XXIV

XXIV

October, 1190

The Palace of Muzhair

The Coastal Road

He was a man of medium stature, slim, but built wiry and strong. He was a brave man, raised to strength and courage by Saladin, a brilliant strategist. His name was Jalahar, and at twenty-five years of age he ruled over his domains with complete authority beneath Allah. He was known for a swift-rising temper; he was also known for a quick intelligence, and mercy when mercy was warranted. His eyes were a deep and haunting brown; his features were cleanly defined, sharp, but arrestingly pleasant. They bespoke his rugged life in the saddle, besting the elements cast his way at birth, reigning supreme over the desert.

From the scalloped window of his palace at Muzhair, the emir looked broodingly out on the Christian forces encamped far beyond the desert dunes that fringed his stronghold.

They could not take the palace. Of that he was certain. Just as Saladin was certain they would not take Jerusalem.

But this war, brought upon them by Christian interlopers, was costing him dearly—in trade, in the lives of his people. Each time he ventured out beyond his own borders, he drew an even greater toll of death, for the Englishman Stede, beneath the Christian king they called the Lion-Heart, knew how to hold his position.

He was a worthy opponent, Jalahar thought. If Allah willed that a man be cast into battle, it was good to be cast against a man with strength and intelligence.

"Jalahar."

He turned about, his desert capes swirling around him. His third wife, Sonina, a Damascene girl who was gracefully petite and exquisitely lovely, awaited him with her eyes lowered respectfully, her arms outstretched to offer him a bowl of honeyed dates. He smiled and walked to her, taking a date, tossing it about in his hand, then popping it into his mouth, keeping his eyes on the blushing girl all the while.

He took the bowl from her hands and set it on a low Turkish table, then walked across the breeze-swept room with her, pushing aside the gauze insect netting to lie beside her upon a bed of plush and colorful pillows.

He swept her veil away and studied her face, still smiling, for she was a gentle creature, yet wondering why he did not feel the joy in her company that he should. The great Mohammed had decreed that a man might take four wives; he had taken three. Sonina was the loveliest of his wives; she had been taught from birth that her place in life was to please a man. Jalahar could find no fault with her.

But the desire that should have risen when he touched her did not; and so he pulled her against him, and stroked the sleek ebony beauty of her hair.

"You go to battle again soon," she whispered.

"Yes," he said simply. Were he speaking to one of his men, he would have explained that he meant to sneak out of the town in a circuitous route that night; he could not attack the Christians head-on and find victory, but his spies had informed him that a small party, led by his nemesis Stede, would travel from town to town that night. His attack would hopefully surprise them completely, and if he did not win a great victory, he would at least cause substantial damage to the Christian forces.

"Will it end soon?" she asked him sweetly.

"As Allah wills it," he replied, and she fell silent. Sonina indeed knew her place. In Jalahar's world, his women were fiercely protected; but they were expected to remain quietly in the background, unless summoned forward. Jalahar would never discuss strategy with her; she was merely a woman.

And as a woman, she at last stirred him once more. He made love to her, noting her expertise and commending himself on the choice he had made when he had taken her as his wife. She was a daughter of a Baghdad caliph, a tenth daughter, and so the caliph had not insisted that she be taken as a number-one wife. She had come with a great dowry and far surpassed her sisters in beauty.

But when he had appeased his appetites, Jalahar kissed her lightly and sent her away. He closed his eyes and felt the warm breeze move around him. He did not feel really satisfied. So much was his . . . the magnificence of the palace, scores of servants, thousands of people who worshipped his name. His older two wives had given him sons and daughters; he fought only beneath the great Saladin; he was a man who seemed to have even the desert wind at his command.

He felt as if he held nothing.

It was this war with the Christians, he told himself. This ceaseless, eternal war . . .

But was it? Something was missing in his life, and he knew not what. He possessed all that could be possessed.

Jalahar sighed and rose, stretching his tight banded muscles. He dressed, turning his mind to the strategy of the night.

* * *

"Are you weary?"

Elise glanced at Bryan with a full smile beautifully curving her lips. She shook her head.

"Not weary at all, Bryan. I love the ride. Everything is so splendid to see!"

Bryan looked about. There wasn't much to see but desert, he thought dryly. But the sun was setting over the dunes that waved and undulated like a bronze sea, and the sky, shot full of gold and crimson that reflected over the elegant trappings of the horses, was magnificent. He returned his wife's bedazzled smile. "Sometimes, Duchess," he told her, "you can be easily pleased." He urged his horse closer to hers and leaned in the saddle to whisper softly for her ears alone. "Yet since it seems so easy for you to bring pleasure, it seems only fair that it should also come your way."

She blushed slightly and lowered her lashes so that he wouldn't see her continue to smile. "Bryan! Your men surround us."

"My men are quite pleased, too," he told her with a laugh. "They feel that my temper has made a vast improvement since you have arrived."

"Do they?" she inquired innocently.

"Uh-huh. And do you know," he told her with a conspiratorial glitter to his eyes, "I've heard a rumor that they all intend to ask whatever favors they wish of me tomorrow morning. They know that we have been apart a fortnight, but will be together again tonight."

"Bryan!" she exclaimed, glancing about herself, very grateful for the falling dusk, since she knew her flesh was pinkening with every word. But they rode to the rear of the fifty or so men who accompanied them across the desert, and none was watching them. She turned back to her husband with eyes innocently wide.

"Will you grant many favors?"

"Probably all."

She smiled, but then sighed, staring down at the pommel of her saddle. "But you will leave again tomorrow, too," she said softly.

He was silent a moment, then said, "Elise, you know that is the way it must be."

Over two months had passed since that first day when she had seen Bryan again. And in all that time, they had had, at best, ten full nights together. He was always riding out, and as she had promised, she was always remaining behind.

It seemed that when they were just beginning to become close, they were being torn apart.

The words "I love you" always hovered on her lips; they never had a chance to be spoken.

But Elise was happy. Happier than she could ever remember being. She worried about Bryan constantly, but here, she had the faith that he would return to her. Richard launched campaign after campaign; but Bryan was never so far away that he didn't return to her at least once every two weeks.

She refused to believe that God would allow him to die at the hands of the infidels.

And it was better—so much better—than waiting at home! She and Gwyneth visited the bazaars. They bought trinkets and perfumes, sweet-smelling soaps and exotic incense. The music in the streets was haunting; the sight of barefoot waifs scurrying about to earn a coin touched their hearts and made them laugh at the children's antics.

Oh, yes! This was far better than being at home, wondering and waiting.

The Western men of the First and Second Crusades had left their legacies behind them; many of the people were a blend of East and West, beautiful people, swaying easily with each change of government. They followed Mohammed, but served the Christians. Elise, stationed in whatever palace Richard held that Bryan considered safest, was served lavishly and well. She heard fascinating tales of magic and folklore; she learned that snakes could be "charmed"; she was taught the use of wonderful plants that could make hair shine like the sun, and keep the skin fresh and free from blemish.

She had met Philip Augustus of France, the wily French King. And she liked to believe that she had occasionally kept him and Richard from falling into heated verbal battles. The Western kings, it seemed, were always at odds on how the Crusade should proceed. Richard, who often chose to ignore her, had once confided to her that he was disgusted with Philip; the French King was already prepared to give up the quest. Richard's attitude toward Philip was fierce; before Henry's death, they had become the best of friends.

Bryan told her that now he foresaw war with France in England's future. But that was something that meant little to Elise now; Montoui was far away, and England was even farther.

She was here now, and here Elise felt so very alive. Even when Bryan was leading troops, she felt free and alive.

But it was those nights when they could be together that she lived for.

It hadn't been easy; they had become virtual strangers. And the past was marred with so much bitterness and mistrust. Elise had not been able to bring herself to talk about the child again, nor had she asked him about the countless months when they had been apart.

She kept a close watch on her tongue when Gwyneth was about; she still could not say that she trusted her friend, and she would often seethe in silence when she would see the two talking or laughing together. But to be fair, she hadn't seen Bryan be anything other than polite, nor had Gwyneth behaved toward Bryan as if she were anything other than a close friend.

That "closeness" would always bother Elise, but she did accept now that the past could not be changed. To worry about it or harp upon it would only turn her into a shrew.

And, she thought with a wry smile, she was the one in a better position at the moment to drive Bryan a little wild—when she chose. The Crusade was filled with handsome and powerful knights, men fascinated by women from home, gallant—yet respectful—since all were well aware of Bryan Stede's reputation with a sword.

It had been good. Not enough . . . but good. Perhaps she and Bryan were both afraid to delve beneath the surface, and so they accepted what was. He was her husband; she was his wife. For the time being, that simplicity would suffice.

And if he didn't come to her with wild and reckless proclamations of love, he did take her into his confidence. When he was able to come to her, the pattern was often the same. They would love desperately, fearing the barren time in between. But then they would lie awake, naked and barely touching, allowing the night breeze to cool their fevered flesh. Bryan would talk about the war and she would thrill to the fact that she was certain he said to her what he would say to no one else.

"I cannot help but admire them," he would say of the followers of Mohammed. "They strive for learning, cleanliness and purity of the body and soul. Just as we feel that we are God's warriors, they consider themselves soldiers of Allah. I am a Christian knight, and called to defend the principles of Christ. But Saladin and Jalahar . . . they are both honest men. Sincere, honorable. We are miles and miles away from home, and the only resolution that I can see is a truce. I believe that Saladin is willing to offer safety to Christian pilgrims, if we just leave them in peace."

"But Richard won't do it?"

"Richard is still dreaming of taking Jerusalem."

"Will we ever be able to go home . . . together?"

"Aye . . . one day."

And she would talk, too. She told him about Percy's death, about how frightened she had been over Longchamp's threats. He asked about the child Percy, and she tried to tell him brightly what a wonderful little boy he was.

But the things that weren't said were what always gnawed at Elise. If he had married Gwyneth, his son would await him. And he was strangely silent about Percy. Pensive. Did he believe that she had still loved Percy, and that Percy's death had taken her heart? Did he believe she would have been unfaithful . . . ?

Tonight, Elise didn't care what had been. She felt as if God had at last allowed her to purge the past. The horses couldn't move quickly enough for her liking; even when Bryan teased her and her heart soared, she was anxious to reach the palace at Antioch.

Anxious to be alone with him.

She had it all planned out. When they reached their chambers, she would plead sweetly for a bath. It would be filled with the most erotic oils; a scent both deliciously pleasing and sensual would rise with the steam to engulf them.

She would take her time . . .

So much time that they would both be mad with the torment, but she would have to see that he broke first. And she knew Bryan. He would ignore the fact that she was dripping wet, and impatiently plunge into the water to sweep her from it. She would protest his action with mock fury, and indignantly tell him that he must be courteous and gentle with her at all times. He, of course, would ignore her and toss her to the bed, but when he fell down beside her, his curiosity would rise and he would demand to know why. She would make him wait again, pretending not to hear him as she showered his throat with little kisses.

He would be torn between impatience and desire, and that husky grate would be in his voice when he ordered her to speak again. She would meet his eyes with her own wide and innocent, and then, only then, would she grow serious. She would tell him that she knew for certain that she was going to have a child, and she would promise him fervently that this one she would not lose . . .

"What is going on in your mind?" he suddenly asked her, and she turned guiltily about to find him studying her, his indigo eyes narrowed and pensive. "You smile, and then frown, and then smile so secretively again that I feel like dismissing priority and pulling you from that horse into my arms."

"And galloping into the desert forever?" she asked wistfully.

"Perhaps," he answered, feeling his heart seem to constrict in his throat as he watched her. Her hair was free tonight, a swirling cloak about her. Her eyes were so guileless, so startling in their perfect aquamarine color, so lovely against her ivory-and-rose complexion. She was not the girl he had once taken in such a tempest of mutual pride and anger; time had changed her. She was even lovelier now; her face held the beauty of trial and wisdom, she was still a tempest, and yet she had gentled.

He loved her so very much, and yet he was afraid. She was still as elusive as she had ever been; she still wore the sapphire, and he wondered if she didn't hold herself away from him, just as she held the secret of the ring.

He frowned as he reached across the space between them and broodingly took her hand. "I wonder," he murmured, meeting her eyes in a sudden, probing demand, "if you will ever come to trust me. Once, long ago, Duchess, you told me there were things I could take, and things that I could not. You were right. I took you. I made you my wife. I forced you across the English Channel, and I made you the lady of a new household. Yet always I've missed something. Because it cannot be taken. I wonder if you will ever give it to me."

Her heart seemed to pound like thunder within her chest, and she almost cried out with the beauty, and the fear. Give! she thought. I would give you anything in the world that I could . . .

She couldn't speak, and so she moistened her lips in an attempt to ease their dryness and make them move.

He smiled at her, crookedly, tenderly. "At least, my wife, I don't believe you're swearing vengeance against me anymore."

"No . . ." she managed to say softly. And then her lips curled into a smile, and her eyes met his brilliantly. "Bryan . . . I have looked forward so to tonight. I have many things to say to you."

His brows lifted in surprise. "Secrets?" he teased.

"Secrets . . ." she replied quietly. "One which I think will mean more to you than any other."

His features seemed to tighten suddenly; the indigo of his eyes was so dark she thought she would lose herself in it. His jaw became hardened and square, and she would have thought that he was angry were it not that he spoke to her so gently.

"Elise . . . Elise . . ."

His destrier was so close that their thighs clashed. She felt the tension in him, in his voice, and she started to shiver, wishing desperately that she could catapult herself into his arms. Never had God created a finer knight, a more magnificent man, and at that moment, she felt he was hers, truly hers, completely hers . . .

"Tell me!" he commanded her, and there was fire in the indigo of his eyes, yearning to his command.

Tell me! she wanted to cry out. Tell me that you love me, and only me, even if it is a lie.

But if he didn't, it wouldn't matter. She wanted to tell him about their child; she wanted to lay everything at his feet. The ring . . . the ring that had brought them together . . . she wanted to explain, to make him understand how frightened she had been of others knowing she was the king's bastard.

The picture of her beautiful night came to view: the steaming bath; the wonder of being in his arms; stripping away arms and armor; and, at last, touching.

"When we reach Antioch—" she began to whisper, but her words were broken, shattered, by a long, agonized scream from the front of the ranks.

"What the—"

"Jalahar!" someone screamed. "An ambush!"

Bryan nudged his horse forward. "Stay back!" he thundered to Elise. The destrier galloped forward, spewing desert sand. Elise swallowed in sudden terror of the night as she heard Bryan shouting orders. "Close ranks! Draw your swords! Circle protection! Don't panic! They haven't come in force!"

Perhaps they hadn't come in force, but the shrill chant of the Moslems rose as darkness seemed abruptly to embrace them. Horses were rearing, prancing . . . snorting and screaming. Arrows were flying. And the Moslems were upon them.

Bryan appeared beside her again with Gwyneth, Wat, and Mordred, who had been riding at the front. "Fall back to the dune!" he ordered her. "Hide! No matter what happens, don't come forward! Go!"

Elise stared at him, stunned. "I carry a knife—" she began, but he had slapped her horse sharply on the rump, and it jumped forward.

"Hide!" Bryan yelled to her. "By God, I'm begging you, go!"

She did. But as her horse raced forward, she turned back. The Moslems and the knights were engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Screams ripped through the air. Swords flew, glimmering, ravishing. Elise saw a melange of clashing men and beasts, blood and death.

"The dune!" Gwyneth called to her. "Elise! Get down!"

Mordred was pulling at her. She was too stunned, too horrified, too frightened for Bryan to dismount from her horse. She kept straining her eyes through the darkness.

She saw Bryan. He was still on his horse, raising his sword, plunging it down. Again . . . again. He fought one man, and the next was upon him.

"Elise!"

The battle, the terror in her heart, had mesmerized her. She didn't hear the pounding behind her until it was too late. Nor had she realized that in the trousers designed for them by Eleanor, she might well appear to be a man in the darkness.

She was unaware of anything except for the battle scene before her until she was suddenly attacked by a flying catapult, a man of gripping strength whose impetus dragged her from the horse and sent her spiraling to the ground.

Desperately she grabbed for her knife and raised it. A futile action. The Moslem was above her, his sword raised high, ready to strike.

But he didn't strike.

He stared at her.

Jalahar had been stunned to find his opponent a woman. In the darkness, he hadn't realized . . .

How could he have been so blinded? He had never seen such a woman. Never had he seen hair that was pure gold, or eyes that matched the beauty of the Aegean Sea. Her flesh was like moonlight, silken, pale.

And even though she might have been about to die, she stared at him defiantly, her knife raised, hate and pride illuminating that rare color of her eyes. Her breasts rose and fell hard as she gasped for breath and met his eyes without a flinch.

Jalahar rose abruptly, his movement lithe and smooth. He kept his eyes upon her as he moved for his horse.

Elise saw Mordred about to move from the dune. "No!" she cried, but her guard rushed forward for the Moslem. The strangely handsome, fine-boned Arab swung about, his sword already swinging. Elise screamed again as she saw Mordred fall, his shoulder spurting blood. She rushed to Mordred, but the Moslem man called her attention to him, speaking in a clear, barely accented French.

"He would be dead had I so desired."

She found herself staring at him again, at the deep, mahogany eyes that seemed both to pierce through her and caress her.

Then he bowed, spun around with his white robes flowing in the breeze, and vaulted onto his horse. Elise wrenched her eyes from him to look to Mordred's shoulder. The blood continued to flow, but Mordred opened his eyes and gave her a weak smile. "'Tis not mortal . . ."

Gwyneth came quickly to Elise's side, ripping apart her tunic to supply Mordred with a bandage. She spoke tensely to Elise. "We must get out of here. They know that we are here now. And that man . . . will be back for you, Elise."

"What?" Elise demanded, startled.

"It was Jalahar," Mordred murmured. "He will come back."

"Come back! You behave as if they will not be fought off! They will not be able to come back—"

Elise stopped speaking as she saw Gwyneth's eyes sorrowfully upon her. She turned back to stare at the ensuing battle. Thank God! Bryan was still horsed! But there were Moslems everywhere.

"Elise!" Gwyneth's scream awakened her to nearby danger once again. One of the white-clad desert warriors was stalking them, coming over the dune—smiling. His teeth were shockingly white against his swarthy complexion. He laughed, let out a cry, and vaulted down.

Elise had no chance to think. She lifted her dagger; it was too late for the Arab to stop his vault. He tumbled onto the knife, screaming his rage. Together they rolled across the sand. Elise experienced a minute of sinking terror, but relief flooded through her as she realized he had little strength left. If she just kept fighting, he would weaken . . . possibly die.

She fought him furiously, kicking, biting, punching wildly. His fist connected with her jaw, and she staggered, but desperation kept her going. She could hear Gwyneth screaming, and Mordred cursing out his helplessness.

But it was all right. The Arab's arms lost their hold . . . she was almost free.

Freedom came at a high price. Just as she entangled herself, Elise looked up, across the dunes. Bryan was riding furiously toward her. He saw nothing in his way.

And then she began to scream in earnest, for the wickedly shining blade of a Damascene sword was whipping through the night. Bryan at last saw it and tried to veer; he was too late. The blade caught his side, and he toppled from his loyal destrier, spinning across the sand with the momentum.

"Dear sweet Jesus! We are lost!" Gwyneth wailed.

Elise was on her feet, racing across the dune. Bryan's men seemed far away, cut off by the rise of another dune. But just as she had to reach Bryan, she had to rally them.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she ran to his side, but she screamed out orders. "Center and regroup! Rally, Christian warriors! All is not . . . lost!"

She did not see that they formed ranks again, nor would she ever know that her words had saved them from total defeat, that her golden-haired form, racing gallantly across the sand, gave them the spark of valor that they needed. She reached Bryan's side and fell down beside him, grunting and crying as she tried to twist about his muscle-laden form. His eyes were closed to her; his face, so strong of contour, was ashen. Even the firm mouth, which was harsh in anger and tender in love, had gone white. Elise laid her head against his chest; he breathed! She found his pulse . . . it beat . . . but so weakly! Madly, she began tearing at her tunic and struggled with his dented armor, to find the wound and staunch the flow of blood. At last she found it: a gash the length of her foot. And the blood! So much blood! She pressed at it furiously, ripped more material with which to bind, and prayed fervently that she was managing to stop the flow.

She stopped abruptly in her efforts, stunned, when she saw that the tip of a long blade had been set upon Bryan's throat. With horror she stared up—into the dark, hard, and haunting eyes of the Moslem who had wrested her from her horse.

"No!" she gasped, and only then did she realize that the night had gone silent. Not even the breeze whispered then. She looked around her and saw that the Christians and Moslems were at a standstill: the Moslems separating her and Bryan and the others behind the dune from the rallied knights. The tension was alive and vital, holding them all in a plateau as all nervously awaited the next movement.

The Moslem suddenly knelt down beside her. He touched the pulse at Bryan's throat. Then he looked curiously at Elise. "His wound is bad, but he may live. Stede . . . my very worthy enemy. A man who cannot be felled by ten of my best swordsmen, yet he falls like a fly for a woman."

Pain and panic welled in Elise's throat.

"You will not . . . kill him . . ." she pleaded. "You are Jalahar—a leader, not a murderer."

He rose. "Yes, I am Jalahar. And, no, I would not like to slay such a fierce and noble fighter when he lies upon his back. But as you see . . ."—his sweeping arm encompassed the Christian and Moslem armies who waited, deadlocked—". . . we have reached an impasse. As for me . . . I am intrigued by the woman with the golden locks for whom this man of steel is so willing to die. You will rise, and you will come with me—ordering your troops not to hamper our escape. Then, golden woman, he will be allowed to live. If he is cared for . . . he will live."

Elise stared at Jalahar with dismay rising in a wave of inner agony that was crippling. She gripped her stomach, fighting her tears as she hovered over Bryan. She could not leave him! She could not do as this Arab was demanding!

"Please!" she murmured, turning tear-filled eyes to Jalahar once again. His face remained impassive; he flicked his sword so that she was reminded of its razor's edge.

The tears ran freely down her cheeks as she buried her face against Bryan's chest, holding his unconscious form with all the love she had always been afraid to offer.

"I am waiting," Jalahar reminded her.

She bit her lip, feeling the pounding of her husband's heart beneath her. At last she raised her head and tenderly kissed his dirt-streaked face. He needed care. Every moment that she tarried cost him more. She loved him so much. It would be like dying to leave him; if she did not, he would surely perish.

Elise forced her tears to stop. She wiped her cheeks with cold defiance as she faced Jalahar again.

"One moment. I would leave him in the care of another."

Yes . . . she thought, I will leave him in the care of another. Gwyneth. It is Gwyneth's face he shall see when he awakens; it is Gwyneth who will nurse him, care for him . . . Gwyneth, while she . . .

Again she felt as if she would double over with the pain that razed her insides. But she had to do it . . . she had to. Or he would die.

At the dune she called to Gwyneth. The terrified Gwyneth showed her own courage as she gazed at Elise, then crawled from the dune to meet her, her eyes raking nervously over the Moslems as she approached Elise.

"Bryan . . . lives," Elise said haltingly. "But he will not if he does not reach the best of Richard's physicians . . . quickly. He is losing blood so quickly. It must stay staunched, the wound must remain bound . . ."

Her words started to break and falter. Gwyneth gazed from Elise to the still and silent Jalahar. "Elise . . ." she whispered blankly, and then the tears started to fall from her eyes. She embraced Elise, and both women were crying.

Elise tore from her, knowing that minutes—and Bryan's blood—were draining away in the desert sand. "Go to him!" Elise whispered desperately, and, half blinded by the tears that obstinately remained in her eyes, she began walking toward Jalahar. She was tempted to fall to Bryan's side again. One last kiss upon lips that were ashen and cold . . . but Jalahar caught her arm. Not cruelly; firmly. He directed her toward one of his men. She found herself lifted up on a horse.

"Speak to your men," Jalahar told her quietly.

Elise swallowed, then raised her voice high. "Allow the Moslems to ride!" she shouted. "Else all will be a slaughter. I command you to continue on to the king!"

She heard the Moslems mounting their horses around her. Someone said something in that strange tongue; her horse was whipped; it reared up, then broke into a gallop. Instinct forced her to clutch the pommel, for all thought and feeling had gone dead.

She would only remember forever that wild ride across the sand with a distant vagueness; Jalahar did not stop until they had traveled a great distance, through all of which Elise had felt only as if she were entering a great gaping black pit of hell.

When they did stop, he came to her side. The moon now granted a slender light, enough to see silhouettes against the sand and sky.

"There—they continue to the king."

Elise stared out across the desert. It was true. The knights were obeying her command; they trod slowly toward the northeast. The ever-present tears clouded Elise's eyes; she could see that the pace was slow because two husky men carried the makeshift litter they had made for Bryan Stede.

"You love him very much?" Jalahar asked her curiously.

"Yes."

"You will forget him."

Life and spirit returned to her, and she spun about to spit at him. "Never! Nothing that you do will ever cause me to forget him. I am his wife, Jalahar . . . bound to him by God, bound to him by love. You will never change that."

He smiled at her, flashing white teeth, somehow touching her with eyes that seemed strangely sad. Without anger, he wiped his cheek of her spittle.

"But you will forget him. I can be gentle, and I can be patient. From the moment I saw you, golden one, my heart clouded my mind. You will bear me many children, children of my strength, of your beauty and pride. And when you hold them, you will learn to forget the valiant Stede."

Elise started to laugh. "You will have to be very patient, Jalahar. Very patient. I already carry a child. Stede's child."

His smile didn't falter. "I have already told you that I am patient. I can wait."

"I will kill you if you try to touch me. If not, I shall kill myself."

It was Jalahar's turn to laugh. "You will not kill me, Stede's woman. Nor do I believe that you will care to take your own life. I will force nothing from you . . . until you are ready to be forced. And you needn't fear for your child. I am not a murderer of children."

Elise continued to stare at him, fighting for composure. Dismay and confusion swept through her; despair and desolation gripped her.

She wanted to drop to the sand and cry until she created a pool of water that could drown her and ease the pain in her heart. She wanted to die . . . but she didn't want to die. Because Bryan's child was all that was left to her, and she had to believe that Jalahar would never hurt her child.

"Come . . ." he told her, spurring his horse around. He reached for her reins; she was too dispirited to care.

"What do they call you?" he asked her.

"Elise," she answered tonelessly.

He reached out and touched a tendril of her streaming hair, as fascinated as if he held true gold.

"Don't be afraid, Elise," he said softly, his French smooth and strangely soothing. "I will not hurt you. More likely," he added ruefully, "I will revere you."

They continued plodding along the rolling sands. At last they reached the high white walls outside a towering and exotic palace.

"Muzhair," he told her.

A man shouted for entry. Massive, heavy gates began to open, and they entered a courtyard that was prepared for warfare and siege with catapults, crossbows, and rams. Elise swallowed back the tears she had finally staunched as the heavy gates closed behind her.

Jalahar pointed to a window high in a tower.

"Your chambers," he told her softly.

She said nothing, and there was nothing but silent misery in her beautiful eyes when they met his.

"I will leave you at peace," he promised her. "Until . . . your child is born."

Still she made no reply. "You are my hostage!" he snapped at her suddenly. "My prisoner, my possession. I offer you the finest care, the finest quarters. You say nothing."

She smiled at last. "If you mean that you will leave me at peace, then I am grateful. But if you seek to give me something, give me my freedom. I love my husband. I will never be able to give to any man, for I have given my heart and soul to him. He would understand that, Jalahar. He had learned that there are things that cannot be taken, only received—when given."

Jalahar laughed. "That may be, Elise. That may be. But perhaps I will content myself with what I can take. And time . . . time, lady, changes many things. Perhaps you will forget his face." Jalahar sobered. "And perhaps . . . he will die. What then, Elise?"

She didn't answer; the tears had sprung to her eyes again.

Jalahar clapped his hands; two silk-clad girls appeared, and he muttered something to them in the language that seemed so foreign and strange to her ears.

Jalahar dismounted from his horse and lifted her from hers. "Welcome to Muzhair, Elise." He prodded her toward the girls. "Sleep well. Tonight . . . you may do so at peace."

She made no effort to speak or fight as the girls led her to a high-arched entrance. Jalahar called something out, and Elise turned listlessly back to him.

"I do not believe that Stede will die. I will see that you hear how he fares."

"Thank you," she murmured.

It was ridiculous to thank a man who had abducted her.

But Bryan lived . . .

In the confusion, in the fear, in the despair, she had to cling to that fact. She had done the only thing that she could.

Bryan still lived . . .