XXVIII

XXVIII

"Jalahar!"

Arrows, burning with pitch, had flown with the first golden streaks of day; catapults had hurtled sand and stone, and rams had battered against the gates.

All morning long, Gwyneth and Elise had listened to the sounds of battle: the shrieks and screams and cacophony.

The Moslems were fighters, defending what was theirs. The battle had been rough, and vicious.

But then the gates had fallen.

The Christians had not ridden in; instead, a silence had followed the crumbling of stone and wood, and when the dust had settled, there had been a horseman in the gateway.

"Jalahar!"

The cry, vibrant and chilling, rose on the air once again. Elise, standing at the window with Gwyneth, began to tremble, and an ashen pallor touched her cheeks. Her knees buckled beneath her, and she sank against the wall.

"It's Bryan!" she gasped out.

"Of course it's Bryan," Gwyneth retorted.

"But what is he doing!" Elise wailed "There . . . in the gateway, with no cover. Any fool could fly an arrow that would strike him—" She found strength and hopped back to her feet again, pushing Gwyneth rudely from the window. "Oh, Gwyneth! What is he doing?"

The last was a whisper, because she was shivering all over again, and her heart was pounding with both fear and pride. His destrier pranced, chafing at the bit. But Bryan sat straight, the breeze whisking his mantle about him in a crimson glory. She could not see his face clearly, but she could see his form: broad but trim, towering even in the saddle. He was heedless of the restless horse; his attention was focused upon the palace, and upon the challenge he had offered.

"Jalahar!"

Once again his voice rang out. Harsh and demanding, it was yet music to her ears. When she had last seen him, he lay near death. And now . . .

Her attention was torn away from Bryan as another horseman rode out to meet him.

Jalahar.

Twenty paces away, Jalahar stopped.

Both men rode warhorses. Both were clad in armor, and both carried naked swords.

"What is happening?" Gwyneth demanded.

"I don't know!" Elise moaned. Then she added, "Shh! They're saying something . . ."

Bryan had dropped his voice; Elise strained to hear the more quietly spoken words, but she could not. A third man on horseback joined them; it was Saladin.

"What are they doing?" Elise whispered when the horses suddenly swung about, then proceeded out the gate to be followed by the Moslems of Muzhair, chanting something that rippled across the air like heat rippled over the desert sands.

"They're leaving!" Elise exclaimed. "They're going out the gates together!"

Frantically, she swung from the window and raced for the door, throwing herself against it. The outside bolt remained secure. Feverishly, she barged at it again. "Help me, Gwyneth!"

Gwyneth came to her side, and together they charged the door. But the bolt was sturdy and solid, and all they received for their efforts were bruises.

"I can't stand this!" Elise cried, leaning heavily against the door.

Gwyneth gasped, then sighed. "Elise, we cannot break the door. I don't believe that a horse could break the door."

"But they're out there . . . and we don't even know what is happening . . . Gwyneth, the last time I saw Bryan he was bloodied and wounded on the ground. Almost dying . . . I can't let it happen again! I can't! And Jalahar . . . it's all so foolish!"

"Whatever they are about to do, you cannot stop them!"

"And I can't stay here!"

She started to catapult herself against the door once again, but then stopped, spinning around in midstride. "Gwyneth! The sheets! Grab the sheets!"

"The sheets!"

"Yes . . . we've got to tie them together and climb down. I did it once before, but Jalahar caught me—and told me he would station one of his men beneath the balcony. But he won't be there now, Gwyneth. No one will be there because they've all filed out . . ."

As she spoke, Elise began industriously to tie sheets together.

"You're going to kill us both!" Gwyneth protested, gazing over the balcony and clutching her stomach uneasily.

"Just help me tie them. I'm going; you can do whatever you like."

Elise secured the tail end of the last sheet to the wrought-iron planter, jerking it hard and testing it. She hiked herself to the railing and knotted her fist tightly around the silk. Then she glanced at Gwyneth, closed her eyes for a moment, smiled nervously, and started over. She slid down the silk too quickly and landed hard upon the tile of the courtyard, but she staggered to her feet, then waved up to Gwyneth in triumph.

"Wait!" Gwyneth called anxiously. She paused, then drew in a deep breath. "I'm coming with you."

"Hold tight!" Elise encouraged her. "I can catch you before you reach the ground—oh!"

Gwyneth, too, slid along the silk—and Elise did try to catch her. They tumbled to the courtyard together, gasping for breath, but unharmed.

"Now what?" Gwyneth demanded.

"We have to get to the main gate."

"But we're in the back—"

"Gwyneth! You've been out of the chamber. Think! Which way? Where do we run?"

Gwyneth paused for a minute, then replied, "This way."

The palace was a labyrinth of sculpted arches and hallways. Silent hallways now. Their footsteps clattered over tile and marble as they ran; they reached a dead end. "Around!" Gwyneth announced, and they started back. "I see the inner courtyard!" Gwyneth exclaimed.

A moment later they were passing through the inner courtyard, with its exotic plants and splashing fountains. Gwyneth paused, staring at one of the fountains.

"Come on!" Elise hissed, pulling her arm.

They raced on through the courtyard, but paused at the main entrance to the palace. A guard remained on duty, although they could see the battered and fallen gate, and, far out on the sand beyond it, the chanting crowd.

Gwyneth pulled Elise back; they both flattened themselves to the wall. "How will we get past him?" Gwyneth demanded.

Elise gnawed her lip, trying to think quickly. "We could both run . . . no, wait!" she whispered. A pair of carved ivory lions was stationed on either side of the first fountain. Elise dashed over to retrieve one, then ducked behind the door. She waved frantically at Gwyneth.

Gwyneth took a deep breath, then sauntered to the entrance, In full view, and just slightly behind Elise.

"Oh!" she screamed out helplessly, falling to the floor. As Elise had hoped, the guard turned, lowering his sword, and hurrying to Gwyneth. Elise moved silently behind him and raised the lion, praying her aim would be true. The lion hit the back of the man's head with a dull thud, and he fell upon Gwyneth, causing her to scream again. "Get him off me!"

Elise helped Gwyneth roll the unconscious body of the guard to the side. Gwyneth was quickly on her feet, glancing from Elise to the guard.

"Let's go!" Elise pleaded.

The gate seemed to be an endless distance away; swirling sand choked her as she ran, the morning sun blazed cruelly, and the desert chant seemed to rise in a frenzy. At the gate she and Gwyneth struggled to climb atop the rubble, but when she would have started down, Gwyneth stopped her with a startled cry.

She turned to see Gwyneth staring out over the heads of the amassed armies, Christian and Moslem, her hand clutched to her throat.

"What is it?" Elise demanded. Gwyneth didn't answer. "What is it?" Elise screamed then ignored Gwyneth and clutched at a piece of fallen masonry to gain height again herself.

The armies had aligned on either side of a vast sand chasm; Saladin, donned in his full war regalia, sat at the center of the forces, his sword raised high in the air, beaming like a ray of lightning as the sun caught and reflected its steel.

Suddenly his sword flashed in the air, coming down, and from either side of the sand chasm came a sound like roaring thunder.

The horses were racing . . .

To the left, Bryan on his destrier.

To the right, Jalahar on an Arab stallion.

Elise could not move herself, or speak. She could only stare upon the spectacle with horror as the very ground seemed to quake with those clashing hooves, coming closer and closer . . .

It was a desert trial. Man to man. Honed to deadly perfection by the advent of armor.

Both contestants rode with their swords raised high, their bodies hunched low to their horses. It was like a tournament, but it was no game. Death was the cry that rose to the air—the Christians shouting the name of their knight, the Moslems chanting that of their own. The voices and the pounding rose and rose as the horses galloped madly toward each other, spewing dirt and sand in their wake. The swords glittered in the air; the armor cast off a silver sheen.

"No!" Elise screamed, closing her eyes instinctively as the horses met. The sun seemed to burn her, and rob her of strength; she was afraid that she would fall.

A cheer rose high about her and she opened her eyes with amazement. Neither man had been unhorsed. She started to breathe a sigh of relief; then dizziness swept over her again as she saw that they were returning to their fields to ride again.

"Stop it!" she screamed. "Stop it!"

No one heard her; if they had, they wouldn't have cared. Elise started climbing down the rubble again.

"Elise!" Gwyneth called after her. "Come back! You can't go any farther—"

Elise gazed back toward her, not really seeing her. Her eyes were wild with anxiety and horror. "They have to stop . . ."

She turned and raced into the crowd. She jostled and pushed her way through the throng of Arabs. They glanced at her with nothing more than irritation; their attention riveted to the field.

But they did not part easily for her. She heard a roar begin again, and then the thunder of the ground. The horses were racing madly down the sand again, charging toward each other with flaring nostrils and flattened ears; sweat foamed along their sleek bodies.

"Stop!" Elise screamed half hysterically.

The glittering swords rose and fell; the crowd went mad. Elise barged past two fat men to get near the chasm.

Both men were down, rolling in the sand, reaching quickly to retrieve their swords. Their horses wandered from the action as Jalahar and Bryan stumbled to their feet.

She could see neither of their faces, for they both wore faceplates beneath their helmets: Bryan . . . in the coat of arms that proclaimed him Duke of Montoui, Earl of Saxonby, Lord of the Coastal Counties; Jalahar . . . his armor scrolled in the ancient and elaborate carving of his desert peoples.

They were both standing, both fighting for balance, to clear their minds from the clash of unhorsing each other . . .

They raised their swords again, and the battle on foot was under way. Elise watched for a moment, mesmerized as steel clashed with steel. Bryan was the larger man, taller, broader of shoulder; both men were agile. Both could attack with strength, dodge and parry. The battle took them veering toward the crowd, which quickly moved back, giving way. Bryan caught Jalahar with a stunning blow across the helmet; Jalahar's sword skidded past Bryan's chest, denting the armor.

"No!" Elise whispered, aware that the men about her were pleased with the battle. Two worthy opponents fought; warriors to be respected, admired. To die, to become the dust and ash of legend . . .

"No," she whispered again to herself. When she had last seen Bryan, he had lain broken and bleeding. Ashen.

She had been taken away from him. Forced to live without him just when she had learned the wonder of living with him . . . and loving him. If he died, she truly did not think she would have the will to live . . .

But as her eyes twisted to Jalahar, so did her heart. He could have practiced cruelty. He had never been anything but tender. And long ago she had learned how badly it hurt to love someone . . . if that love was not returned.

Jalahar's sword glittered brilliantly in the sun as it made a sudden swipe, sending Bryan's sword flying from his hand. Elise screamed, but the sound was deadened by the crowd.

Jalahar's triumph was short-lived; Bryan retaliated instantly, bringing his elbow down to slash Jalahar's arm, and sending that glittering Moslem sword to lie in the sand beside his own.

A flying leap by Jalahar brought the two men together, grappling bare-handed in the sand under the weight of their armor.

Elise's eyes blurred. Then she saw Saladin again, sitting on his mount and watching the battle as it raged. He did not chant or cheer as the others did; he sat calmly, only his remarkable eyes registering emotion—a calm acceptance.

Elise broke through the crowd, racing to him, throwing herself hard against his leg for his attention, her eyes beseeching his as they turned to her.

"Stop them! Great Saladin! You must stop them! Only you can do anything, only you . . . please, Saladin! I beg you!"

He shook his head at her sadly. "They have chosen to save the blood of others by fighting each other; it has been agreed that all go in peace at the outcome. They fight for their honor, and men such as they are willing to die for that honor. It is their right. I cannot take that right away from them."

"There is no honor in death!" Elise protested.

Saladin reached from the saddle to cup her chin lightly in his hand, and he was touched by the tormented eyes that sought his like twin gems of heaven. "You truly did not wish this, did you, girl?" He sighed. "One might have thought you a witch or a temptress, yet you are innocent of malice. It is no fault of yours; but men must fight, and Allah must rule the outcome."

Elise jerked angrily from his touch. "Allah! God! When men are fools, they must be stopped by other men . . ."

Her voice trailed away as she was turned back to the fighting. The crowd roared.

The men were minus their helmets and faceplates now; they were covered in sand and grime. Blood trickled from Bryan's mouth, and from Jalahar's temple and eye. Jalahar made a sudden dive across the sand for his sword; Bryan did the same.

But when they were standing again, facing each other, they were both panting heavily. Their footsteps wavered; the clashes of sword against sword became weaker. The heat, the armor, the weight of their swords was tearing them down.

Jalahar took a swipe at Bryan's middle. Bryan doubled over, backing away. But then he charged forward, returning the blow. Jalahar staggered then, falling back. Bryan raised his sword in the air; on an elbow, Jalahar lifted his own to meet it.

It was then that Elise screamed again—so loud and shrill and with such horror that the sound rose above the chants, jeers, and cheers. Her feet took flight with no conscious thought; she was running. She was flying, determined that neither God nor Allah would take a toll from her that day. It was a foolish flight, for the battling men had thought of nothing other than themselves at the moment; indeed, as she charged between them, Bryan raised his sword. Jalahar prepared to thrust with his own. She would have been impaled upon it herself had not the Arab's strength given out at that moment, causing him to falter, falling helpless to the sand.

Elise flung herself against Bryan, tears streaming down her cheeks. She had not touched him . . . seen him . . . in so long, and now she sought indigo eyes that were glazed with fatigue, eyes that barely recognized her and saw her as nothing more than an irritating interference to the business at hand. Blood, she saw, streamed from more than his mouth; gashes pierced his arms and his thighs; he was barely standing. . .

"Bryan!" she screamed to him as he started to thrust her away. "Bryan!" Her hands gripped the sun-hot steel of his armor, and she wished desperately that she could touch his flesh, for the man seemed as hard and relentless as the steel. But even beneath the barrier of that armor, she felt his sinewed form shake. He was about to drop. His size had given him the last advantage of power and stamina, but like Jalahar, he was to drop, felled by a dozen wounds.

"Bryan! It's done. Oh, please, Bryan, listen to me. You will kill each other . . . you will both die . . ."

But it was Jalahar who was down then. And the crowd, like ancient Romans at the arena, was screaming for blood. "'Tis honorably done!" Elise pleaded.

He thrust her aside and she fell, blinded by her tears and the tangle of her hair. She lay beside Jalahar, and his deep eyes, dulled by pain, were upon her. He whispered to her, his voice so tired it carried no substance.

"He must . . . wield the blade. He is the victor. I die with honor; 'tis better than life . . . with defeat."

"No!" Elise cried, and she rolled in the sand, placing herself between Bryan's staggering form and Jalahar's body. She was vaguely aware that Saladin was roaring that she be dragged from the fight. If they were to take her from it, she would have to be dragged.

Men started to come for her.

"Bryan!" she screamed in beseechment, throwing herself against his knees.

And at last he gazed down at her, at her tear-stained and mud-streaked face. A crooked smile twisted his lips.

"Elise . . ." he muttered.

"Please, Bryan . . . no more death. Please . . ."

He stared down at her. He heard the roar of the crowd, screaming for blood.

But suddenly, he didn't need to kill any longer. He loosened his grip on his sword. It fell to the sand.

Just as they had screamed for death, the throng of warriors, Moslem and Christian, turned their fickle cheers to a cry of mercy.

Bryan wavered, then buckled to his knees. His eyes suddenly closed, and he collapsed against Elise, pitching her back into the sand again, and leaving her entangled between himself and the already prone body of Jalahar.

Victor and vanquished; both lay unconscious with the woman they had fought for battered and bruised, and caught between them.

Elise struggled against Bryan's heavy shoulder, certain that her own slender limbs would quickly snap. Someone was suddenly helping her; she looked up into Saladin's sparkling eyes.

"Allah works in mysterious ways," he told her. He rolled Bryan from her and lifted her to her feet; an old and graying warrior, but one who held her with a strength that the years could not take away. He lifted a hand, and men rushed forward to care for their wounded knights; two Arabs lifted Jalahar; Wat and Mordred rushed forward to collect Bryan.

Saladin kept staring at Elise. "Men . . ." he said, " . . . are often as boys. Fighting and squabbling over a favorite toy."

"I am not a toy," Elise told him softly. "I am the Duchess of Montoui, and the Countess of Saxonby."

He smiled. "Perhaps you are not a toy. And perhaps you have taught us . . . and these boys . . . that you are not. Go in peace, Duchess . . . golden girl."

"In peace?" she whispered.

He placed an arm about her and walked her toward the Christian troops who prepared to depart.

"Your King Richard ails from fever and heat; he has won, I have won. Soon, we will sign a truce. I will keep Jerusalem, but I will open it to your Christian pilgrims."

"The Crusade . . . will really be over?"

"This time . . . yes. Peace will not be everlasting. Our differences are vast. War will come again. But for you, Elise, and for your warrior, it will be over. Go now, tend to your husband."

She smiled at him uncertainly, then continued across the sand where Mordred awaited her with a mount.

"Elise!"

Saladin called her back and she turned to him.

"Thank you," he told her softly.

She lifted a brow in query and he added, "For my nephew. For Jalahar's life."

Tears stung her eyes and she nodded, then continued across the sand to Mordred. She had mounted her horse, anxious for Mordred to lead her to the litter that would carry Bryan, when her eyes suddenly widened and she cried to Mordred, "Wait!"

"Milady—" Mordred began to protest, but she turned to him swiftly and interrupted him. "The Lady Gwyneth is still somewhere by the gates! I must find her!"

Mordred called another protest after her; she heard his footsteps racing after her own, thudding against the sand. But she eluded him swiftly, horrified that she had forgotten Gwyneth. And she knew no one would waylay her; she had Saladin's protection.

But Gwyneth was nowhere to be seen by the rubble of the gate; Elise stood upon it, searching, but saw no sign of her friend. She climbed down and ran toward the palace, hurrying through the doors, only to stop dead-still at the fountain.

Jalahar had been brought here. He lay before the bubbling stream of water, stripped down to his robes.

And it was Gwyneth who tended his wounds, cleansing the gash atop his forehead. Elise took a faltering step forward. Jalahar's eyes opened and met hers. He smiled painfully at her, and lifted a hand to her. Gwyneth stepped back, nodding that she could come forward.

She took his hand in hers. "Would it have been so hard to love me?" he whispered. "Or did you, perhaps, just a little bit?"

Elise brought his hand to her lips and kissed the palm. "It would have been very easy to love you," she told him. "It was just that . . . I already loved another man."

He squeezed her hand, still smiling. Then his eyes closed tiredly once more, and he released her.

Elise stared at him a long while, then at last tore her eyes from him and turned to Gwyneth. "You must come now; we're leaving."

Gwyneth shook her head with a rueful grin.

"I'm not coming."

"You're not coming!"

"I'm an excellent nurse. And with you gone . . ." Gwyneth allowed her voice to trail away, and Elise understood. But she was anxious and worried.

"Gwyneth . . . he has two wives, you know. I don't think that you could ever be happy—"

Gwyneth laughed. "Those two stout crones! Elise, don't underestimate me so. I can be a very persuasive woman. And," she added, softly, seriously, "I think that perhaps we both might find what we have searched for. Bryan is yours, Elise. I think home would be only . . . painful for me."

"But . . . your son, Gwyneth. Percy . . ."

"Love him for me, will you, Elise? I know that you and Bryan can give him far more than I. Go on, Elise. You have waited so long; go to Bryan. And to your own babe. I will be happy here, I promise you."

Elise would have argued longer, but Mordred was now at her elbow, and he steered her firmly away.

It seemed amazing that the sun was still shining, and that the desert sands were still shimmering.

It seemed as if a lifetime had passed.

But it hadn't passed.

It had only begun.

* * *

There were no dreams this time, just a struggle from darkness, and then awareness.

Something cool soothed his forehead and his cheeks; a light and tender touch was upon him. He smiled before he opened his eyes, because this time he knew.

It was his duchess.

He knew her sweet and fragrant scent, and he knew that distinct touch of her fingertips, so gentle now. He opened his eyes, and they met and locked with hers. Turquoise . . . aqua . . . a tempest; an endless, peaceful sea where a man could drift in bliss eternally. He reached out an arm and captured her head with his hand, drawing it to him. His lips touched hers, trembling, and he savored the kiss as he might a vintage wine, wondering, awed by the taste that was unique nectar, soft and subtle, forever in his heart.

A sudden wail interrupted him, and he released her with a start. He saw that he was once again in their chamber at Richard's stronghold palace, and that the disturbing wail had come from the quickly crafted cradle that gently rocked on the other side of his bed of gauze net and cushions.

"I think our daughter is calling you," he said lightly. Elise glanced at him apologetically and hurried to the cradle. Bryan smiled as he watched the love his wife gave their child add an even greater beauty to her features.

She picked up the babe and came back to his side, gazing anxiously at him. "Do you . . . like her, Bryan? I know that men prefer to have a son, but—"

He laughed. "Do I like her? What a question to ask a man of his firstborn! She is beautiful, and though we've known each other but a day or two, I love her dearly."

He was surprised to see Elise lower her lashes quickly, and more surprised to see a tear slide down her cheek. He reached for her quickly, holding back a groan as the movement caused his sore muscles and torn flesh a new pain to remind him of the battle so recently fought. He didn't want her to see him flinch now; he didn't want her worrying about him when . . . it had been so long since he had seen her face, had her beside him. Alone except for their daughter. Together when life had threatened to rip them apart forever.

"What is it, Elise?" he asked her huskily, careful of the babe as he brushed her cheek gently with his open palm. "Elise, dear God, all is well now! I had feared that I would never hold you again, yet we are here. You are well, and but for a headache and a mass of cuts and bruises, I am well—"

"Oh, Bryan!" she whispered fervently. "I was so afraid . . . afraid that you would never accept the child! That you wouldn't want me back! There was so much distance between us! Oh, Bryan, I know how hard this will be for you to believe, but . . . Jalahar never touched me. He promised to wait for the child to be born . . . and then I promised him that I would abide by the outcome of the battle . . . and . . . oh, Bryan! I love you! I loved you for months and months when I was terrified to say so. I kept loving you when we were apart; it was all that kept me sane—"

Despite his wounds, Bryan clenched his teeth together and sat in his bed, tenderly drawing Elise and his daughter to his chest, threading his fingers through the gold and copper hair that had long ago entangled his heart.

"Elise!" he whispered ardently, kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her lips. "Elise! I believe whatever you say to me, my love, but you know, it wouldn't matter. I love you. Nothing could change that. I was fascinated, bewitched, from that night in the forest when I thought I had caught a thief. From that point on, you nestled your way so thoroughly into my heart that I often thought the loving would make me go mad. Even when I held you, I thought that you had somehow eluded me. You were such a feisty thing, never willing to accept defeat. But didn't you see, my love? I could never let you go. That was why I abducted you from Montoui and dragged you through the countryside." He smiled at her ruefully. "I was so jealous of poor Percy that I wound myself into knots. I think I even hated Gwyneth at one time because you were so angry and so deceived about her child."

Lenore, secure in her mother's arms and warmed by her father's chest, had had enough of confessions. Her tiny fists waved in the air and she began to howl again. Elise glanced from their daughter to Bryan, and she broke into a spurt of merry laughter despite the tears that still dampened her face.

"Bryan!" She laughed over the wail. "I was so jealous that I was furious! I couldn't stand the thought of Gwyneth having your child . . . especially when it seemed then that I couldn't."

"I'll give you lots of children," he promised her wickedly. "But don't you think you should do something about the squalling one that we already have?"

"She's hungry," Elise said.

"If you wish, you can call the nurse—"

Elise objected—adamantly. "She was taken away from me once; I will not let her go again. The time was not so great that I cannot care for her myself."

Bryan patted the silk-and-down cushion at his side. "Lie down with her beside me."

"I shouldn't even sit here so; you're wounded."

"Lie down beside me," Bryan persisted. "I cannot let you away from me again."

She smiled and did as he requested. The baby lay between them as Elise adjusted her clothing to feed her. Now Bryan marveled at their child as Elise had so often done, leaning upon an elbow, touching her cheek, touching the babe. A warm silence surrounded them and dusk's shadows darkened the room as Lenore continued to suck at her mother's breast.

Elise gazed at Bryan in apologetic surprise.

"She's very demanding."

He laughed. "King Henry's granddaughter would be."

Elise's eyes widened to huge orbs, and Bryan laughed again.

"How long have you . . . known?" Elise asked with startled reproach. "How . . . who . . ."

Bryan smiled wryly. "Richard saw fit to tell me when I accused him of not doing enough to get you back. I was glad—since my wife never thought to mention it."

Elise flushed. "I was going to tell you. The night that we were ambushed . . . I was going to tell you about the babe . . . and about my father."

Bryan touched a radiant lock of her hair, and his rueful grin took on broader proportions. "I'm glad that you were going to tell me. I think that I somehow linked the mystery about you with trust; if you had told me, I would have felt that you trusted me . . . and had begun to love me at last. I felt like such a fool . . . because I should have guessed. My God, I think I knew Henry better than any man! You definitely have his temper! And that hair of yours is a Plantagenet banner!" His smile faded and his night-blue eyes fell upon her intensely. "Elise . . . why didn't you tell me that night in the forest? You could have saved yourself... from me if you had. I would never have betrayed you."

"I know that now," she told him softly. "But I was afraid. I had been warned . . . by Henry. Montoui was small, but I couldn't afford to be vulnerable. And . . . if John were ever to know . . . Bryan, he could still make trouble for both of us. Or . . . or for Lenore, if anything were ever to happen to us."

"It is a secret that I will keep—and cherish. And 1 have to say now that I'm glad you were determined to keep that secret from me once—at any cost."

Elise lowered her eyes for a minute. "I was afraid because of... of Percy, too. He was so set on propriety. He would never have married a bastard—especially the king's. He considered Henry to be a licentious old man."

"I can only say again," Bryan told her very softly, "that I'm very, very glad." He fell silent for a minute. Lenore, sated at last, had fallen asleep between her parents. He didn't feel his cuts or bruises when he picked her up, his powerful bronzed hands extremely tender as they held his child. "My daughter," he mused reflectively to Elise, "is descended from William the Conqueror. I'm rather proud."

Elise started to smile. Then a frown creased her brow. "I'm not sure I'm pleased with my blood relations. John is a half brother as much as Richard, and . . . Henry was a lecher!"

Bryan heard the babe give off a little burp. He was afraid that he would falter if he stood, so he whispered to Elise, "Take her, she still sleeps."

Elise quickly put Lenore into her cradle. Bryan's arms were stretched out to her, and her heart seemed to pound with a splendid thunder as she came back to him, lying at his side once more. "Elise, I know how much you loved Henry. Don't ever mar that love by thinking that you needn't be proud of him. He was human: temperamental, harsh, and often unjust to his sons—and to Eleanor. But he was a good king, Elise. He gave England law. Good law, and law so strong that it might well last through Richard's absences and—God help us—John's time on the throne."

Elise smiled and reached with wonder to touch his cheek. "Thank you for that, Bryan."

"Thank you," he said softly.

"For what?"

"For Henry's granddaughter. And . . . for his daughter."

Elise lay happily against his chest, then remembered that he was a mass of nicks and bruises. She started to pull away, but he dragged her back. "I missed you . . . incredibly." His voice became tinged with harshness. "I was half insane . . . thinking about Jalahar."

Elise raised herself above him. "He never did touch me or harm me, Bryan." It was only a slight lie. He had touched her . . . but never as Bryan had. "That was why . . . I'm glad you didn't kill him."

Bryan exhaled a long breath. "Then I am glad I didn't kill him, too."

"Gwyneth stayed with him."

"She did?"

"She's says she's an excellent nurse. Is she?"

"Gwyneth was good to me," Bryan told her, reading the unspoken question in her eyes. "Good to me—that was all."

He stared into her eyes, and the happiness that filled them rewarded him for the small extension of the truth. He kissed her very lightly and murmured, "Elise . . . I believe you, and in my heart, I have never been happy to kill a man. But I would as soon not hear about Jalahar's kindness."

"And I," Elise replied, pressing a delicate kiss against an uninjured spot on his throat, "would prefer not to hear about Gwyneth's expertise as a nurse!"

"Agreed. Now, take off your clothes."

"Bryan! You are one mass of blacks and blues and nicks and—"

"I am one mass of ardent yearning—for my wife."

She should have argued with him. He had so recently been carried from battle . . .

But she was also a trembling mass of ardent yearning. His eyes, his touch . . . the beauty of knowing that he loved her . . . really loved her, as deeply as she loved him . . . all increased the hungers that she had leashed in so many dreams.

With only a slight demur of disapproval, she stripped away her tunic and shift, then lay against him once more. "Bryan . . ." She gasped, her mind swirling with delight, as his palms slid with longing over her naked flesh. "Bryan . . . I love you . . ."

"Duchess," he murmured, "I do love you . . ."

Elise rose above him before she could burst into ridiculous tears of happiness. She stared at him with a wicked smile. "I intend to prove, milord, that a wife can far better nurse her husband than any other.... Tell me, milord . . . where does it hurt?"

He grinned, restraining himself from flinging her down and easing the torment of need for her that had afflicted his days and nights for so long . . .

"Here . . ." he murmured, pointing to his lips. She kissed, proving a delicious expertise. Then she raised above him again. "Here . . . and here . . . and here . . ."

A warm breeze caressed them with the coming dusk. The sheets were swept from the bed . . . and she eased all his hurts tenderly until they might have been imagined . . .

If not imagined, they didn't matter anymore. In between taunting endearments, she worried about causing him pain, but he would have none of it, and the moment came when he could bear it no more, when he had to enter into her with the sweet rage of desire . . .

He was sore, and he was in pain . . .

But the ecstasy by far exceeded the agony.

In the end, he knew it had been a night he would never forget. The embrace of the night, soft breezes, swirling gauze, his sleeping babe . . .

His wife. Elise. No longer elusive . . .

His love . . . a bastion against the past, against anything the years could bring.

* * *

In June, Richard and Saladin signed a truce.

The Third Crusade was over, and Bryan and Elise—and their babe, Lenore—were able to sail for England.

Neither of them really thought of it as sailing home.

They both knew they had already come home.