XXIII

XXIII

August, 1190

The Muzhair Oasis

The Road to Jerusalem

The cry of Islam rose all around him, a chant that began low, then rose high and shrill. It was echoed and reechoed upon the lips of infidels; first the men on foot came running with that cry to clash with the Christians, then came the men on their graceful Arabian mounts, swords gleaming wickedly beneath the sun as hooves thundered across the sands.

"Archers!" Bryan called out, and a hundred trained men stepped forward with their longbows. Bryan lifted his hand, waiting tensely; with the slash of that hand through the air, the arrows began to fly. Up in the smooth arches that were beautiful to behold; then falling to pierce through flesh and bone, and break the chant of Islam as men screamed in mortal agony and fell.

But where the ranks were broken, new men filled the gap. So many . . . fighting for their lands; their way of life.

All his life Bryan had believed in the knight's great code of Christianity. Richard's quest had been his quest: Jerusalem. . . for Christ's followers. He had fought at Henry's side; he had killed time and again in battle. The carnage about him should have been nothing new, and killing infidels should have been easy.

But there was nothing easy about this—the Third Crusade. The followers of Islam were being led by a man named Saladin.

Saladin had brought about the Third Crusade by capturing Jerusalem from the Christians left behind to rule after the First and Second Crusades. The Moslems thought him a saintly hero; Bryan, who had been skirmishing with him since they had at last reached the Holy Land in June, could not help but admire his honesty and courage.

Saladin was not a young man, but somewhere over five decades. As a much younger man, he had entered the service of the Egyptian caliph and had become vizier, or ruler, of that country. He had extended his rule over Damascus, Aleppo, Mosul, and Edessa. His military ability neared genius, and Bryan had learned that he was a great builder; schools and mosques rose beneath his hand, scholars were welcome at his palaces, and the peoples of his dry desert lands were rewarded with canals and irrigation. In battle he was fierce; off of the field, he was quiet-spoken, if firmly determined.

He and Bryan had come face to face once; they had battled fiercely with their swords, and been seen somewhat stunned to discover that neither could best the other.

They had almost smiled at each other as they backed off. But all around them had lain the dead, and their smiles had faded.

"You are Stede," Saladin murmured.

Bryan was surprised once again to know that mighty ruler knew his name. Saladin spoke in accented French, but his words were clear and Bryan had no difficulty understanding him.

"Yes. And you are the great Saladin." Saladin nodded. "My people perish, and yours die upon dry, distant sands."

"Jerusalem is our most holy city. Followers of Christ cry out to come in pilgrimage."

Saladin accepted this, and smiled sadly again. "This land, this desert, belongs to our people; I cannot give up Jerusalem. I would have no objection to pilgrims. Tell this to Richard the Lion-Heart."

"I will tell him," Bryan said. He added with unintentional bitterness, "But he will not listen."

"Then we must fight until he does listen. You will take victories, I will take victories. Men will die. And men, such as yourself, will continue to long for home. For your women, and your children."

Bryan had smiled grimly then. "Woman—only one, great Sultan."

"Only one? She must be very intriguing."

Moslem men, Bryan knew, kept several wives. Those with great wealth also enjoyed harems.

"I am a Christian, Saladin. And, yes . . . my one woman is very intriguing. But I have no children."

Saladin had laughed with a lusty humor. "Nor will you have children—while your wife pines in a distant land and you watch men bleed upon this sand! Or does your wife pine? If she is such a woman as you say, perhaps she finds another in your absence. You should be home. I am a reasonable man. Speak to your king."

With no fear, Saladin turned his back on Bryan and rode away. Infidel or Christian, an honorable man recognized another one. He knew that Bryan would have no more stabbed him in the back than he would have done so to Bryan.

Both men had lived to continue fighting.

Bryan told Richard about the meeting, but as he had expected, Richard gave him scant attention. The word of an "infidel" meant nothing to a Christian king. Richard wanted Jerusalem.

Today, Bryan did not fight Saladin, but his nephew Jalahar. Jalahar was an emir himself, with ancient rights to the oasis at Muzhair. His main residence was called the palace of Muzhair, and stood a few hours' ride past the oasis.

Bryan raised his sword now as the Moslems charged into the Christians. His men were the better trained; they were the more efficient fighters. But the Moslems came in hordes. Bryan shouted out orders; his Christians closed ranks, and fierce, hand-to-hand combat began. Bryan saw Sir Theban, a Montouian knight, draw out the old battle ax for which he was famed. A man fell before him, his head almost severed from his neck. Then Bryan forced his mind to go blank as he drew his sword; a mounted Moslem was screaming out his high chant as he flew, sword swinging, for Bryan.

The sun beat down upon them, making a sickening stench arise from the blood being shed. A wind rose, making the desert sands swirl, blinding men, filling their mouths with dryness. The battle wore on. Bryan's arm was nicked by a Damascan sword; he railed, and his sword pierced through the Moslem's middle.

A chant rose again; the Moslems were retreating. Bryan wiped the sweat and sand from his eyes and followed their retreat.

Mounted upon a faraway dune and silhouetted against the yellow-blue day, Bryan saw the Emir Jalahar. He was unmistakable, for his horse was as pure white as Bryan's was midnight-black.

Jalahar . . . Saladin's nephew, and a fierce, brutal fighter. But he was a young man, no more than two decades plus, and he hadn't yet learned his uncle's wisdom and strategy.

This was one battle that Jalahar had lost.

Bryan believed that he could feel Jalahar's eyes upon him, returning the scrutiny. Jalahar had lost, but it had been a battle well fought. Both men knew it. Jalahar dipped low in his saddle in acknowledgment of "Stede." Bryan lifted a hand in return. The Moslems disappeared over the dune, and Bryan turned to the dismal task of sorting the wounded from the dead. "Make haste!" he ordered his men. "Our wounded will die quickly here, of the heat."

Sir Theban, a massive warrior, stocky but built almost as a square so laden was he with muscle, walked by Bryan's side. He paused by a groaning man, and Bryan shouted back for someone to bring aid. They went on; Sir Theban suddenly knelt.

"The Virgin Mary bless the wretched girl!" he cried.

Curiously, Bryan lowered himself to the balls of his feet. Sir Theban had turned over a sand-encrusted body. It was that of a woman. A girl, rather. One who had been young and lovely, but now wore a circlet of red death about her throat. "Who is she?" Bryan demanded thickly.

"One of the Frenchmen's whores," Theban answered softly. "She must have followed her knight to the camp last night."

Bryan began to swear vehemently. "Damn those men! I've told them time and again that I will not have women brought to the battle!"

He felt sick; so sick that he was afraid he would shortly humiliate himself by spitting the remains of his last meal over the sand. It was one thing to accustom oneself to dead men. But to see a girl—a lovely young girl, whore or no—as food for the desert carrions, he could not bear.

And this one . . .

Her hair was long and golden. It lay tousled and dirtied over her pale, sand-seared features. It had no touch of copper to it, no hint of fire, yet seeing the girl made Bryan think of Elise.

I live in misery because I long to see her so, he thought of his wife, but I bless God that she is not here.

He was certain that the Moslems had not meant to kill the girl; she had simply been in the way. No, they would not have meant to kill her. Blonds were rare here; had the warriors not been immersed in the battle, they would have tried to take her prisoner. She would have been quite a prize.

She would be no man's prize. She was dead. And for some reason, her death gnawed at him—he, Bryan Stede, who had learned to look death in the face long ago.

He stood. "Order a burial detail, Theban. I'm returning to the coastal palace to report to Richard."

Theban nodded. "What about the infidels?"

"Bury them, too!" Bryan thundered. "For the sake of God, Theban, do not look at me so. We shall not be able to claim this small ground if we do not rid it of the stench of death!"

Theban nodded. Bryan called to Wat, and ordered the men who had last drawn burial duty. They would travel back with him, carrying along the wounded.

He was silent as he started the ride back to the coast where the Christians had gained their foothold. Richard would shower him with praise. He had made a strong blow against Jalahar—and, therefore, against Saladin.

He didn't want to be showered with praise. He wanted to go home.

Long hours had become days, days had stretched into months. It was more than a year since he had been home. Letters . . . always there had been letters reaching him. Letters that were a curse rather than a blessing, for when he read of trouble, he was helpless, thousands of miles away. He and Marshal had argued themselves hoarse over the Longchamp problem; it had taken Richard forever to admit that there was a problem. Marshal had been allowed to return, while Bryan . . .

Bryan had lain awake night after night, praying. Worrying, thinking, agonizing. Over Elise.

It had been so very long.

And he had received the letter telling him that she had lost the child along with the one telling that she had conceived, so even that joy had been wrested from him before he had even been able to savor the taste of it. With what bitterness he had received that news! And Percy . . . dead. Gwyneth and her son alive only because of his foresight to arm Cornwall . . .

And only because of Elise.

Elise. He had been consumed with fear when Percy had left Richard's service due to his injury. Fear—and jealousy. Nights of anguish wondering if she would turn to the man she had intended, by choice, to marry.

And then Percy . . . had died. Bryan was sorry, but guilt also plagued him for the relief he had felt.

Elise would not be with Percy.

But the unwarranted attack that had brought on his death!

It could have been Elise. Elise burned out. Left to the mercy of traitorous cutthroats . . .

Only Eleanor had kept him from openly defying Richard and leaving for home.

Eleanor—who had sworn to keep her maternal eye upon Elise.

Bryan grated his teeth hard together. He no longer believed in this "holy" war. The Moslems cried to Allah just as they cried to God for help. They died—and left widows and orphans—just as the Christians.

But he would continue to fight, and fight with vigor. Only when Richard was satisfied would he ever be able to go home.

His brooding silence carried him to the port town where Richard had set up his quarters in a deposed sheikh's palace. It was a dazzling place of arches and minarets, hung with beautiful tapestries and rugs, laden with ornaments of gold and silver. The massive English King seemed incongruous in the delicate surroundings. Bryan often felt awkward himself, sitting on low silk-covered cushions, drinking from tiny cups—and constantly fearing that he might move too abruptly and destroy one of the fragile ornaments of crystal or glass.

He dismounted from his horse before the palace, and smiled at Wat, whom he had ignored for the long ride back. Wat had grown accustomed to his moods, though, and smiled tiredly in return as he took the destrier's reins from his duke.

Bryan looked up at the graceful lines of the palace and sighed. He was probably a miserable commander to his men, though he tried not to allow his own heartache to influence his temper. Sir Theban had told him once that he was alone too much, that there were many talented women about the town eager for a knight's hold.

Bryan had not been created for celibacy, but many months ago, while they awaited the day when Philip and Richard would quit arguing long enough to get the Crusade under way, he had succumbed to the lures of a pretty peasant girl. When she had left him, he had felt more dissatisfied than ever. The girl had not eased his hunger, nor had she begun to still the yearning in his heart that commanded his body. His wife, he decided with dry humor, had bewitched him. He had never really known her; she had never come to trust him. She kept dark secrets from him, and seemed to revel in taunting him.

But she had bewitched him.

If she were never to give the heir that he thought he so craved, he would not care, if he could be but near her. If he could begin to fathom what lay beneath her fiery pride . . .

He sobered suddenly, thinking of the dead girl who had brought Elise so strongly to his mind. His only comfort was knowing that Elise was now within the protective confines of Eleanor's care.

"Bryan!"

He heard his name called and frowned, knowing that he recognized the feminine voice. Then, from the simply fashioned doorway of the sleek palace, he saw a whirl of color. A woman with long, loose-flowing dark hair was racing toward him. A beauty, with the look of the devil in her dark eyes.

"Gwyneth?" he uttered hoarsely.

She was throwing herself against him, hugging him. "Bryan!" she exclaimed. Instinctively, he embraced her in return. He was glad to see her. She was a link with home.

Home . . .

He held her away, smiling. "Gwyneth! What are you doing here? How do you come to be here? Where is your son? And . . . Elise? How does she fare?"

Gwyneth laughed merrily. "I am here with a new force of men!"

"A force of men?" Bryan demanded, frowning. "God knows, we can use more men. But what men are they?"

Her eyes were truly dazzling. "Men who follow Elise, Duchess of Montoui and Countess of Saxony, and so forth! You two do have so many titles, Bryan! It was the queen's suggestion. She told us about the days when she rode on crusade with Louis of France and—Bryan?"

His bronze skin had taken on a frightening pallor; his eyes had gone from blue to black as they could when he was angry.

"Elise . . . is here?" he demanded, his voice grating.

"Installed in your chamber," Gwyneth answered uneasily, wishing suddenly that she hadn't waylaid him first. He was silent for a moment, staring up at the sculpted windows of the palace.

"Elise was . . . truly efficient and wise, Bryan. When the trouble started in England, she increased the guard. With Longchamp a threat no longer, she had more men-at-arms than she needed. They were eager to come on crusade, Bryan . . . Bryan?"

"What?" He glanced back at her as if he hadn't heard a word she had said. "Your pardon, Gwyneth. I will speak with you later. I'm sorry about Percy . . ."

Distractedly, he walked by her, and walked up the few steps leading to the palace. Then he was running, pushing by the servants as he tore along the white and gleaming corridors to the rear stairway. The door to his chamber was ajar; he flung it open.

She had known he was coming. She still leaned against the window seat that looked over the courtyard. At his brash entrance she started, but she did not rise.

He stopped inside the doorway, staring at her as he had that long-ago April night. But then she believed that night had been part of a dream, for she barely knew the stranger before her.

His skin was darkened past bronze by the sun; the creases about his dark-fire eyes were deeper than she remembered last. He seemed to have grown taller, and broader about the shoulders; his dark hair was longer, curling over the nape of his tunic. He had just come from battle, she thought, and she did not remain sitting because of intentional disrespect, but because she suddenly felt too weak to stand. She had been in love with him forever, it seemed now. But time had swept away all tentative bonds between them. She still loved him; seeing him made her tremble; her body seemed to melt and throb along with her heart. But she could not run to him. She could not throw her arms around him, and she could not say all the things that she had dreamed she might when she saw him again. She did still know him enough, or remember him enough, to realize that he was angry.

He didn't want her there. She had traveled across land and water for endless months to be with him—and he didn't want her there! From the window she had watched a smile like the sun strip the tension from his features when he greeted Gwyneth; she had watched him hug Gwyneth, hold her . . . laugh until Elise had been forced to remember breathlessly how handsome he could be . . .

But his laughter had been for another woman.

Bryan swallowed, wishing he had shut the door so that he might have leaned against it. She was like cool water in the sand-parched desert. Like Gwyneth, she wore her hair loose, the sun-fire locks curled about her in sleek splendor. She wore a costume of some new design: loose trousers beneath a tunic sitting along the legs. The sleeves were a pale aqua, the tunic a darker hue that caught that elusive color of her eyes, which was between blue and green. A spellbinding color—he had lost himself within it long ago, and hadn't known a minute's peace since. Her clothing was concealing, and yet to his mind, it concealed nothing. She was slimmer, but still she curved where he longed to touch her, and even as he stood there wanting to berate her for her presence, he had no control over the inner desire that was already pulling her to him, stripping her until he held her naked to him . . .

"It has been a long time," Elise said, speaking first. She had meant to keep her voice soft, but because of his thunderous look, a note of defiance crept into her voice.

"What is this . . . madness?" he hissed to her.

She shrugged, confused and hurt by his attitude. "Perhaps men are not the only ones to crave to ride to glory. I had an army; I brought it on crusade."

"You're not staying," Bryan said bluntly. His knees were shaking. He turned around to close the door, then noticed that Jeanne was busy in the back corner of the room, shaking clothing out from a travel trunk. Jeanne stopped in her task and looked from Elise to Bryan.

"Out, Jeanne," Bryan commanded softly.

"Bryan! Jeanne, you needn't take orders from—"

"Out, Jeanne," Bryan repeated.

Jeanne glanced at Elise, but obeyed Bryan. Bryan closed the door, and at last leaned against it, praying the solid wood would give him strength.

"Bryan! You've been gone over a year! You've no right to start ordering my servants about!"

"I'm sure she understands," Bryan drawled. "Elise, you're not staying here. I appreciate the men, but you're leaving in the morning."

"I am not!" Elise exclaimed, torn between the pain and anger. "I trained those men! I—"

"Elise! It is dangerous here!"

"Dangerous!" She started to laugh bitterly. "There was danger in Cornwall, Bryan Stede, and I handled it quite nicely without you, thank you."

He lowered his lashes suddenly and his fingers knotted into his palms to form fists. No, he hadn't been there. He had been traveling on this stupid quest that meant nothing! She had every right to berate him, she had been in danger, but he could not stand for her to be in such a position again, while he was helpless. The whore who had died today . . . she had done so almost beneath his eyes . . .

"Bryan," she said quietly, "I did not see you ordering Gwyneth to leave."

"Gwyneth is not my wife. She is a duchess in her own right. I cannot tell her what she must do."

"I am a duchess in my own right, Bryan!"

"You are also my wife."

"I'm staying."

"You're not!"

"We'll ask Richard about that, won't we? I realize that you are the king's right-hand man, but Richard will want my guard. And they are my guard, Bryan!"

"So you would defy me by going to the king!" Bryan said hoarsely, incredulous and angry.

It was Elise who lowered her lashes this time. She longed to cry out the truth. I love you! I cannot leave you again! But he was rejecting her. She had dreamed that he would sweep her into his arms and tell her how he had needed her, envisioned her during all the lonely nights . . .

He hadn't even touched her, and he was coldly demanding that she leave.

She answered him tonelessly. "I won't get in your way, Bryan. But I don't intend to leave."

"All right, Elise," he said. "We will take this domestic dispute to the king. I'll agree to abide by his decision, if you will do the same."

She glanced at him again, with her heart pounding. Surely Richard owed her! She would throw herself upon his mercy, and this time remind him bluntly that she was his blood; she had stood up against his enemies, while he had ruthlessly commandeered her husband away. This time, Richard had to listen to her . . .

She nodded swallowing. An awkward silence rose between them.

"You look well," she told him.

"I look like a sandpile," he replied. "But you . . . you are too thin. Are you well?"

Elise nodded, miserably wondering how they could be so far apart. "I've been very well since . . . I lost the child. Jeanne said that nothing was wrong with me, that with the night in the snow and Percy dying and the manor needing more fortification . . . that it all just became too much." She gazed at the floor, then at Bryan. "I'm sorry, Bryan!" she said huskily. "I know that . . . I wanted the babe desperately myself. I'm truly sorry!" Tears threatened to fill her eyes. She looked quickly to her hands, then jumped when he at last left the doorway and strode toward her, dropping to his knees at her side and taking her hands into his.

"Elise! I'm not angry about the child! Or maybe I am angry. Angry that I couldn't be there. Angry that it all fell to you, and that you probably did lose the babe because you were forced to take on too much. What I am worried about is now. I don't want you here, Elise."

She offered him a crooked, wistful smile, her fingers aching to reach out and touch his tousled hair.

"Not even for a night?" she whispered.

He heard the whimsy in her voice. It was the sweetest siren's call. He looked into the liquid aqua pools of her eyes and shudders racked his frame. He lifted his hands and allowed his fingers to tangle in her hair as he held her face between his palms and leaned closer to kiss her. Her lips were honey; they parted at his touch and he hungrily ravaged her mouth, feeling his body throb with the promise of an ecstasy he had awaited in his dreams, waking and sleeping.

She fell from the window seat, kneeling against him. Her fingers raked through his hair and bit into his shoulders. Her soft sobs muffled against his lips; she clung to him in a sweet and willful abandon.

He tried to pull away from her.

"I'm filthy," he said ruefully. "Covered with desert sand and the grit of battle."

"I don't care!" she whispered. "Bryan, hold me! Please, hold me!" She buried her face against his chest again, letting her feather-light caresses cover his warrior's frame. He held his breath, straining to hear her as she whispered again. "Love me, Bryan. Please, love me . . ."

He needed no further invitation, nor could he restrain his own desires further. He worked on his scabbard, and found her trembling fingers assisting his. The sword fell to his side. With lowered eyes she tugged upon his tunic. Together they pulled it over his shoulders. He stood, lifting her with him, and they found themselves locked in a fevered embrace once again.

It has been over a year since you held her! Bryan reminded himself. Be gentle, be tender, take care . . .

But the fire that surged in his blood was strong, and he found himself ripping her strange costume from her, rather than removing it gently. But she didn't seem to care; her lips were roaming over his chest; she nipped at his flesh, kissed it, teased and swathed it with the tip of her tongue. As he fumbled with her clothing, tearing cloth, she caressed him heedlessly, her nails raking pleasure down his spine. She was suddenly naked in his arms; the hard peaks of her breasts teased him, the arch of her hips sent his mind spiraling to rapture. It had been so long since he had held her breasts in his palms, touched the hard rouge peaks with the ardor of his lips, known the satin taste of her ivory flesh. His palms, rough with calluses, scoured over her, his kisses seared her. But when he laid her down upon the silk sheets of the low cushioned bed, she was up and in his arms again, tearing at his boots, at his hose, until he was as naked as she.

And he found that it was he who was being pressed against the cushioned softness of the low silk-covered bed. She came to him, cloaking him in the spun-gold beauty of her hair, rising above him as the shapely length of her long legs embraced him in a wild and wicked beauty, her thighs straddling his hips. She arched as he reached out to touch her, and as his fingers found her breasts with grazing reverence, he caught his breath with wonder at her perfection. Lithe and slender, curved and sculpted. Her breasts were so high, firm, and full to his hands, her waist so narrow, her hips so fluid and curved and lean . . .

Were he ever to be away from her a hundred years, he knew that he would always dream of her, wait for her, covet her; no woman could ever please him or touch him again, for the greatest beauty would pale in comparison to all that he had found with her. His need for her was deeper than the flesh, a hunger that could be sated, but never completely filled. Hers was a warmth far greater than the heat of passion, yet she touched upon his senses as no other woman ever could.

She made love to him with a wild and reckless abandon. As a warm breeze rustled the gauze of the exotic Arabic bedding, inhibition was lost to splendor. Bryan savored the sweet beauty of her aggressive fever, and tried to pull her back to him when she suddenly went still.

"You're wounded!" she told him, finding the spot where the sword had rent his arm.

"A scratch . . ." he murmured.

"But, Bryan, it must pain you—"

"'Tis a scratch, nothing more!" He swept his arms around her, dominating now. "I feel no pain except that which you alleviate for me now . . ."

He began to whisper to her, words that made her flush and quiver . . . and die a little more each time with wonder at the sensations that consumed and devoured her. Soon they were a tangle of limbs, kissing, touching, loving, soaring. Never had the fever burned so high, so brilliantly; never did it climax with such sweet, shattering pleasure . . . nor drift so slowly into a gratifying peace, leaving them entwined, murmuring . . . caressing.

But when Elise at last lay completely still, smiling shyly and meeting his indigo gaze, she saw that his eyes were brooding and clouded, somewhat torn, but . . . hard.

He smiled somewhat ruefully. "You still cannot stay," he told her softly.

"Why?" she whispered in despair.

He shrugged uneasily. "We gain a foothold, we lose a foothold. And, by God, Elise, I am heartily sick of the sight of blood! Fever, snakebite, the heat . . . our men die as thick as the cursed flies around us. Those we trust turn traitor. Always, it is a standstill. Saladin is strong, and powerful. He has a nephew whom I fight . . . almost daily. I hold the ground; he holds the ground. What is mine one day may not be the next. I do not want you here, Elise. I swear that the only way you will ever lead troops is over my dead body."

She swallowed, afraid to ask too much. She wanted to believe that he cared only for her life and welfare. She did not want to wonder if he kept one of the beautiful mixed-blood women of the port as a concubine; she did not want to ask how he filled his nights. Not now. She wanted only to stay.

"Bryan, I just arrived. I beg you to let me remain . . . a while. I will stay where you tell me to stay; I will not venture near the battle. The men I have brought will follow you; if I were to leave, I would need an escort. The strength of those who came beneath our banner could one day make a crucial difference."

He did not look convinced. She lowered her lashes and started to press warm, liquid kisses over the faded scars that marred his chest. She shifted slightly against him, allowing the tips of long tresses to tease over his thighs.

"I've . . . missed you . . ." she told him huskily, thrilling at the way his breath caught and his flesh quivered.

He lifted his hand to her face, smoothing her hair, grazing her cheeks with his knuckles.

"Perhaps you needn't leave right away—" he began, but then they were both startled by a sharp banging at the door.

"What is it?" Bryan thundered out.

A tentative voice followed a small silence. "'Tis Wat, milord. King Richard rages about the solar, awaiting word about your battle with Jalahar."

Bryan swore softly beneath his breath. "Tell the king I am on my way."

He rolled from the bed, not glancing at Elise as he fumbled back into his clothing, swearing again. "Were I ever to have another chance at life, I would not be favored by a king!"

He paused at the doorway and at last looked back at Elise, scowling for a moment, then allowing a slight grin to tug at his lips.

"For the time being, Elise, I will allow you to stay. But not here. We hold Antioch more firmly. I will take you there. I will not be with you often, as we are most frequently camped in the desert. But if it is your wish, you will stay. For now. You will promise me that you will leave if I do feel it imperative."

"Bryan—"

"Promise me."

She smiled very sweetly. "I promise."

Bryan seemed satisfied. He closed the door behind him, and Elise rested against the pillow while her smile became triumphant laughter.

He would never send her away.

She would see that he could never bear to do so!