XXVII

XXVII

Elise awoke with the strange feeling that someone was watching her. She opened her eyes to see Gwyneth's dark, sparkling eyes staring down into hers; a small grin curled her lips into a pretty set of amusement.

Elise stared at her blankly for several seconds. "I've died—and we've reached heaven or hell together."

Gwyneth laughed. "Nay, Elise, you're quite alive. And I must say, I do enjoy the sight of you! I'd never thought you could look anything other than the perfect slender sylph, but you do resemble the fattest friar I have ever seen!"

Elise flushed slightly, but laughed along with Gwyneth, still in wonder that Gwyneth could be sitting by her side in Jalahar's palace. She raised herself awkwardly—in the past month it seemed that she had doubled in size—and asked, "How can you be here?"

"Very easily. I found my way to Saladin—who is, I might say, a fascinating and charming man—and thereby arrived here by escort."

"But why?" Elise whispered. "Gwyneth, we may never be freed. Now that you are here, they may never allow you to leave!"

Gwyneth shrugged. "I'm not completely sure myself. Ah, well . . . Percy always did say that I was a bit of an adventuress." She sobered. "I heard of your child, Elise. I thought that you might be in need of a friend."

Elise stared at Gwyneth in wonder. A thousand questions raced through her mind. A thousand fears, a thousand worries. All about Bryan. Yet if Gwyneth had . . . taken her place with Bryan, why would she have come here?

Gwyneth read the questions in her eyes, and spoke quickly. "He is fine now, Elise. Bryan is fine. He had a long, dreadful bout with the fever, but he came from it, strong as always at last."

She wasn't going to cry, Elise told herself. She had shed so many tears already . . . but moisture stung her eyes.

"You nursed him through it?" she whispered to Gwyneth.

"I—and the Egyptian—yes."

"Thank you," Elise murmured, setting her teeth into her lower lip. Whatever had happened didn't matter, because Gwyneth had helped to keep him alive . . .

But had he survived . . . only to die in battle?

"Gwyneth, what does Bryan think? What is he doing? Surely he knows that I am here. Gwyneth, the child is his, not Jalahar's. Does he know that? Oh, I have been so torn! I thought that if he believed the child to be Jalahar's, he might ride away, and therefore live; yet I do not know if I could bear his not knowing . . . not believing that he would come . . . Oh, Gwyneth! Tell me! Tell me about him—I am starved for the truth!"

Gwyneth hesitated, only a fraction of a second. "He is like all men," she told Elise ruefully. "He was insane with fury to think of you with Jalahar, and when he first heard about the child . . ." She lifted her hands in explanation. "Men can also be as simple as children. His attention was directed to the fact that the child was due very soon . . . so I believe that he is convinced that his son is about to be born in another man's palace."

"What will he do?" Elise whispered.

Gwyneth shrugged. "Richard would allow him to do nothing—until he had completely regained his strength. But soon . . . soon he will gather the cream of the army and bring them against the palace."

Elise fell back to her pillow, thrilling sweetly to the knowledge that he would fight for her, whether it was for love, or possession . . . or his child. But the tremors of delight were combined with darker shivers of fear; Bryan and Jalahar would most certainly seek out each other. One of them would die. Bryan had to win . . . but even that victory would bring pain, because she couldn't help but care for the desert prince who had abducted her, but had shown her nothing but gentleness.

Still, she had to pray for his death. Because it would be Jalahar or Bryan.

"Does Jalahar know that you are here?" she asked Gwyneth. "Does he know that Bryan . . . will ride?"

"Aye, he knows I'm here," Gwyneth said dryly. "No one is allowed near his golden prize without his permission. I am allowed to stay with you—as long as I know to leave the chamber the moment he walks in!"

"Did he . . . say anything when he knew for certain that Bryan would ride here?"

"His attitude seems very fatalistic. That appears to be the way of the Moslems. I think he has known all along that Bryan would come and that they would meet."

"I had hoped that maybe . . . maybe knowing for a certainty that the Christian troops would be concentrated against his palace and domain, he would . . . release me."

Gwyneth sighed. "I think, Elise, that you underestimate the power of a man's pride—and desire."

"I am not . . . worth this!" Elise murmured.

"Probably not," Gwyneth replied cheerfully. She stood and began to amble curiously about the luxurious chamber, picking up the silver brush, glancing at the jeweled goblets on the Moroccan stand. "'Tis not such a bad prison!" she said softly.

Elise leaned back again. She had felt very tired lately, heavy and lethargic. At times her emotions were intense; at other times, she felt too weary and defeated to care about anything.

"'Tis a prison just the same," Elise noted.

Gwyneth spun about and returned to her side, the sparkle back in her eyes as she asked, "What is he like, Elise?"

"What is who like?" Elise asked.

"Jalahar! Oh, come, Elise! You are a woman, not a stick! Surely he moves you! He is slim, but so solid! His features are handsomely arranged, and his eyes seem to strip a woman, touch her soul. Any but the blind could see that he knows how to touch . . . to love. To appreciate beauty . . ."

Elise stared at her friend and nemesis with amazement, and then understanding. She had felt the draw to Jalahar herself; only the depth of her love for Bryan had kept her from capitulating to the desert prince.

"There is little I can tell you that you don't already know," she said to Gwyneth. "He has never touched me."

"Never . . . touched you?" Gwyneth repeated incredulously.

"He promised from the first that he would leave me in peace until Bryan's child was born." Elise glanced sadly at Gwyneth. "Bryan will never believe that, will he?"

Gwyneth grimaced, then shrugged. "Perhaps he will. He will want to believe it." She smiled. "Now, get up."

Elise closed her eyes. "For what?"

"Because it isn't good for you or the child to lie about like a slug. You'll make the birth all the more difficult."

"Will that matter?" Elise asked wearily.

"Up!" Gwyneth insisted.

Elise discovered it was easier to give in than to fight.

* * *

On the morning of the last day of April, 1192, by the Julian calendar, Elise was awakened by a pain in her lower back that rivaled any she had ever known. She gasped, digging her fingers into the silken sheets, but she did not cry out. It was barely dawn; she stood, and shook as she tried to pour herself a goblet of water. But suddenly she felt as if she had been drowned in water herself; the crippling pain came again, and this time she cried out.

Gwyneth, tousled and heavy-eyed with sleep, came to her side quickly. "'Tis definitely time!" she said excitedly. "Stay still. I'll find you a new gown, and call for Azfhat."

Shivering, Elise did as she was told. Somehow, she had never quite believed she would actually give birth in the palace. In her dreams she had miraculously been freed, and when she had produced a beautiful and healthy son, Bryan had been at her side. Dreams were not reality; her babe was coming. Jalahar would force her decision; she could keep the child, or allow it to be brought to Bryan . . .

Thankfully, another physical pain swept her to ease the torment in her mind. Nature gave her but one objective; that to give the child birth.

Gwyneth was slipping the wet gown from her head, replacing it with a dry one. Her teeth chattered as she was led back to the bed. She vaguely heard Gwyneth pounding at the door; she heard whispers, and she closed her eyes.

Azfhat was with her when she opened her eyes, as blunt and gravely calm as always. "It will be a long time yet," he told her. "Though not too long since you have lost the waters." He lifted her head for her to drink something, assuring her that it would harm neither her nor the babe, but would take the edge from the pain.

The edge was gone; but misted pain remained. Hours passed.

Azfhat was then called away. Satima and Gwyneth were with her, cooling her forehead with cloths, encouraging her to breathe deeply. She heard Gwyneth whisper to Satima in her guttural, English accented French.

"Why has Azfhat gone?"

"Jalahar called him." Satima shrugged with typical Moslem fatality. "He did not linger in the palace when his own sons were born. Today he leaves a battlefield, and he demands to know what takes so long, and why he hears her scream."

Downstairs, in the elegant, fountain-laden inner courtyard, Jalahar paced the tiles and railed against the stoic physician.

"You are the physician—the greatest physician, the Egyptian scholar! Why is it that you can do nothing? If she dies, you will die! I will see you set amidst a pot of tar . . . boiled slowly!"

Azfhat sighed, unperturbed by the hot temper directed wildly at him. "She will not die, Jalahar. She suffers no more than any woman must. I can do nothing, because life must take its course. She screams because life is a painful process. Neither you nor even the great Saladin can order the child to come before it is ready—whether I am boiled in tar or not!"

Jalahar stared at the physician in pure frustration. Azfhat contained his laughter and refrained from shaking his head in wonder. Both the Christian knight and the desert prince . . . magnificent warriors, leaders of men—they were fools over the blond woman.

Azfhat shrugged mentally. That was the way of the world. He was too old and too cynical himself to fall to the spell of a beautiful face, yet even he had felt hypnotized by the power of those eyes of an azure sea. She could not be blamed for bringing them all to ruin. She was already a legend to Moslems and Christians alike, the golden beauty who had lain over her husband and lover, and bargained for his life while he lay in a pool of blood.

Azfhat saw nothing but misery in the future. He had watched the Christian knight live by the power of his will; he had seen him battle his way to towering strength again by that same force.

And he knew Jalahar. When the two men came together . . .

Azfhat bowed. "If I have your leave, Jalahar, I will return to the woman, and offer the service that you require."

"Go!" Jalahar thundered. Azfhat grimaced, then went to attend to Elise.

* * *

Although she was quite convinced she was dying—and that if someone would have offered to end it all with the swift blow of a sword, she would have welcomed that blow—Elise's labor was relatively an easy one; the child was born well before dusk.

And when she heard the first cry, she was filled with such wonder that she would have gladly done it all over again.

"'Tis done—bear down but one time," Azfhat told her.

"The babe—"

"Do as I say," Azfhat commanded. The cord was cut, and the physician drew the afterbirth from her.

She vaguely saw Gwyneth cleaning and swathing the bundle, and she tried to sit. "Gwyneth! Give him to me, please!"

Gwyneth laughed with delight. "Him! Elise, it is a daughter, and she is beautiful. When it dries . . . yes, she will have an amazing full head of snow-blond hair, and her eyes . . . they are the deepest blue I have ever seen!"

"A daughter!" Elise exclaimed. "I had been so very sure it would be a boy."

Gwyneth handed the babe carefully to Elise. Azfhat moved over to her with interest. "She will be a great beauty—and great trouble, I fear, as her mother!"

Elise glanced sharply at Azfhat, but an uncustomary grin took the sharpness from his words. He told her that he would leave her with her child, that she might hold the babe, but then should sleep.

She was far too overwhelmed with wonder and newfound adoration to sleep. She and Gwyneth—and even Satima—marveled over the infant girl, and Elise fumbled awkwardly through her first attempt to nurse her child. But the tiny, fervent tugs against her breast gave her a feeling of delight unlike anything she could imagine, and she was both ecstatic and dead-weary when she at last allowed Gwyneth to take her child from her.

"She makes me think of young Percy," Gwyneth said.

Elise, exquisitely warmed by the wonder of the experience, smiled at her sadly. "Don't you miss him terribly, Gwyneth? How do you bear being away?"

"I don't know," Gwyneth answered softly, cradling the infant to her. "I love him, I truly do . . . but I had to leave Cornwall when you did. I feel as if I'm searching for something—but I don't know what." She smiled at Elise and chuckled ruefully. "Don't worry about anything, Elise. Rest."

The command was easily obeyed. She didn't think about the future, immediate or distant. She closed her eyes and slept blissfully.

* * *

That night she and Gwyneth inspected the baby again, counting her toes, laughing at her length. "She will be tall," Gwyneth said with assurance. And look at her fingers! How long they will be! Long and elegant!"

"She isn't at all scrunched up!" Elise said with maternal pride. "She really is lovely!" she marveled.

The door suddenly swung open. Both women looked up, startled.

Jalahar stood in the doorway, his fine features unfathomable, his eyes upon Elise. He gazed from her to Gwyneth with a slight inclination of his head. "Out," he told her bluntly.

Gwyneth was not a woman to be daunted by any man. She glanced at Elise, shrugged, and walked to the door. But she stopped to tap Jalahar's cheek lightly with her palm. "Your wish is my command," she said with marked sarcasm. Jalahar gripped her wrist and stared at her with eyes that burned with annoyance. "Do not play upon temper, madame—not if you wish to return to this room."

Gwyneth jerked her wrist from his grasp and left the room. Jalahar came to the bed and sat by Elise's thigh. He stretched his arms to her.

"I wish to see the child."

An absurd panic filled her; she was weak, and she had never felt so defenseless, nor had she ever felt such a strong compulsion to protect and defend. She was loath to let the child out of her arms.

Jalahar grated his teeth with an oath of impatience. "Have I ever hurt you?" he demanded angrily. "Do you think I am a butcher to harm an innocent babe?"

Elise swallowed miserably and handed him the child with misgiving. She needn't have feared. He was tender with her precious bundle, supporting the babe's neck with care. He stared at her a long while, parting the swathing to count fingers and toes, as Elise had done herself. The baby shrilled a protest. Jalahar smiled, and returned her to Elise.

"She is a truly beautiful child. What will you call her?"

"I hadn't decided . . . yet," Elise said quietly, keeping her eyes downcast. How could she name the child . . . without Bryan?

"You had best decide. I assumed you would want her baptized in your Christian way. A priest will come tomorrow."

Elise nodded, cuddling the babe to her. "Lenore," she said suddenly. "For the queen," she added.

"Ah . . . yes, Eleanor of Aquitaine. Queen of France, and then of England. I was not born when she came here with the old French king, but the legends have not died. It is fitting that she should be named for such a woman."

Lenore, named for a queen, was unimpressed. She continued to howl, despite her mother's tender caresses.

"She is hungry," Jalahar told her.

Elise did not want to nurse the babe with his eyes upon her. But Jalahar's dark eyes were intense; just as she knew that he would never harm her, she knew he wouldn't leave her chamber.

Her eyes repelled his, but she adjusted her gown and brought the infant to her breast. Jalahar watched her silently, seeming to brood. Elise turned her eyes to her daughter's golden head. Despite Jalahar, she felt the sheer delight of her love once again, and she kissed the little head, caressing it with her cheek.

"I wonder," Jalahar said at last, "if you will love our child so tenderly."

Elise forgot the babe for an instant of alarm. She gazed at Jalahar and discovered that his dark eyes met hers with a brooding intensity that was determined . . . and frightening.

"Even now," she whispered, "Bryan amasses an army to bring against you."

"So I have heard. But the walls of Muzhair might well be impossible to scale."

"He will not stop—"

"Perhaps not. As I have said, it is likely that we shall meet. But time begins to run out like the desert sands . . . for you."

Elise swallowed painfully. "You said that you would never . . . force me."

"Will it be force?" he queried softly, bending near her. His hand brushed hair from her forehead; he opened his palm and cupped her cheek, ever careful of the child, who nursed in oblivion to her mother's racing heart. "Have you not come to care for me a little?"

Elise held her breath, near tears at the tenderness of his touch, the wistful longing in his voice.

"I love Bryan," she told him quietly, holding Bryan's daughter near as a steadfast reminder.

Jalahar smiled sadly. "I have waited a long time," he told her. He stood. "Your time has not yet run out; Azfhat says I must not touch you until the moon rises full again."

Elise shivered. A month. It was a long time . . . and no time at all. She had already been in the palace for seven months, waking daily to wonder if Bryan would ever come . . .

Jalahar interrupted her thoughts.

"The English King has sickened, Elise. The Lion-Heart fights his battles from his bed. He holds a number of the coastal towns, but he will never take Jerusalem. It is unlikely that he will take this palace. Yet neither can we best the Lion-Heart. Advisors on both sides, wise military strategists, tell them that they must come to an agreement, and sign a truce. Your husband is a worthy foe: a great and courageous knight. But not even he can take a fortress such as mine on his own. It is time for you to decide if you wish to keep the child, or send her to her father. Since you have produced a daughter and not a son, Stede will perhaps not care so much if you wish to keep her here. Sons inherit."

"I was a girl!" Elise snapped. "And I inherited!"

Jalahar shrugged. "Then perhaps you will wish the babe to be taken to him. You must make a decision soon."

He left the room before she could reply. Elise looked down at her tiny daughter, sleeping now, the soft, platinum fuzz of her hair teasing Elise's cheek. The babe whimpered slightly and one little fist shook. Elise could feel the small motion as the babe breathed; she could feel the warmth of her daughter, and the complete need and trust of the child nestled to her.

"I cannot send you away!" she whispered. "Never . . . I love you so much. You are all that I have of Bryan . . ."

She closed her eyes, the bliss she had felt at the birth of her daughter gone, torment eclipsing all else.

Jalahar never lied to her. Richard was apparently very sick; only desperate illness could keep him from the field. The Christian knights had been fighting a long and fruitless battle; surely they longed for home.

What would happen? Bryan could not scale the palace walls by himself.

Time . . . was running out.

* * *

"Elise! Come to the window!"

Elise, after placing Lenore in the lovely little basket Satima had given her, hurried to the window to join Gwyneth. From the height of the tower, they could see beyond the palace walls.

Just days after Lenore's birth, knights had begun to arrive and to set up camp, carefully out of arrow range from the palace. This morning the activity was even greater. A great catapult had been dragged across the sand during the night; a massive ram sat on wheeled carts. And it seemed as if the tents now stretched out far into the desert.

"Bryan is going to try to take the palace!" Gwyneth exclaimed.

Elise didn't know whether to feel fear or elation. Each day that had passed since Lenore's birth had been torture; Jalahar had presented her with an hourglass, and she had often sat staring at it, watching as the sands of time disappeared. Each day she had watched as the Crusaders built up their offense on the outskirts of the palace; but Jalahar had been to see her frequently, and he had told her that his men went out at night on raids to set the Christians back. Gwyneth told her that Jalahar led the raids himself—perhaps searching for Bryan. So far, the two men had not met.

But how many men had died? It was painful to wonder.

And now, her last days were draining away . . .

"When do you think they will attack?" Elise asked Gwyneth anxiously.

"I don't know," she murmured, "but soon."

"How soon?"

Gwyneth studied Elise's face, noting her friend's worried frown. "I see . . ." Gwyneth said at last. She sighed. "Elise, you are not about to lose your head, you know. You needn't be so afraid."

Elise flashed her an angry glance. "You act as if you don't care! You don't understand; everything will be different—"

Gwyneth's laughter cut her off, and Elise stared at the beautiful brunette in fury.

"What are you afraid of—Jalahar, or yourself? Elise, he will be a gentle lover; many women would crave such a man. You will not die if he decides to claim you, nor will you be any different. There is no way out of here—"

"Gwyneth!"

"I am an extremely practical woman, Elise," Gwyneth said with a sigh. "And Jalahar has exhibited remarkable patience for a man. He could have well ignored the fact that you were with child for many months; he could have raped you any time he wished. He could have ordered your infant slain; he could have taken her from you the moment she was born. The man is absurdly in love with you. But even being in love with you, he is a man. He could easily die for you on any day. I should think he would want to have enjoyed something first, should he die. It appears to me that you can fight him, break his patience at last and wind up hurt yourself, or accept him—and enjoy yourself."

Elise turned away from the window. "I cannot accept him! Bryan will . . . never want me again."

Gwyneth burst into laughter, then hugged Elise to atone for it. "You little fool! Bryan loves you! Nothing will change that!"

"Yes! Yes, it will!" Elise cried. "I . . . Percy supposedly loved me once, Gwyneth. And I made the mistake of a confession—"

"Elise! Percy was young—and hurt. But he never did stop loving you, and still I think that he loved me, too, in his way. Bryan Stede is not Percy! He loves you very deeply; you are his wife. It is senseless to make yourself ill with worry over something you can't change! Elise! He was probably certain that Jalahar had you every night while he lay in that fever. But there he is . . . out there somewhere, building an army to rescue you!"

Elise caught the tender flesh of her inner lip between her teeth, longing for reassurance. "Do you . . . really believe that he loves me, Gwyneth?"

Gwyneth was tempted to laugh; a moment's bitterness gripped her. But she saw how terribly serious Elise was, and how very vulnerable. "Yes," she said simply. "I'm quite certain Bryan loves you—very deeply." She sighed. "It is a pity Jalahar isn't nursing this terrible fascination for me. I'd be very glad to jump upon his cushions!"

"Gwyneth!"

"It's true," Gwyneth said dryly. Then she became somber. "Elise . . . you must realize the only way you'll ever be with Bryan is if Bryan kills Jalahar."

Elise stared at her. "What are you saying?"

"It could also go the other way," Gwyneth said softly. "If so . . . you had best reconcile yourself to Jalahar."

"No . . ." Elise murmured.

"One way or another, I think it nears the time when you can no longer play the queen, demanding this and that. But if . . . if Bryan does kill Jalahar after . . . after he has . . . lost his patience, we'll say, you can easily keep the peace."

"How?"

"Lie."

"Bryan would never believe me!"

Gwyneth laughed. "Perhaps not. But as I've told you, men are strange beasts. He may not believe you, but he will not dispute you. He would rather live with the lie."

"You are telling me that Bryan will love me no matter what!" Elise cried. "But then you tell me to lie!"

"I believe we all like to cling to a little delusion," Gwyneth said wryly. She started to speak again, then jumped as a swift rapping sounded from the door. The women glanced at each other, then hurried to it. "Come in," she said in a low voice.

The door was unlocked from outside, and it swung open.

Elise was a little stunned by the sight of the man she saw there; he was of an average size, but he seemed large in his flowing robes. His thick mane of curling gray hair was topped by a red turban; his beard was as iron-gray as his hair, and it curled halfway down his chest. His eyes were extremely sharp; his face was wrinkled and weathered by time and harsh sunlight, but Elise didn't think she had ever seen features more powerful. Both she and Gwyneth stared at him, awestruck.

He bowed to the two of them, assessing them as he moved into the room. He stopped before Elise.

"You are the one . . ." he said, his eyes raking her up and down with no apology. "Elise . . . Christian wife of the knight Bryan Stede, subject of Richard, King of England."

Elise nodded, then found her voice. "Yes, I am Elise, wife of Bryan Stede."

"And the child in the basket . . . she is his?"

"Yes—and who are you?"

The man laughed very pleasantly. "Golden hair and a soaring spirit!" he said then, shaking his head. "If I were but a younger man . . . but I am not, and I have learned that the fancies of the flesh pass quickly. Still, there remains a spark in my blood that recalls such a passion—I am Saladin."

"Saladin!" Elise gasped.

"So you know of me . . ." he answered. "I am glad, since you have become such a fine point of trouble in my life! We fight for an empire—and must take time out for matters such as this!"

Tears that she blinked madly away stung Elise's eyes. "You . . . you are going to send me back? Is that why you have come? It will solve the problem that I create—"

She stopped speaking as she saw that Saladin was shaking his head sadly. "Only Jalahar can send you back. And he is obstinate. I have come to suggest that you send Stede's child out in the morning." At the look of anguish that came to her eyes, he softened his voice. "A battle will take place here, you know. If you love the girl, you will see that she is brought to safety. An innocent need not suffer in this affair. Jalahar's children are being sent out."

Elise lowered her head, fighting her tears. She felt her shoulders fall, and she nodded. If Jalahar was sending his own children away, then even he believed that there was danger.

Saladin lifted her head up by tilting her chin. Strangely, she was not surprised to find his eyes warm, filled with empathy and a little regret. "Ah . . . if I were but younger! Perhaps you are a prize for which I would have fought, too!"

He bowed low to her, and then to Gwyneth. With a soft whisper of robes, he was gone.

Elise plucked the baby from her basket. She lay down upon the cushions and cradled Lenore close. Gwyneth could find no words of comfort to offer.

* * *

That night Jalahar appeared suddenly in the doorway. He stared pointedly at Gwyneth; Gwyneth sighed and rose, and started to leave the room.

"Wait!" Jalahar commanded, and Elise and Gwyneth glanced uneasily at each other.

Jalahar's eyes were riveted to the sleeping infant, curled to Elise's side. "Take the child," he said softly.

"No!" Elise screamed instantly.

"She will be returned to you for the night," Jalahar said.

Gwyneth hurried to stoop to the cushions. "Elise! Let me take her! He seems . . . tense tonight. Elise! He does not lie to you! I will bring her back!"

Elise released her hold on her daughter and allowed the babe to go with Gwyneth. When the door closed behind Gwyneth, Jalahar still stood, staring at her. Elise jumped uneasily to her feet, tempted to crawl against a wall.

He walked across the room to the window and spoke almost idly. "The troops amass outside our walls. You can see all the camp torches lit—fire beneath the stars. He has done well, your Stede. When it begins, the battle will be fierce."

He turned suddenly to Elise, lifting his arm to the heavens beyond the scalloped window.

"The moon has risen full again," he told her.

She said nothing. Tremors shook her violently; fear and lightning seemed to streak through her limbs. She wanted to back away, but it would be a foolish and futile gesture.

He walked to her, stopping right before her. He touched her cheek, then played his fingers through her hair, staying a breath away from her. "It will begin very soon," he said. "Tomorrow . . . the next day. I would know . . ." His voice constricted tightly and he began again: "I would know what I fight for."

Elise felt frozen by his touch and time; she was rigid, unable to speak, unable to move. Unable to think.

He brought his other hand to her face, then used the slim length of his fingers to slip beneath the fabric on her shoulders. She wore only a gown of cool silk, and it slid beneath his touch like rippling sand, leaving her naked, bared to his eyes...

"No!" she cried suddenly, vehemently, but he had swept her into his arms, and she found herself falling . . . as if eternally. . . into the soft cushions of her bed. He was beside her. She fought him desperately, pounding, flailing, scratching. . . but she was no match for him, and in time, he secured her wrists, staring at her sadly with his deep, dark desert eyes. "No!" she cried again brokenly, and she shook her head with the tears sliding from beneath her lashes.

"Be still," he whispered to her, over and over, a soft sound, a soothing sound. He held her prisoner with one hand; with the other he smoothed the tears from her cheeks, caressingly . . . softly . . .

At last she lay still, shivering.

"Open your eyes," he commanded quietly. She did, and in a daze she stared at him. He smiled at her, wistfully, ruefully. Then his eyes left hers, and his fingers trailed a path between the valley of her breasts, heavy and firm with the recent birth of her child. "I wish only to love you . . ." he whispered to her. "Never to hurt you . . ."

Elise had never known such a depth of misery. She wanted so badly to keep fighting him, to hold tight to Bryan's memory. But she could not deny to herself that the tender touch of his fingertips upon her flesh was stirring desire within her. If he persisted, her body, grown accustomed to love and then denied it, would betray her, and in her heart she would have betrayed Bryan.

His mouth came to hers. She wanted to wrench away; he held her too dearly. His kiss was one of slow exploration, so very gentle . . . but firmly compelling.

His lips moved from hers, and he looked deeply into her eyes again. Then his dark head dipped low; he kissed the spiraling pulse at the base of her throat, and his lips drew a gentle pattern over her swollen breasts, down to her navel.

His touch, however it tormented her, was good. How strange! That first time with Bryan had been nothing but anger, pain . . . and a tempest of passion. And yet she had learned to love Bryan, and as inexplicable and elusive as it was, she could never explain now why she loved him so very much when she had once hated him . . .

She closed her eyes again, shaking violently. And she cried out in an anguished plea.

"Jalahar! Please . . . please, let me go, and listen to me!"

His eyes came to hers, somewhat suspicious, but curious.

"Yes?"

Elise swallowed hastily and gasped for a deep breath, praying he would care enough to listen to her.

"If you take me now," she said hoarsely, "it will be by force. If . . . if you and Bryan meet in battle, and Bryan is killed, I will . . . I will come to you willingly."

He was still for several seconds, slowly raising a brow. "I will fight you now!" she cried out. "I will fight you again, and again, until I faint from weariness, and you make love to nothing but an empty shell."

"I might lose the battle," he informed her dryly.

"That is your risk. War is always a risk. And yet men always fight." He was silent, still staring at her. "Please, Jalahar! If you win, I swear by our Christ and the blessed Virgin that I will turn my back on the past, and come to you . . . willingly."

He closed his eyes; a shudder racked his form. He slowly released her and rolled from the cushions, landing lithely upon his feet.

He strode to the door and paused at it, allowing his eyes to roam her length freely. Elise reached nervously for a sheet; he made a small sound that stopped her, and she lay beneath his scrutiny, aware that she had been granted incredible mercy. "I would at least know how you look, flesh upon silk," he murmured. Then he reminded her curtly, "Willingly, Elise. It is a vow you will not break."

He left her; she began to shake again, and then she hurried to retrieve her gown.

Gwyneth returned—very curiously—with Lenore. "Well?" she demanded.

"The battle . . . will be the outcome," Elise said weakly. She hugged her infant closely to her and caressed the babe's fine silk hair.

"You . . . bargained with him?" Gwyneth demanded.

"Yes," Elise whispered.

Gwyneth was silent for several seconds. Then she said, "Dear Lord! That I had been born a blond!"

Neither of them slept that night, nor did they speak. In the morning, a kindly Arab matron took the babe very gently from Elise, and although Elise didn't understand the words, she knew that the woman promised to care for the infant with all her love and power until she was turned over to a Christian nurse.

The day passed, with tension seeming to build along with the army outside the wall.

Night came again.

Tense and silent; night.

And then the dawn.