No Price Too High Page 3

  She tried to edge away, but he cupped her chin. Oil dripped along the front of her gown as he raised his finger. Closing her eyes, she tensed, waiting for whatever indignity he was about to inflict upon her.

  His finger stroked her skin lightly. The oil soothed the scratches left by the wind. She opened her eyes to discover his too close.

  He tilted her right hand and poured oil onto it. She gasped when he plunged his finger into it, tracing the line in the center of her palm. Her fingers trembled as he brushed the oil against her other cheek before following the curve of her jaw up toward her hair. When he caressed the soft skin behind her ear, he whispered, “My allies call me Gabriel.”

  “Gabriel? That is not an infidel name.”

  “It is my name.”

  “Then who are you?”

  “I told you. Gabriel.”

  “Only Gabriel?”

  “It is enough for now.” He smiled. “Let us discuss what reward you shall offer me.”

  “You will help me?”

  “If your reward intrigues me.”

  She wished she could think, but his touch bewitched her. “What do you want?”

  When he laughed, his arm swept around her waist and tugged her to him. His body was harder than the boulders. “You smell very sweet now, Melisande.”

  She did not hesitate as she reached for the tab holding her gown closed. Geoffrey was dead because of her. If this were the way to avenge his death, she must agree.

  His hand clamped over hers. In spite of herself, she gasped when his broad hand brushed her breast, sending a new firestorm over her.

  “You must move your hand if you wish me to …” She could not speak the words aloud.

  “You would do this?”

  “For my brother, I would.” Tears burned in her eyes. “I shall not let those who killed him go unpunished.”

  He stepped away and bowed his head. “I am awed by your sense of honor, milady.”

  Melisande’s fingers clenched on her gown. He had taunted her before. When he raised his head, she saw his sincerity and amazement.

  Softly she asked, “Would you do any less, Gabriel?”

  “No, I would do no less, nor would I agree to help you avenge your brother when I see nothing in it that helps me.”

  “Your enemies will be dead.”

  “By your hand—or by mine and my men’s? What value is your vengeance to me?”

  Again she did not hesitate. She could not let her brother be forgotten along with his bones in the deserted valley. Taking the bottle of oil, she poured a few drops into her hand.

  When she stroked his face as he had hers, his arm pulled her to him again. Her fingers swept along his wind-roughened skin above his beard as his mouth lowered toward hers.

  A choked sound came from behind him. He looked past her, but did not release her.

  A short man stood in the doorway. Gabriel stepped away, turning his back on her as if she had no more value than one of the pillows. She was shocked at the sensation of loss crashing through her. She longed for his strong body against her. What was wrong with her?

  Gabriel spoke, but she could not understand a single word. The short man lowered his voice. There was no need for him to whisper. The words he spoke were none she knew.

  Surprise crossed Gabriel’s face. Looking at her, he frowned and nodded.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Abd al Qadir was not satisfied with attacking you. He also destroyed a village not far from here.” He added something to the short man, who smiled.

  “What is it?” she asked again.

  Gabriel faced her and clasped her arm as if they were sword-sworn allies. “I will help you in your vengeance, Melisande, with no thought of reward, for now your vow is mine.”

  “Why?” She did not trust his sudden acquiescence.

  “Because we cannot be enemies when we share a common goal.” He released her arm, then held out his. “Are you with me?”

  Her fingers shook as she raised them, for she feared she risked more than her life with this vow. She gripped his arm. “I am with you, Renard du Vent.”

  THREE

  The stars did their silent dance as the wind became a gentle murmur. Away from the camp’s fires, a promontory offered an excellent view of the valley stretching to the mountains.

  Gabriel lowered his far-seeing glass. Nothing! Abd al Qadir had honed his craft, although the hill bandit had almost ridden into Gabriel’s trap this afternoon.

  Who could have guessed a group of Franj might divert Abd al Qadir’s attention? Nothing must be left to chance next time. It was his duty to guard the people of these hills, as it had been his father’s after he came here from France. When his father, Paien de la Rive, had saved a man’s life here, he had not guessed the old man was a shaykh, ruling these hills from his luxurious palace in the mountains. On that day, the old shaykh had welcomed Gabriel’s father into his family and made him his heir, for he had no other. On that day, his father had turned his back on France.

  But France and the rest of Europe had refused to leave this land alone. They had sent their rabid warriors to fight, bringing squalor and disease with them.

  Gabriel cared nothing for their war, for his battle was here. If Melisande Chapeleine and her men had not ridden into the valley when they had, the bandits would be captured … and he would not be thinking of how soft and willing she had been when she sought his help.

  “Shaykh, I need to speak with you.”

  Gabriel slid the glass into the sash at his waist before turning to see Shakir. He resisted the temptation to laugh. The short man always scurried about like a desert mouse trying to avoid the sun.

  “Come and talk with me, my friend.” Sitting on a boulder, he continued to stare at the plain. “Mayhap next time, our plans shall unfold as we wish.”

  “I did not come to speak of the hill bandits.” He ran his fingers through his graying beard. “There is concern about why the woman lives.”

  Gabriel clapped the older man on the shoulder. “Let the others know the woman has vowed to help us defeat the hill bandits.”

  He spat on the ground. “The help of a Franj’s woman is not needed.”

  “Why did Abd al Qadir not enter our snare this afternoon?”

  “He sought other victims.”

  “Exactly.” Gabriel folded his arms. “Why should Abd al Qadir content himself with the poor spoils of a village when he can have the Franj’s wealth?”

  “Yet he razed a village tonight.”

  “Only because he was driven from the Franj before he could pick their bags clean.”

  “And what does this have to do with the woman?” He sat and chuckled. “Or mayhap it has nothing to do with her. She has an exotic beauty, for I have never seen hair of such a color.”

  “It is said the English king has hair as red.”

  Again Shakir spat. “Tales I have heard of the great king who will end the siege of Acre. Where is this brave king? He lingers while his minstrels laud him.”

  “He will come, and he may be as brave as is said. That is not our concern. We must stop Abd al Qadir’s treachery. We must not let him escape again.”

  “And we shall do that with the help of a Franj’s woman?” Shakir laughed, his round belly straining his robes. “I hear in your voice that you think of the pleasures she could give you.”

  “Do not let your hatred blind you, old friend.”

  “Nor should you let your desire for a woman obstruct your clear thinking. Even though she is as thin as a lad, I saw you were not averse to holding her.”

  Gabriel allowed his friend to babble on while he watched a night bird glide. There was nothing boyish about Melisande Chapeleine. Her body, without the chain mail, had been soft when she offered it in exchange for securing her revenge against Abd al Qadir. His skin recalled her silken hair cascading over it as her pliant breasts pressed to his chest.

  “Enough!” he snapped. When Shakir looked at him, amazed at his v
ile tone, Gabriel almost apologized. Had he been speaking to his friend or to the muscles tightening in anticipation across his body?

  “If I said something to disturb you, shaykh—”

  “You said nothing wrong, but I want to speak of what we shall do to defeat Abd al Qadir.” He lowered his voice. “Heed what I have to say, old friend. Then you will understand all that has happened this day.”

  “Even the woman?”

  “Especially the woman.”

  Melisande had not expected to fall asleep, but she had. Even though she suspected the wine the old woman had brought contained sleeping herbs, she could not ask. Surely Gabriel was not the only one here who spoke Frankish.

  She rubbed her eyes as she sat in the nest of pillows. Sunshine filtered through the tent’s walls. When bread and cheese were served to her by the old woman, she ate.

  The old woman offered her a comb, and Melisande accepted it gladly. Her hair pooled behind her in loose curls as she rebraided it and twisted it around her head. A few wisps clung to her face, but she brushed them back.

  “Good morning.”

  At the Frankish greeting, Melisande looked up. Gabriel entered the tent, and the old woman dropped to her knees. He was dressed in the bleached robes he had been wearing when they met. Beneath his heel-length cloak, she could see a bloused shirt belted above loose breeches. His hair was still covered by material tied back from his forehead. From his belt hung a broadsword. Not the curved one of the infidels, but one like the sword the English wore. Who was this man?

  He set a pair of bowls, two cups, and a bottle in front of Melisande. A single word sent the old woman out of the tent.

  “I thought you might wish,” he continued, “something more appetizing than dry bread and cheese to break your fast.”

  When he held out a bowl, she looked at its unappealing contents. His eyes twinkled. For the first time, she noticed how they tilted in his tanned face. He was unlike anyone she had ever known, urging her to discover more and frightening her at the same time.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “See for yourself.”

  She picked up a wrinkled piece. It stuck to her fingers. Dropping the hideous thing into the bowl, she tried to wipe her fingers on her surcoat.

  Gabriel laughed. “It is edible.”

  “What is it?”

  “A date. A dried fruit.” He gestured toward her fingers. “Sample it. You might find it to your liking.”

  She tasted the paste stuck to her fingers. It was sweet, even sweeter than honey from Heathwyre’s hives. Intrigued, she picked up the date and ate it.

  “You like it?” he asked.

  “I have never tasted anything like it.”

  “Then you may like this.” He opened the bottle and filled a cup. “Take a sip, milady.”

  She expected wine and was astonished when fruity juice swept the dryness from her mouth. The flavor was tart, and she grimaced.

  He chuckled. “The lemon in jallab is sour. Next time, I shall have some carob sweetener added to it.”

  “Mayhap you should have offered it first.”

  “But then how could I have shown you the variety of flavors you can savor here?” He lifted one of her braids and twisted it about his wrist. “I suspect there are so many pleasures for you to discover among your new allies.”

  “’Tis unfortunate that we shall have little time to think of other than repaying the hill bandits.” She pulled her braid away.

  “Let us enjoy this meal before we speak of that.”

  “Why? There is no reason to delay.”

  He held out the other bowl. She took a piece of cheese which was covered with some herb she could not identify. She blinked at the pungent flavor. He chuckled and poured more juice into the goblet, offering it to her.

  “Food can be an art, sustenance for the senses as well as for the body.” He clasped her braid again. “As a beautiful woman is.”

  “I am not a beautiful woman.”

  “Have you never admired yourself in a still pool, Melisande? Have you never seen the delicate curve of your cheek or discovered the sparkle in your eyes?” He loosened the braid to free her hair around her shoulders.

  She pushed her hair aside. “That is not what I meant. For you, I should be only an ally.”

  “A beautiful one.”

  Exasperated, she shook her head. A mistake, she realized when her hair swirled forward and brushed his hands. He smiled, and she tensed, wondering what he intended. When he clapped his hands, the cloth over the door was shoved aside and the old woman returned. She held out some black fabric.

  Gabriel motioned toward Melisande, and the old woman turned to offer it to her.

  “What is it?” Melisande unfolded the material and frowned. The length of wool was unmarked.

  “A tcharchaf. You must wear it.”

  “I see no reason why.”

  He laughed and pointed to the old woman. “Tarub wears such robes.”

  “That I can see.”

  “All women wear these robes when they are away from the harim.”

  Melisande thrust the black robes at him and rose. Ignoring Tarub’s gasp of horror, she tapped the cross on her chest. “This is what I wear. I am your ally, Gabriel, and I must be free to fight by your side.”

  Gabriel motioned for Tarub to take the material. When the old woman held it close, her eyes wide with dismay, he stepped past her. Melisande did not back away, but met his gaze with cool assurance as he said, “Take that off.”

  “What off?”

  He touched the white cross in the center of her chest. She quivered beneath his finger. He smiled, but his smile vanished when she slapped his hand away.

  “We are allies, nothing else,” she said, turning away.

  He grasped her arm, twisting her to face him. “Remove that surcoat.”

  She slid her arm out of his grasp. When she walked to the other side of the tent, he started to follow. He stopped, momentarily appeased, when she untied the sash at her waist and lifted the surcoat with its white cross over her head. His brows lowered as she flipped it inside out and dropped it back into place.

  She sat on the pillows. “Now I can wear my vow close to my heart.”

  He bent and slipped a finger under the shoulder of the black surcoat. “Our enemies will delight in piercing this cross.”

  “They shall not see it.”

  “Do not force me to remove that surcoat from you.”

  “I shall give you no reason.”

  When his fingers swept up through her hair, he brought her face close to his. “That is a shame,” he murmured as his thumb traced the curve of her cheek, “for there could be much pleasure in removing it for both of us.”

  “I told you. I am your ally. Nothing more.”

  “Because of what you have vowed?” His finger brushed her lips.

  “Yes.” Even that single word was nearly impossible to speak when she wanted to melt into his arms. She shivered when his breath warmed her face.

  “Then I vow to you, milady, that this shall not always be so. There shall come a day”—his eyes twinkled devilishly—“or a long, languid night, when you shall come to me and ask for what we both want.”

  With a curse, she stood. “You arrogant son of an ox.”

  “Here we say ‘son of a thieving jackal.’” He leaned back against the pillows and rested one arm on his knee.

  “You need not mock me.”

  “I do not mock your fervor, Melisande, only your ill-begotten assumptions.”

  “’Tis not an ill-begotten assumption that I do not wish to be your lover.”

  His arm struck her knees, folding them. With a cry, she fell beside him. She moaned when his broad hand settled on her throat. She stared at his hooded eyes, too frightened to speak, too frightened to move. When he bent over her, she wondered if he would slay her while the old woman watched.

  As if he had gauged her thoughts, he snapped an order. “I assume nothing,” he murmured
as the old woman left, “and neither should you, milady.”

  Her protest vanished beneath his mouth. His fingers twisted through her hair as he teased her lips with his tongue. At her gasp, it probed into her mouth, setting each moist secret afire. When his fingers slipped beneath her surcoat, she murmured wordless dissent into his mouth. His kiss deepened, demanding her surrender, as his other hand slid to her waist. Slowly—so slowly his touch became an exquisite torment—his hands glided up her sides.

  Her arms curved around his shoulders as her fingers sifted through his thick hair. He bent to press his mouth to her throat. Her pulse leaped, and she heard his breath catch when her hands splayed across his broad back, drawing him even closer.

  “Gabriel,” she whispered against his cheek.

  “Say nothing. Let me drink at the intoxicating fountain of your lips.” With a moan of longing, he captured her mouth again.

  She soared on the thrilling sensations. His mouth traced fire along hers while his hands enlightened her skin through her simple gown.

  Suddenly he drew back. Melisande gasped when he laughed and flipped her surcoat over her head. The material ripped when he jerked it away.

  As he rose to his knees, she cried, “How dare you!”

  “How dare I what?” He threw the material into a corner and leaned toward her. When she fell back into the pillows again, he laughed. “How dare I deprive you of that symbol which would mean your death if you left this tent? Or how dare I seduce you until you quiver in my arms?”

  “I quivered with fear.”

  “Fear? Of losing yourself in passion?”

  “Of your killing me.” Mayhap if she refused to admit the truth, she could forget how her heart had thudded with yearning. “You had your hand at my throat. I would prefer even your beastly kiss to death.”

  He pressed his lips to her neck. When she could not halt her tremble, he laughed. “I can see how much you loathe my mouth on you, Melisande.” With a sigh, he sat. “However, you are correct. We are allies now.”

  She pushed herself away. “That is right. We are allies, nothing else.”

  “Nothing else.” He stood and framed her face in his broad hands. “For now.”

  He captured her mouth once more, then was gone so swiftly she had no time to retort. She was not sure what she might have said when her defiant lips burned with the longing to touch his once more.