embroidered edges fell to just below her shoulders.

"Oh, yes, and many other types of headdress
besides," the girl replied, setting the silver
circlet
around Leila's forehead. "But the veil and fillet serve your beauty well,
mistress." She stepped back and clapped her hands together. "There. A
true English lady, just as Lord de Warmth wanted!"

Hayat
ran so swiftly to the
door that Leila was barely on her feet when the portal was flung wide. Leila
held her breath as Guy slowly entered, his gaze raking her from head to foot in
a manner that sent her pulse racing.

"So, my taste in women's fashion has not failed
me," he said, standing with his feet spread wide and his hands on his
hips. "I knew English clothing would suit you. I can almost hear the
jealous buzz you will cause among the ladies when we arrive at Edward's court."

Truly, he had seen no finer figure on any woman, Guy
decided, his earlier irritation at her mention of
Refaiyeh
all but forgotten. He stared appreciatively, marveling at how the simple lines
of Leila's gown clung to each exquisite curve of her body.

His eyes lingered on her full breasts, her taunting
nipples clearly visible beneath the smooth fabric,
then
his gaze fell to a waistline as slim and supple as a reed. The girdle wound
about her body in a most enviable manner, the knot tied in the silk plaits
resting against the virgin juncture of her thighs.

Guy felt such a hot rush of desire that he called out
to
Hayat
, "Where is her
surcoat
?"
with the intention of covering Leila from other men's eyes.

"I left it in the chest, my lord," the slave
girl replied, scurrying forward to stand beside him, her face tilted upward. "It
will be so warm today—"

"Please fetch it,
Hayat
."

The girl did as he bade her, pulling from the chest a
voluminous linen garment. She carried it to Leila, who looked skeptically at
Guy, her fine black eyebrows arching.

"I am to wear yet another gown?" she asked,
her eyes flashing at him. "Surely I will suffer from the heat, just as
Hayat
says—"

"Put it on, my lady. The added warmth will be
nothing to the discomfort you would suffer if a thousand pair of eyes
were
devouring your charms. There will be battles aplenty
over you once we reach England, without our encouraging them here in Acre."

"I would not have thought a courageous knight such
as you feared any battle, let alone one caused by a woman's beauty," she
said sarcastically. "Is it possible my mother has committed me to a
coward?"

Guy's eyes narrowed dangerously at her. "In truth,
my lady, I fear no battles but the one I wage myself. A virgin's scent is a
tempting trial for any man, but I have sworn to protect, not ravage you. Have I
made myself clear?"

"Perfectly," Leila said with contempt, though
the effect of his words was reflected more accurately in her wildly beating
heart.

She had never seen such blatant desire in a man's eyes,
not even Jamal's as she saw now in Guy's. Strangely it thrilled her, which
disconcerted her all the more, and she realized she was trembling, her heart
pounding. It was almost as if he were touching her, caressing her, such was the
scorching intensity of his gaze. She imagined he must have looked at her like
that last night when he

"The
surcoat
, my lady.
Put it on."

His terse command broke the spell, leaving her angered
and deeply embarrassed. How could her emotions betray her so easily, she, who
had always prided herself on her self-control? When it came to this man, she
seemed to have no restraint at all. He brought out the very worst in her.

Leila grabbed the square-necked garment and thrust it
over her head, upsetting the veil and fillet, which tumbled to the floor. All
the while she stared furiously at Guy, hardly aware that
Hayat
was guiding her arms through the sleeveless sides, slit from shoulder to hip.
It wasn't until a look of slow triumph spread across Guy's face that she
glanced down at herself.

The
surcoat
hung about her in
myriad folds from the neckline to the trailing hem, completely hiding her
feminine curves. Only her arms were revealed and a bit of sky-blue silk and
embroidered girdle peeking from the narrow slits.

"I can see you are satisfied," she flung at
him, holding still while
Hayat
climbed on the bed and
pulled her long braid from beneath the
surcoat
,
then
resettled the veil and circlet on her head.

Guy came forward and took her arm. "
Hayat
, see that everything is well packed while I escort
the lady to breakfast. The wagon is loaded except for this last chest. I will
send the bearers to fetch it in a few minutes."

"Yes, my lord."

The liar! Leila fumed with acute regret, stiffening at
his touch. So he hadn't been outside her door the whole time after all, just
checking on her now and then while loading the wagon.

Striving to remain calm, she allowed herself to be led
from the room, though her irritation was heightened by her difficulty walking
in so many skirts. She marveled that he would think she had any appetite at all
on this darkest day of her life.

Wait. Be patient, she told herself grimly as they
proceeded to the kitchen. As soon as his guard was down, she would make her
move. He couldn't possibly watch her every single moment. At some point he
would look away, and when he turned back, she would be gone.

***

When Leila stepped on board the armed galley an hour
later, she knew she was going to be sick. The ship's rolling motion, even at
anchor, mirrored what was happening in her stomach. If not for Guy tightly
gripping her arm, she would have turned and tied right back down the gangplank.

She had already tried to flee twice, the first time
when Guy was supervising the bearers who were loading the chest filled with her
belongings into a wagon while she stood waiting by the door with
Hayat
. As soon as Guy had turned his back, she had set off
at a run down the street, but she was hindered by her long, foreign
clothes—truly the ugliest and most cumbersome garments she had ever seen—and he
caught her easily. So much for waiting until his guard was down.

Then, during the short ride from
Refaiyeh's
house to the busy harbor, she had tried again, jumping from the wagon and
pushing her way through the crowded market, only to find herself yanked back by
her
surcoat
and tossed unceremoniously over Guy's
shoulder. When she began shouting in Arabic for help, caking him names and even
cursing at him, it had taken only a terse reminder of his threat the night
before and the sensation of his hands caressing the backs of her thighs to
silence her.

To make matters worse, when they had returned to the
wagon, he had sat her on his knee like a naughty little girl, much to the
amusement of the merchants, shoppers, and even children who pointed at her and
sniggered. Her cheeks burned at their laughter, and she longed for a face veil
to hide her shame. Most women in Acre wore no such veils in public, a sight
that shocked her.

She had kept her head bowed all the way to the harbor,
desperately wishing a magic genie would spirit her away on a flying carpet,
like the unhappy damsels in
Majida's
fanciful
stories. But when she saw the galley looming in front of them, she knew there
was no hope of rescue or escape. At least not in Acre.

She had never been on a seagoing vessel, only small
pleasure crafts built to glide across artificial lakes and lotus-choked pools
such as the one at the sultan's grand palace in Cairo; or flat-bottomed rafts
used for crossing the Euphrates and Tigris rivers on the way to Baghdad. This
ship was bigger than anything she had ever seen, a hundred feet between bow and
stem with two tall masts, triangular sails, and two banks of oars. It had been
all she could do to climb the
gangplank,
she was so
overwhelmed by the ship's size.

Now she clutched at her stomach, watching queasily as
Guy directed their two chests aboard. He gave little notice of her standing a
few feet behind him, though she sensed he knew exactly where she was. He
glanced over his shoulder when she gasped.

"You look a queer shade of green, my lady. Are you
going to be ill?"

Leila could only nod weakly.

"Then to the side with you." He grasped her
arm and steered her to the railing, holding her head as she lost what little
breakfast she had forced herself to consume earlier that morning. Coughing and
sputtering, she felt so terrible she gave no heed to the coarse comments made
by passengers and homeward-bound pilgrims still waiting to board.

"If it's beginning already, I fear you're going to
make a pitiful traveling companion," Guy said, his hands surprisingly
gentle as he wiped her mouth with a square of linen he had drawn from the
leather pouch hanging from his belt.

"What are you talking about?" Leila asked,
her knees shaking. She took the proffered linen, balling it in her hand.

"Seasickness. Come on, I'll take you to our cabin
so you can lie down."

Leila groaned, feeling so nauseated that she didn't
comment on his reference to their shared accommodations. Nor did she try to
pull away from him as he again took her arm.

She remotely recalled studying seasickness in medical
books. Little could be done for it except bed rest and perhaps some simple drug
to calm the stomach. But her medicines were in Damascus, along with her mother,
her father,
Majida
, Jamal, the hospital that was her
second home, her patients, her hopes, her dreams . . .