Captive Rose (25 page)

"Calligraphy?"

"A very beautiful form of handwriting."

"Ah, and what else?"

Leila smiled to herself. "One of my favorite
pastimes is to write poetry."

"Really! Then we share a common interest. I, too,
compose poetry."

Thoroughly astonished, Leila twisted slightly and
looked up at him. The warmth in his startling blue eyes made her heart jump. "You
do?"

"Knights do know how to read and write, my lady,
though perhaps they have little time for it," Guy explained, smiling
wryly. "I have been working on a book of poems for years. Many knights
compose verses, especially those inspired from youth by heroic legends of the
past. My education was more extensive than most, by my own choice. My passion
for studying used to irritate
Ranulf
to no end, but
he allowed it because I excelled on the training field."

Leila's curiosity was fired by these revelations.

She could hardly believe it! She would never have
thought this barbarian would have a scholarly bone in his massive body, nor the
sheer love of creative expression that poetry demanded. She actually felt
chagrin at the blind prejudice she had nurtured. How strange that she hadn't
guessed from his innate intelligence that there was much more to him than brute
strength. So much more.

"What subjects did you study?" she asked,
flushing as he stared into her eyes.

"Mathematics, astronomy, Latin."

"I've studied some Latin. Friar Thomas at our
church in the Christian quarter of Damascus taught me."

Friar Thomas, Guy thought. The man who had helped them
flee
the city. Maybe Leila had already guessed the friar's
connection with their escape, but he wasn't about to mention it to her now.
Such information would only disrupt this enjoyable exchange. There were other
questions he wanted to ask her, but he feared they, too, might anger her. Yet
his curiosity could not be contained, nor the jealousy that had been gnawing at
him since the night
he had
first kissed her.

"Who taught you the sensual arts, Leila?" His
gaze fell to her lips, so red and moist, and his jealousy became acute. The
image of a dark-haired, dark-eyed man caressing and kissing her body was more
than he could bear. "How did you learn to kiss as you do? Surely you had a
man as your teacher?"

Her eyes widened, and she gasped softly, turning back
to the river as if he had insulted her. "Harems are not brothels, Lord de
Warenne
. No man is allowed inside save for the master of
the house."

Guy stiffened. By God, was she saying that her adopted
father had—

"
Majida
taught me."

"
Majida
?"

"My mother's odalisque."

"You mean the slave woman I saw in Lady Eve's
apartments?"

"Yes," came her small answer, and Guy
regretted again his thoughtlessness, knowing he had dredged up painful
memories. He was surprised when she continued at all.

"Before
Majida
was sold
into my father's house, she was a concubine in a harem in Constantinople. When
I came of age after my first flux, she became my teacher, educating me in the
ways of men and women. First we would study a book together,
then
she would demonstrate the technique upon a eunuch slave." She shrugged
almost imperceptibly. "Then I would try."

"A eunuch?" Guy asked incredulously. "But
it was my understanding that they couldn't . . .
"
 
He
stopped, not wanting to be crude.

"There are varying degrees of surgical procedures
that are used upon these slaves," Leila said delicately without looking at
him. "This particular eunuch still had his—"

"Enough!" Guy cut in, made extremely
uncomfortable at the thought. "So while you and
Majida
practiced upon this eunuch, he just lay there?"

"Yes."
  

"Poor bastard."

"Not at all. He was well rewarded for his
services."

Guy was astounded. Leila's voice was so matter-of-fact,
as if this was the most commonplace occurrence, which of course it was, to her.

To him, this revelation could not have been more
extraordinary, or more arousing. His body was on fire just thinking about what
she must know. He was tempted to ask her exactly what techniques she had
learned when she pointed excitedly to the shore.

"Oh, Oh, look over there! Swans! How beautiful
they are." She glanced at him over her shoulder. "We have them, too,
you know. Governor
Mawdud
has thirty pair at his
summer palace. I saw them whenever I visited his harem. The birds were so tame
I could feed them right from my hand."

How beautiful you are, Leila, Guy thought as her
enchanting gaze flew back to the swans.

She swayed a bit and he caught her, but she seemed not
to notice that his hands now encircled her narrow waist. Her dizziness was a
bittersweet reminder that she had probably been so open with him only because
of the wine. He could not help wishing that perhaps one day she might show him
this part of herself again, and of her own volition

"And when would that be?" Guy scoffed under
his breath, his mood suddenly darkening. When she was under Roger's roof? Not
likely. He would probably never see her again except at court events, and then
she would most likely be upon the arm of her new husband. The husband Roger
would choose for her.

Don't think of it!
he
told
himself grimly, refusing to dwell on the distasteful matter. He had sworn to
Lady Eve that he would escort Leila to her brother, and there his duty ended.
What happened to her after that was none of his concern. She would be more than
a handful for any man when her sharp tongue was not dulled by wine and her eyes
snapped with contempt and mistrust instead of childlike delight. Whoever that
unlucky fool might be, he was welcome to her!

Guy rested his chin atop Leila's glistening hair,
listening to her comment softly on the incredible height of the trees, the
fair-haired children she saw playing near the shore, the villages they passed .
. . all the while knowing in his deepest heart that lie was a liar.

He cared what happened to her. God, how he cared. He
hadn't realized how much until now.

But it made no difference. Leila hated him, and he and
Roger were sworn enemies. It was an impossible situation.

Suddenly he noticed Leila had become very quiet in his
arms. He looked down at her and was not surprised to see her eyelids drooping
sleepily and her head nodding forward.

He was a bastard to be pushing her so hard. It was
clear her long rest had only taken the edge from her exhaustion. She needed
more sleep, and this boat ride would be her last chance to do so in relative
comfort. Any more stops they made after reaching Lyons would be short. A few
hours' rest, a quick meal, a change of horses, and they would be back on the
road.

Whether he was a bastard or not, the sooner they
reached Westminster, the better. For him and for Leila.

As Guy gathered her into his arms she protested a
little, but it was clear the wine had taken its toll. She was already half
asleep, her small hand pressed to his heart as she nestled against him. As he
walked across the deck, he passed a stout peasant woman who regarded him with a
quiet smile.

"Your lady is very beautiful, my lord," she
said, her blue eyes kind.

"Yes, she is," he agreed, the woman's words
cutting him to the quick. "Very beautiful."

He carried Leila down the stairs to their cabin, where
he set her gently on her berth.

"Hmmm . . . so soft," she whispered,
snuggling into the mattress as he covered her with a blanket.

"Sleep well, Leila
Gervais
."

He debated kissing her,
then
reluctantly decided against it. When she demanded in the morning if he had
taken advantage of her after plying her with wine—and he had no doubt she
would—he wanted to be able to say he had done nothing she would find
objectionable.

Guy closed the door to their cabin, threw the bolt,
then sat down heavily on his own
berth
and pulled out
the bag he had hidden from her. Bottles chinked together, and he smiled grimly.
He grabbed one and pulled the stopper out with his teeth. As he stared at Leila's
face, thinking of impassioned kisses they would never share and silken caresses
he would never know, his body grew hard with frustrated desire.

"Here's to honor" —he took a long swig,
wiping his mouth with the back of his hand— "to chivalry, may the devil
take it" —he drank again, his eyes on Leila's soft lips— "and to
being the biggest bloody fool for ever getting caught up in this mess!"

He threw back his head and drained the bottle.

Chapter 13

Lyons, Chalon-sur-Saone,
Cercy
-le-Tours,
Auxerre
; the towns and
cities through which they had passed were no more than a blurred collage in
Leila's mind. It seemed she and Guy barely arrived in a town before they set
out again after snatching a few precious hours of sleep and hiring another
swift horse to take them to their next destination. Her vehement protests in
Lyons had done little good. He had stubbornly insisted they ride together.

"Are we almost there?" she asked for the
fourth time that hour, raising her voice to be heard over their mount's
pounding hooves.

"
Provins
is directly
ahead," Guy answered, tightening his grip around her waist. "Look,
Leila. The city wall is just beyond those trees. Do you see it? And there,
rising above the wall . . . church spires, roofs, and chimneys."

Leila kept one hand on the pommel while she shoved back
the hood of her cloak, which had slipped low over her forehead. She blinked
against the cool drizzle hitting her face and strained to catch a glimpse of
the approaching town through the gathering dusk. She slumped with relief
against Guy's mailed chest when she spied the landmarks he described.

She had had enough of this infernal pace, Guy and his
royal coronation
be
damned! As soon as they reached an
inn she would demand a hot meal, a hot
bath
and a full
night's rest, and refuse to go any further until she got them. If need be, she
would even pretend a fainting spell to convince him to spend an entire night in
one place. She was ravenous, spattered with mud, her hair unwashed since they
had left the ship in Marseilles, and weary to the bone. She would stand for his
bullying no longer!

"It's strange to see so many people on the road
after sunset," Guy said as he drew up on the reins a few hundred feet from
the city gate, slowing the lathered gelding to a trot.

Leila said nothing, amazed at the number of donkeys and
horses all wending their way toward the open gate, some ridden by peasants and
farmers and others by what looked to be knights and their ladies. Wagons and
carts loaded with produce and other goods choked the rutted road, while a train
of packhorses was surrounded by men with pikes and crossbows, no doubt a more
precious cargo. Guy had to carefully thread their mount through the congested
traffic.

"Hello! What goes on here?" he called out to
one of the heavily armed soldiers standing guard along a wide drawbridge
leading to the city gates.

"The fair of St.
Ayoul
,
my lord. Move on if you're entering the city or else pull your mount aside so
others may pass."

"Damn," Guy muttered, veering the gelding to
the side of the road.

"What is it?" Leila asked, not understanding
their exchange in French.

"A trade fair. If I had known, we would have
bypassed
Provins
altogether. From the looks of this
crowd, every inn will be packed with merchants and buyers. We'll have to ride
on to Paris—"

"No!" Leila objected hotly, twisting to face
him. "I won't go any farther, I tell you! I'm hungry and tired and my—my .
. ." She faltered, embarrassed,
then
decided he
should know exactly how she felt. "My backside is fairly blistered from
this wretched saddle. I'm sure if you flash one of my mother's jewels at an
innkeeper, he'll jump at the chance to provide lodging for us."

Guy smiled roguishly at her, but his eyes held concern.
"Ah, then, my lady, that is entirely a different matter. We cannot have
your lovely bottom so raw you won't be able to sit down at Edward's coronation
feast." Before she could muster a tart reply, he clucked his tongue and pulled
sharply on the reins. "The
Provins
fair it is."

Surprised he had agreed so easily, Leila nervously
averted her eyes from the deep moat as their horse clomped across the wooden
drawbridge. They passed beneath the lofty gate flanked by round watchtowers,
her hood sliding from her braided hair as she gazed upward in wonder. Soldiers
on the other side directed them onto a main thoroughfare which opened into
narrow side streets where riders and pedestrians were squeezing past each
other.

She was amazed at how the city was alive with motion,
noise, and color despite the persistent drizzle and growing darkness. Smoking
torches burned brightly from iron brackets projecting from outer walls, while
lamps and lanterns hung from hooks beside painted doors, all lending
much-needed light to the bustling scene. People were everywhere, and she had
never heard such a raucous clamor, even in the slave markets of Cairo.

Behind the display counters of shops opened to the main
street and those of rudely constructed stalls running down the middle,
merchants wearing fur-trimmed coats haggled with customers in brightly colored
tunics, hose, and long, pointed shoes. Ladies laughed and talked excitedly with
their escorts while holding up their cloaks and gowns to step over horse dung
and garbage.