Crusader's Lady. Lynna Banning

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      He drew his blade and plunged toward the sound.

      Chapter Two

      Marc closed his fingers around a smooth, silk-covered arm and yanked the Saracen boy out of the shadows. ‘What are you doing here? I told you to go.’

      ‘Do not touch me!’ a high, angry voice yelled. ‘Release me at once!’

      ‘Answer me!’ Marc gritted through clenched teeth.

      The small turbaned head came up. ‘I kept watch over my uncle.’

      ‘And where is your uncle now?’ He gave the boy a single hard shake. ‘Perhaps he rose up and walked to Paradise?’

      A slap stung his cheek. ‘Do not insult him. No one walks to Paradise.’

      God, the little brat had struck him!

      ‘Where is he, then?’

      ‘I signaled my kinsmen, using your firelight. They came in secret for the body, took him away on a horse.’

      ‘Why did you not go with them?’

      The youth dropped his head, flicked a glance at the jeweled dagger in Marc’s hand, then stared at his leather sandals. Marc tightened his grip on the slim arm. ‘Why?’

      The boy set his mouth in a tight line and did not respond. Then, quick as a cat, he wrenched his arm free and his small hand made a grab for the dagger. The blade sliced into the boy’s thumb, and he cried out.

      Marc collared him, dragged him over to the fire and pushed him down beside it. ‘Here.’ He tossed down a bit of linen he kept under his tunic. The boy wrapped it around his hand but said nothing.

      Marc nodded. ‘I see.’ He squatted a few feet away and hid the knife behind his belt. ‘You stayed behind to attack me.’

      No answer. The boy stared into the glowing embers.

      ‘You have courage, I will say that.’ Still no response.

      ‘Look at me!’ Marc ordered. With his fist he tipped the scarf-swathed chin up. Eyes the colour of the sea, pale green and hard as jade, met his.

      Something kicked inside Marc’s chest. ‘You have strange eyes, boy. Arabs are dark.’

      ‘I am Circassian, not Arab. But I was brought up among Arabs. I know their ways.’

      Marc studied the boy for a long moment. ‘Unwind your headpiece.’

      The layers of silk slowly fell away until Marc could see the boy’s visage. True, he was not Arab. His skin was the colour of cream, the features fine, almost delicate, the nose long and straight. A mass of unruly black curls sprang to life when released from under the turban.

      Again a jolt under his ribs snapped his nerves taut. The youth was handsome, almost feminine in his movements. He watched the thin shoulders hunch against the cold wind. The lad had tried to stab him, but he had neither the skill nor the strength to accomplish the deed. Disarmed, he was no longer a threat.

      ‘Are you hungry?’ he snapped.

      ‘Yes, lord….’

      Marc reached for the cooking pot, scooped up three fingers of the congealed mess, then handed over the bowl. ‘It is cold, but it fills the belly.’

      The boy did likewise and made to hand it back, but Marc pushed it away. The youth gazed at him, his strange green eyes assessing, then quickly devoured the rest.

      Marc watched him. What should he do with the boy, who was now busy scouring the inside of the empty pot with a handful of sand? Send him back to his people, he supposed.

      God, what was he thinking? The fate of the young Arab did not matter; Marc and the king would be gone before morning.

      He rose, tramped over to his hemp supply bag and yanked out a ragged blanket. Bundling it into a ball, he tossed it to the boy, who stared at Marc with wary emerald eyes.

      ‘Nights in the desert are cold, Circassian.’

      The smooth, pale forehead creased into a puzzled frown. ‘Yes, lord. I know. Shukren, lord. Mercez.’

      There was something strange about this lad. For one thing, he spoke both Arabic and Norman French. And for another, eyes that color were rare, even for a Circassian. Eyes that mysterious made him feel…restless. Aware of something he could not name.

      For the rest of the night he would sleep with his sword at his side and make sure the dagger was secured under his body. He did not trust the boy.

      She would never understand these Franks. This one in particular, with those eyes blue as lapis lazuli and his gold-streaked hair. There was a darkness about him that made Soraya shudder. He had killed Khalil, yet he gave her his blanket.

      She wrapped the coarse wool about her shoulders and dropped her head onto her raised knees. But she did not shut her eyes. Instead, she tipped her head just enough to watch him settle himself by the dwindling fire. He had strong features, but his eyes were shadowed, his mouth a harsh line.

      No matter. She had but one purpose now—to avenge her uncle’s murder and then carry out their assigned mission for Saladin. By dawn this knight would be a dead man.

      She shut her eyes.

      A spark exploded and she jerked her head up and peeked at the knight on the other side of the guttering flames. Sleeping. Or so he appeared. Firelight heightened the strong jaw, the cruel mouth.

      She flicked a pebble at his head, striking his chin, but his closed eyelids did not quiver. Her dagger was pinned beneath his long body. She prayed he would shift in his sleep so she could snatch the weapon and plunge the blade into his throat.

      She watched the knight’s chest rise and fall with his steady breathing. She must do it. She had pledged her word to God. She tossed another, larger stone.

      Marc flicked one eyelid open, then instantly snapped it shut. The boy still sat by the fire, his slim body hunched over his knees. Asleep, probably. Or watching him. Waiting.

      The large ruby embedded in the Saracen dagger hilt chewed into the flesh of his back, but rather than roll over and ease the annoyance, he would endure. A blade secured under him was a blade that could not be used against him.

      God have mercy, he had killed the Saracen in unthinking haste, and the ease with which he’d done it stunned and ashamed him. He felt sorry for the slave boy opposite him. Unending warfare ate away a man’s soul, poisoned his spirit. It had to stop. He couldn’t stomach another killing, not even of a servant.

      He shifted uneasily, stretching out his legs. God, the longer the struggle for Jerusalem, the less human he became. Week after week Saladin’s warriors encircled the Frankish camp arrayed outside the city gates. Before them naught faced Richard’s army but stone walls. If the Franks moved their camp north or south, the Saracens again surrounded them once night had fallen. It had been thus for months. The battle for Jerusalem was a stand-off.

      The СКАЧАТЬ