No Price Too High Read online

  Melisande smiled as the silk brushed against her on every step. These clothes flowed along her like a spring freshet. Her smile became a gasp when Lysias led her into another room. It was decorated in pale pinks and bright blues around thick wood columns rising to the ceiling. Pillows were tossed about the ornate rug, and a low chair was long enough to sleep upon. Lamps were lit because night had found its way into the mountains while she had been bathing.

  “You may wait here,” Lysias said.

  “For—”

  “The shaykh will send for you when he wishes to see you.” Lysias lowered her full body onto the long chair. Motioning for Melisande to pull some of the pillows closer, she said, “You must be patient, child. He has matters of his men to consider before he turns to his own pleasures.”

  Her fingers gripped the pillows. Squaring her shoulders, Melisande said, “I am not here for his pleasure. He has a harim for that.”

  Lysias chuckled. “There are many types of pleasure, child, but it is clear which one is dwelling in your thoughts. I told Karim Pasa that you find much favor with the shaykh. As he does with you.”

  Bending to pick up more pillows, she was glad for the excuse to hide her face, which must have been as red as her hair. Even more hotly, a flame burned within her as she thought of Gabriel’s hands coursing down her back … gentle, teasing, arousing a need for more. She set the pillows on the floor near the odd chair and sat on them.

  Lysias leaned forward to cup Melisande’s chin. “Child, do not look so distraught. The shaykh has allowed you to live to see this place. Isn’t that a sign of his clemency?”

  “It’s a sign that he wants the gold my father will pay for my release.”

  “Gold?” She laughed. “What would the shaykh wish with gold when—” She glanced past Melisande. “Bring it here.”

  Melisande looked over her shoulder to see another serving woman bringing a tray.

  “Eat, Melisande,” Lysias commanded.

  She looked at the food, but waved it away. The thought of eating sent her reeling stomach into violent somersaults. The aroma of the spicy food was nearly too much. Holding her fingertips over her lips, she prayed her stomach would not embarrass her.

  Lysias frowned. “Are you ill, child?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to have a child?”

  “No!”

  “Then why do you look so ill?”

  Melisande sighed. Her heart ached with homesickness, and her stomach cramped with fear. Hoping her words were the truth, she murmured, “I will be fine.”

  “Of course you will.” Lysias patted Melisande’s hand with pudgy fingers encrusted with rings. “You are fatigued from your long journey. On the morrow, when you are more rested, you will feel much better.”

  “Sleep sounds wonderful.” She came to her feet. “Should I return to the bedchamber where you met me? If—”

  The old woman took her hand and drew her back down to kneel in the pillows. “Child, the shaykh wishes to see you. You may not retire until he has given you permission.”

  “He could be hours with his men.”

  “That is true, but here you will wait.”

  “Upon his pleasure?”

  A door crashed against a wall. A slender woman burst into the room. Her fiery eyes settled on Melisande. Raising her fists, she ran forward. Karim Pasa stepped out of the shadows and grasped her.

  Melisande stared. She had not guessed he was lurking there.

  The dark-haired woman lunged out of his grip. What she snarled at him brought a low growl from Lysias. Turning, she added something to the old woman.

  Again Lysias replied heatedly.

  Melisande continued to stare. What was happening? The woman was undeniably beautiful, although her face was contorted with rage. With her voluptuous figure accented by her sheer robes, she would have been the center of attention in Heathwyre.

  Lysias said in Frankish, “You are wasting your breath, Falla. She speaks no Arabic.”

  “Is that so?” Falla retorted in nearly perfect Frankish. “I am the ikbal. He does not want a colorless Franj in his bed.”

  Melisande looked at Lysias. “What is an ikbal?”

  “The shaykh’s favored concubine.” Her black eyes glared at Falla. “If you are the ikbal, Falla, as you claim, should you not be readying yourself for when the shaykh calls?”

  “It will be me he calls!” Falla crowed. “Not some red-haired Franj.”

  “I don’t want your shaykh, Falla,” Melisande said coolly.

  Her dark eyes widened in disbelief, then she laughed. Putting her hands on her hips, she smoothed the fine material of her scarlet trousers. “That is good, for you will never have him. He is mine, Franj.”

  “My name is Lady Melisande, daughter of the Earl of Heathwyre.” She stood with all the dignity she could find in her exhausted brain. “However, as I am now a prisoner, I will grant you the privilege of addressing me as Melisande.”

  Karim Pasa smiled, but fury twisted Falla’s full lips. The ikbal shouted words Melisande could not understand.

  Melisande turned to Lysias. She did not intend to be abused by a common concubine. None of her father’s mistresses had treated her with other than respect, and she would not accept anything else from Gabriel’s. A twinge ricocheted around her heart. It was not as easy to ignore as Falla.

  The sound of a door slamming and the smile on Lysias’s round face told her that Falla had left. She sagged against the pillows, but looked up when a hand settled on her shoulder.

  Karim Pasa bowed to her. “Milady, I have been sent to tell you that your presence is requested.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lysias tapped her hand as she chided, “Go without questions, child. When Karim Pasa speaks that phrase, it is the shaykh who wishes to see you.”

  Standing, she said, “I know he wishes to see me, and I wish to see him.” She wondered if she were being honest, because, beneath her loose gown, she trembled. With fear? With anticipation?

  Lysias rose. Taking one of the wisps of silk that was connected to the beaded band, she drew it over the lower half of Melisande’s face. “This is a yashmak. You must wear this veil whenever you leave the seraglio.”

  “This is ridiculous!”

  Both Karim Pasa and Lysias reached to halt her from pulling the material back. She turned away and stared out at the garden that had been stripped of color by the moonlight. She wanted to collapse into tears as she begged someone to take her home and away from this pretty prison. Taking a deep breath, she held it for a long moment. She had vowed to come to the Holy Land and fight the evil here. Until she had done as she pledged, she must remain as warrior-strong as her father.

  As she faced them again, Karim Pasa said only, “This way, milady.”

  She followed him, resisting the impulse to look back. If she saw fear on Lysias’s face, she might crumble. She must be strong.

  Karim Pasa opened a door which led to a circular room. A single bench on the tile floor stood against the one spot on the wall wide enough to hold it. The rest of the wall was filled with a multitude of doors. It was the strangest room she had ever seen.

  “This is the mabeyin, milady.” He cleared his throat before he continued, as if he had repeated the explanation many times. “No woman may pass through this room without the consent of the shaykh. Nor may any man enter it without risking castration or death, the punishment for daring to see the women belonging only to the shaykh.”

  “That is ridiculous!” she snapped before she could halt herself.

  “Milady, the shaykh’s orders are not mine to question. If you have a concern, you must discuss it with the shaykh himself.”

  “I will!”

  A slip of a smile curved his lips. “I am sure of that, milady. If you’ll come with me, please.” He opened a door. Stepping back, he bent from the waist until she feared his nose would touch the floor. When she saw who was entering the mabeyin, she understood his pose.

>   Here, the man known as Renard du Vent to his enemies seemed even more powerful than in his tent. Gabriel’s gaze moved along her, and she was thankful the clothes Lysias had chosen covered her completely. The heat of his appraisal cut through the layers of silk.

  She stared at him as boldly. She would not let him see her disquiet. His ebony beard glistened, and she guessed he had just bathed. Her fingers quivered at the thought that she might see the strong flesh they had touched through his robes. Shaking that image from her head was impossible, and she took another steadying breath as his robes of the finest white silk flowed about him when he dismissed Karim Pasa.

  Karim Pasa pressed his palms to his forehead and bowed. He backed out of the mabeyin and closed the seraglio door behind him. Keeping her eyes directly on Gabriel’s roughly sculptured face, she waited for his dark gaze to meet hers.

  When Gabriel motioned for Melisande to precede him through the open door, she obeyed without comment. As soon as she stepped into the room, she knew it had been a mistake to ignore his smile.

  Even more luxurious than the other rooms, this bedchamber had been situated close to the harim so the shaykh could have his choice brought to him without delay. She noted the silk screens and assorted low tables and chairs, but the room was dominated by the huge bed enclosed with a gauze so fine it was almost invisible.

  She whirled to leave, but it was too late. Gabriel entered and was closing the door. It had no bar, another symbol of his sovereignty over this stronghold and everyone within it. No one would intrude, even if she screamed.

  When he moved past her silently, he sat in a carved chair. He stretched his long legs toward her. Leaning back against the round seat, he pointed to another chair. “You need not stand, Melisande.”

  She said, as she tipped her head, “I am honored that you allow your lowly captive to sit, Shaykh Gabriel de la Rive.”

  “Then sit.”

  Realizing she could not best him this way, she went to the chair while he watched. As she sat, she ran her fingers along the carved wood. This luxury surpassed anything in England.

  He loosened the yashmak. “You need not wear this here, Melisande. My mother should have explained you must wear it only if you were by chance to meet a man other than me beyond the harim.” He brushed the material back from her face, his fingers lingering against her cheek. If he noticed her sharp intake of breath at the sweet caress, he said nothing of it. “I know you must find your new clothes a bit odd, but you will become accustomed to our ways.”

  “I would prefer not to.” She moved away from his fingers, which remained too close to her face. His touch banished all other thoughts from her head.

  When his fingers brushed her cheek again, she looked at him. She longed to understand a single emotion in his volatile eyes. And she longed for his lips on hers.

  “Tell me the truth,” he whispered, the warmth of his breath brushing her as eagerly as his fingers. “Is it the women and their traditions that you object to or me?”

  “Both.” When shock blossomed in his sable eyes, she hurried to add, “I’m not one of them.”

  He leaned back and laughed. “That could be changed, if you wish, Melisande.”

  Leaping to her feet, she knew she must put some distance between herself and the enticement of his lips. She imagined them on hers and feared she was losing her mind. Finding outrage easier to deal with, she said, “I cannot conceive of a time when I would wish to be your lover, Shaykh Gabriel de la Rive.” She hoped he did not guess she was lying.

  “Gabriel will suffice.”

  “What?”

  “I prefer not to address you as Lady Melisande of Heathwyre, so let us continue to enjoy the informality we have.”

  “Do you think that is wise?”

  He caught her face between his hands and brushed her lips with a blistering kiss. “Do you think that wise?”

  No, it was not wise, but it was what she wanted. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” That much was the truth.

  “I can offer you the familiarity of a comrade or the courtesy offered to a lady.” His gaze swept over her again. “A lady who lives within my harim and is my captive.”

  Her nails cut into her palms as she fought to breathe. He offered her everything she wanted. Everything, for she wanted both. Swallowing roughly, she wondered if her mind had come undone with fatigue. She could imagine no other reason why she was wavering.

  She was a Hospitaller, sworn to aid the Crusaders in the Holy Land. Nothing must take precedence over that. Quietly, she said, “I cannot accept either choice, Gabriel. I am your prisoner. Nothing else.”

  “I suspected you would say something of that sort.” Standing, he ran his hand along her cheek. He smiled when her lips parted, aching for his kiss, but turned and clapped his hands.

  A servant appeared with a tray covered with dishes. Enticing scents rose from it. The veiled woman placed it on a nearby table. Putting her palms to her forehead, she bowed before scurrying away.

  “Are you hungry?” Gabriel asked. When she faltered, he said, “I have been told that you have eaten nothing.”

  “You have efficient spies.”

  “Insults shall offer no nourishment for either of us. Will you eat?”

  Uneasily, she walked forward. The silken sounds of her robes accompanied her steps. It was a strange melody to ears accustomed to the heavy plodding of wool. She reached for a sweetmeat, then drew back her hand. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You are lying.”

  She looked past him to the elegant bed. “No, I am being honest.” Her stomach was so knotted with emotions she understood as little as she did the ones in his eyes. The very thought of eating threatened to sicken her.

  Melisande stepped back as he lifted the tray and walked toward another door that was edged with silk drapes. These had been pulled back to allow moonlight to pour a milky stream across the floor.

  As he walked out, he called back, “Are you just going to stand there, or will you join me in the garden?”

  She followed him out of the bedchamber. The aroma of hundreds of flowers that were closed for the night wafted over her. Shadows cloaked the plants, but the moonlight sparkled off the water sprayed from a fountain set in the heart of a pool shaped like an arabesque.

  When he set the tray on the tiles by the pool, she realized there were steps leading down into it. Was it some sort of bathing pool, far bigger and more ornate than the one she had used? He took her hand and drew her down to sit by the water’s edge.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “You are most welcome to be here.”

  “What is this place?”

  He poured something from the bottle and held out the goblet to her. “This is my private garden. I come here when I wish to think.”

  “What do you think of?” She took the goblet, but did not raise it to her lips. Even in the dim light of a single lantern hanging on the other side of the pool, she could see it shimmer with gold and gems.

  “On the rare occasions when I can steal a moment to come here, I think of peace in these hills for the people who seek my protection.” He filled a goblet for himself. “Tonight, I am thinking of you.” He touched his goblet to hers, then drank.

  “And not Falla?”

  His brows rose. “I suspect there are things you would prefer to discuss more than Falla.”

  She almost argued he was wrong. Was she mad? What did she care about the petty quarrels of the women in the harim? She was not one of them. She pushed her hair back, unaccustomed to its fullness loose against her. When he reached to guide a single strand over her shoulder, she asked, “Have you sent word to my father?”

  “Don’t think of that tonight, for you’ll be my guest too long to worry every day.” His fingers closed over hers on the stem of the goblet. Raising it toward her lips, he murmured, “Try this.”

  She glanced over the rim. He was smiling. She did not trust that smile, but doubted if he intended to poison her. The sharpn
ess cut through her thirst. “What is it?”

  “Tamar hindi, water mixed with tamarind. Do you like it?”

  “It has an odd flavor, but I like it.”

  “I thought you might.” He rubbed her hair between his fingers. “How is your arm, Melisande?”

  “Karim Pasa put clean bandaging on it.”

  “You could learn much from him of the curing of wounds. He is a very wise man.”

  “Then it is a shame he is locked away in a harim.”

  He shrugged. “He is my mother’s servant as well as her intermediary when she wishes to speak with me. She heeds his counsel as I do.”

  “But he might have been a great warrior if he had not been—” She took a hasty drink.

  Gabriel laughed. “How odd your ways are! You sit here on this wondrous night, and your thoughts are of war.”

  “But you said you think here of ridding the hills of your enemies.”

  “No,” he said, as he watched the moonlight dapple her hair with silver. “Here I think of the peace that will be when Abd al Qadir’s terror is ended.” He sighed. “But will it be over when he no longer roams the hills?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “He does not work alone. I have found no clue to tell me who his ally is, but someone alerts him to send his men after caravans such as yours.”

  “Mayhap he has efficient spies.”

  Again he smiled. “Mayhap you are right, milady.” Taking a dish from the tray, he offered her some fresh fruit. “Without the desert’s dirt, you are lovely.”

  “Thank you.”

  His words unsettled her, although he had no idea why. Certainly the Franj must compliment their women. Leaning on his elbow, he smiled up at her. “Oh, I see, you think I am trying to seduce you.”

  Her eyes widened. “I thought we agreed that I was your prisoner, nothing else.”

  “Then why do you tense as if you are about to flee from here?”

  “I shall give you my vow not to escape, if you agree to treat me as befits an honorable enemy.”

  “You promise not to flee simply because you know you could not survive the journey to Tyre alone.”

  “If you believed that, you would not keep me locked in here. You fear I’ll find a mount and slip away.”