A Flame Run Wild (26 page)

Once the page had gone out of sight of the pavilion, Liliane waylaid him. "Young sir, I will take no more than a few minutes of your time, but I must speak with you."

"Concerning what matter?" the page countered warily. Liliane saw he had an inkling of her mission.

"I am pledged to guard the life of Count Alexandre de Brueil," she replied gravely. "Have I reason to believe that yonder council has put his life in jeopardy?"

"I may not speak of the council," the page said firmly, and started to brush by her.

No one was about, but to be seen talking alone with a Moor on such a day was unwise. Liliane gave the page credit for good sense, even as she put an arm across his path. "Wait, I beg you. I do not seek to spy upon the doings of your master and his allies. I wish to know only if there is danger to the young count."

The page put his hand upon his dagger. "See you here, milord, I may tell you nothing. Now, let me pass and be about my business."

Liliane held out her arms from her sides. "lake my weapons, sir, and fear nothing from me. If I must convince you of my good faith, it must be in private. Will you come to Count Alexandre's tent? His guards are not fond of me and you would have their willing assistance if you think me treacherous."

"I am not afraid of you, but I have no time for a conference," reiterated the page. "You must address Count Alexandre if you wish to know his plans."

"Count Alexandre has a concern for my neck, sir, and too often he risks his own. Please," she pleaded softly, "give me only that few minutes that I asked and you will understand my bond to the count; 'tis one that runs deeper than a sworn oath and I cannot shirk it."

The page stared hard at her for a few minutes, then waved her toward the beach dunes. He drew his knife and palmed it, then disarmed Liliane. "I haw no use for traitors."

Liliane led the way into the dunes where the wind from the sea was ruffling a few dry shocks of seagrass. Once in a generous dip that bent away from the camp's view, she crouched down in the blowing sand and looked up at the page. Her hands went to the
haik
and tugged it free. The page gaped at the golden mass that spilled across her shoulders. "See you now, young sir, why you have naught to fear from a turncoat Moor? I am Liliane, Countess de Brueil, wife to Count Alexandre."

"But," gasped the page, "your uncle was the—" He halted, fearing he had said too much.

"My uncle was the villain who ordered my husband shot in the back. You have quick eyes and courage. That you are yet alive attests to your luck that my uncle has not guessed you saw more than you ought; it also speaks for your circumspect tongue. If not for the last, I would not risk your confidence now, for if any should discover me, I should be sent back to France with my lord Alexandre left to contest alone the treacheries of my relatives.'' She put into her lovely eyes an appeal that might have softened the heart of a crocodile. "I beg you, have pity upon a woman's love for her husband and help me now. Surely one who has endured the doubts of his fellows because of his youth can understand another who would be dismissed for want of strength and a man's beard." She took his hand. "You have seen that I have courage and skill; believe also that I am faithful to my husband and our liege lord, King Philip."

"I believe you, my lady," he stammered, "but I would not see you join the enterprise your husband plans; 'tis for seasoned warriors."

"I have survived nearly as many battles as you, sir, and today I was with Alexandre and King Philip. No weanling could have helped hold back the Saracens. Tell me, what does my husband propose?"

Reluctantly, he told her. He had not heard everything through the tent wall, but he had heard enough. Alexandre, with Philip's backing and Richard's interest, was proposing a series of counterstrikes against Saladin, the first being scheduled for the same night, while the Saracens would be celebrating their near success in the day's attack. The aim was to disconcert and fatigue the enemy with night raids, using a small, quick-moving crack force like the Saracens' own raiding bands, a force that would not greatly deplete the main crusader army should it be destroyed.

Liliane listened with growing depression. How like Alexandre not to want to endure the humiliating, 'slow ruin of another siege like that he had experienced in Jerusalem. He would rather fight than rot.

Flanchard, the mercenary, led the many objections: the two main ones being that if Alexandre were destroyed, he would take with him part of the cream of the crusader forces, which they could ill afford to lose; also that he proposed to arm them with bows, light swords and scarcely more armor than jousting squires, which Flanchard considered to be a mad idea.

" 'Tis more mad to weight men like elephants," Alexandre had retorted. "Elephants may be impressive, but they also make lumbering targets. We should be run down before we were well away from Saladin's camp."

The council wrangled for nearly another hour, with most siding with Flanchard. They might have continued until this night's chance was lost, had Richard not ended the discussion. His invariably grudging patience and his love of daring aggressiveness decreed his decision. "Choose your force, Brueil, and arm them as you like, but take no man unwilling. Such an enterprise will founder upon any hesitancy."

His dark eyes filled with irony, Flanchard rose. "If I may, Your Majesty, I should like to be first to propose my services to the count. If I am proved wrong about this venture, it still promises merit and adventure. If I am right, I confess a nagging, if perhaps fatal, wish to witness that justification."

"You are welcome, Sir Derek," Alexandre replied easily. "I shall need a good second in command to Baron de Lisle who earlier volunteered his skill."

Liliane was less sanguine. Alexandre liked Flanchard no better than she did. Flanchard was not to be trusted and he envied Alexandre's royal influence. His readiness to join the troop had not won him the lieutenancy he angled for, but he might attempt more devious ways to achieve that position . . . and more.

The sand swirled about her and the page, stinging them. "I must go," the page muttered, wiping grit from his face. "If I do not, the lord who sent me will set up an uproar." He blinked at her, then frowned earnestly as he backed up the dune. "I wish you good fortune, my lady, in your enterprise. You are brave, but I wonder if you would not better serve your husband as wives are wont. With all respect, I know I should not want my wife running about in heathen garb and risking her neck and virtue!" :With that, he saluted her and took to his heels to resume his interrupted errand.

After redonning her
haik
, Liliane raced home. With the
haik
cinched high about her face, she ordered a bath of seawater to rid herself of her dirt and fidgeted while two servants filled the copper tub. Stripping, she jumped into the shallow water but had scarcely submerged her dirty face when Alexandre entered the tent.

He peered with alert fascination at her sleek form glistening beneath the water. The slender curve of her back rose gracefully above the surface. He trailed a finger along her backbone, and she snapped upright, improving his view considerably. "Fishing?" he inquired gently.

She flushed. "No ... I am just dirty from the battle."

Alexandre studied her tangled that of hair and the grayish patch of sandy dust about her face. "Odd, you pick up so much dirt beneath that
haik
. The only time you take it off is in the tent, isn't it?"

At the cynical look in his eyes, Liliane suddenly realized her mistake. The dune sand had dusted her hair. A reasonable explanation eluded her.

Fortunately, Alexandre seemed ready to let the question slide. Deftly, he plucked the slim bar of soap from the bath. "Shall 1 wash your hair?"

Ordinarily the offer would have delighted her; now it made her squirm. With luxurious laziness, he silently lathered her hair, his strong fingers working against her scalp. At length, she relaxed in spite of herself and her head slipped back against his hands.

Alexandre gazed down at the pale, enticing length of her. This softness, this fragile-looking desirable creature had fought at his side in battle. She bewildered him, frustrated him . . . fascinated him. How could any woman be so stubborn, so daring and heedless of her own safety, all supposedly in his behalf? He could not believe she loved him that much.

Perhaps she was thinking of Diego, he reflected cynically. Diego was at the core of most of her restlessness and mercurial moods. Was she driven by some guilt over Diego, something she had owed aim or wrongly taken? Had Jacques somehow used her to bring about Diego's death?

And what was she up to now, with that startled blush that had greeted him when he found her in the tub? She had taken the
haik
off and not by accident, or she would not have fumbled for an explanation. He could think of only two reasons why she might have doffed the
haik
; either she had not wanted to look like a Moor or she had wanted to reveal herself as a woman . . . perhaps to a man—Richard or Philip? Jacques? A lover?

Alexandre almost hoped she had been playing spy again. Her pleading with Richard to send him home could only lead to public embarrassment. And what if she had entreated Philip? He could imagine the price the Mr and lecherous Philip would demand of her. Alexandre forced that unpleasant idea from his mind.

Tonight he was riding out on a dangerous mission from which he might not return. As Liliane could expect little more than indifference and a skimpy escort back to France from Richard, her only protector would then be Philip. Banishing depression again, Alexandre resolved to make the most of the next brief hours with her; the last thing he wanted was to quarrel.

Her slippery hair was soft, like heavy silk in his fingers, her body white where the aba had hidden it from the desert sun and the eyes of men. His eyes. Sometimes he almost went wild imagining her bare under the voluminous aba . . . when no man knew but himself of its treasures, when all of them, reduced to prostitutes and buggery, would have been sick with desire for her. And she was his, so long as he could hold her.

He gently corded Liliane's wet hair about her neck and kissed her. Her tongue was pink, her nipples damp and rosy above the water, her lashes a swallow's wings closed over the high curves of her cheeks. He traced her elegant jaw, the shells of her ears, her throat and collarbones to her slender shoulders. Then he lifted her to him, bare and wet, and placed her upon the rug. Soap still glistened in her hair as he made love to her. Languorously, he kissed her armpits, pressed her breasts high to meet his lips and teasing tongue. He licked water from her navel, from her lower belly. She sighed as he moved lower still. He delighted in her pleasure, the quick response he could draw from her. These soft cries were his, this secret gateway to love. Her hands caught almost hurtfully in his hair and in turn he became merciless in his demand of her.

Only when Liliane begged for him, did he open his clothing and release his own arousal, sinking into her with slow luxury. She fitted to him with such delicious, maddening tightness that the slightest movement excited him to bursting. She was a whirlpool drawing him deeper into liquid desire. She shuddered, moaning past control as he quickened. A shattering tremor shook them, quaked in outward running splits that opened in a scarlet-streaked disorienting chasm of passion.

The glow snaked about their bodies, racing through their veins to blaze white-hot as if the desert sun had exploded there.

Alexandre, thou splendid liar, Liliane thought yearningly in the slow cooling aftermath. You fill me with life, even as you show yourself to death. With lips and limbs of flaming desire, you destroy me as if you would raise a phoenix in my place. What new creature do you think to leave behind you? What value is any life to me if you are gone from it?

Alexandre left her asleep with the lingering brush of his kiss faintly stirring her hair behind her ear. She sighed, flung out a hand as if reaching for him. He did not touch her, waiting silently for her to sink into sleep again. The tent was so dark he could scarcely see the curve of her cheek, but just now he clearly remembered her intent profile as she had perched over the stream in Provence the first day they had met. She had been waiting, so beautifully deft when she moved at last to capture her fish. She had more patience than he, and perhaps more certainty of what she wanted. Over the years, his own wants had grown simple. He wanted her, peace, children. Tonight, those simple hopes might be ended. When had his future really been different? Philip invariably allowed him to go home just long enough to believe that he might not be recalled to war. Since returning to Palestine, he had walked with death at his shoulder . . . and Liliane, lovely, defiant and courageous, at his right hand.

"Aye," he whispered. "You will be a match for anything, my sweeting. My golden hawk has claws enough for Philip, Jacques and the whole pack. Fare thee well, my love.
Vaya con Dios
."

A short while later, Alexandre, Flanchard, Louis, Lisle and thirty horsemen silently crossed the siege ditchjhat separated the camp from the desert. The moon was a sliver, the dunes scarcely discernible in its cold glow. Overhead the stars hung as brilliant as the Eyes of God that the Saracens called them. The camp was still, a jumbled mosaic of pale canvas, sharp-edged and temporary, while the dunes were smooth, curved and endless. Most of the riders, unused to wearing only chain mail and helmets, were fidgety. Their light swords and bows seemed flimsy, and the destriers were bemused by the lack of weight on their broad backs. The desert was cool now, almost chilly, with nothing to break the wandering wind. Somewhere over the Mediterranean, a storm was rising.