White Lion's Lady (37 page)

“You know, my lady,” he whispered against the soft skin below her ear, “I would be doing you a great disservice if I were to permit you to remain out here in the garden when you have been ordered to stay in bed.”

She drew in her breath when his mouth moved lower on her neck. “Is that so, my lord?”

“Indeed it is.” He brought his hand up to brush her breasts, feeling the nipples rise and pucker through her bodice. Heat surged through him when she let out a little moan of pleasure. Already his desire was rampant, needful. She reached between them and placed her hand against his stiff erection, rubbing him with a maddening touch that
had become far too expert for his peace of mind. “Oh, yes,” he growled, “I think I need to take you to bed at once, my lady.”

He felt her hand shift, then heard the soft scrape of parchment as she pulled the letter from beneath his belt. “What’s this?” she asked. “It’s a letter from Sebastian! Shall I read it?”

“Perhaps later.” He scooped her up, lifting her off the bench and into his arms. He carried her out of the garden and into the castle. “My brother can wait,” he said with a roguish grin. “I, however, cannot.”

Read on for a sneak peek at
Black Lion’s Bride
, the magnificent historical romance from Tina St. John. Available in bookstores everywhere.

Ascalon, in the Kingdom of Jerusalem
May, 1192

Quiet and moonless, the night stretched out over the desert like thick black velvet, a cloak of complicity for the slim figure that moved with catlike grace along the maze of narrow alleyways crisscrossing the heart of Ascalon’s slumbering city. Garbed in a form-fitting tunic and hose of ebony silk, head and face masked likewise save for the eyes, it seemed as though night itself had sprouted legs to steal through the war-ravaged, abandoned marketplace.

The figure’s pace was brisk but cautious as it rounded the corner of an ancient mosque then continued past a row of merchants’ buildings and down another twisting avenue, each step lighting soundlessly on the cobbles and hard-packed sand of the street, the lithe limbs showing no sign of fatigue or uncertainty. The athletic form and flawless stealth indicated none of the strain that yet lingered from
the weeklong journey made on foot from the mountain fortress of Masyaf—a journey that had led here, to the desert port of Ascalon.

To what would be a final glory or an ignoble end.

For it was here that the leader of the Frankish infidels, Richard Coeur de Lion, had made his camp, and it was here that the savage king would breathe his last. He had offended many powerful leaders since coming to the Holy Land; there was no telling which of them might have paid to see him eliminated. And to the agent sent out to see the deed was done, the
fida’i
who now crept into position along the city’s steep wall to observe the royal pavilion, it mattered not who had bought this death. Like Conrad of Montferrat a fortnight past, Richard of England would soon feel the lethal bite of an Assassin’s dagger.

Although the hour was easily closer to dawn than dusk, the king did not sleep. Camped on the plain among the other soldiers, Coeur de Lion’s large tent glowed from within, the flicker of a single candle throwing shadows against the striped silk walls, betraying the fact that its occupant was alone, his bulky shoulders hunched over his desk in thoughtful concentration. As if to mock the very notion of danger, no guards stood sentry outside, nor in the immediate area. Richard’s fearless arrogance was widely accepted; tonight it would spell his doom.

With no time to waste, the
fida’i
sent a prayer to Allah then reached down to withdraw a virgin dagger crafted especially for this occasion. The curved blade slipped out of its sheath as silently as the footsteps that now carried the Assassin to within a few paces of the king’s pavilion. Suddenly, from somewhere in the distance, a dog began to bark. Then the deep rumble of men’s voices carried through the night, their Frankish words serious-sounding, but too low to be understood. Two knights had entered the camp from the opposite end, their broad-shouldered outlines barely visible in the dark, their heavy boots crunching
in the rubble that littered the ground as they made their way toward Coeur de Lion’s tent.

Concealed in the gloomy darkness, the Assassin watched, measuring the distance between victory and defeat, as King Richard lifted his head then started to rise from his chair. There was time enough to strike before the knights reached him. Self-preservation was of no concern; martyrdom was the Assassin’s reward. But even more compelling than the promise of awaiting Paradise was the hope that this feat, might at last win the approval of Rashid al-Din Sinan.

Feared by most as the mysterious Old Man of The Mountain, King of the Assassins, to the
fida’i
sent to Ascalon on this mission, Sinan was better known simply as Father. It was his name, not Allah’s, that the Assassin whispered before advancing toward the tent that enveloped Coeur de Lion’s unarmed silhouette.

“I dinna suppose the king bothered to explain the urgency of this midnight summons, did he?”

Sebastian, Earl of Montborne, and, more recently, officer to King Richard of England in the war against the Muslim infidels, gave a shrug to the soldier walking at his side. “The king is awake and he wishes to have reports of his troops. What more explanation is needed?”

“Ach,” grunted his companion, a large Scotsman from the highlands of that wild northern region. “I might have known better than to complain to you, my friend. You and Lionheart seem to forget that we mere mortals require such things as food and rest to gird us for the next day’s battle.”

Sebastian chuckled. “And here all these months you’ve been trying to convince me that the Scots’ blood ran thicker than the English. I wonder what your bonny bride would say to hear you now, bemoaning the loss of a few hours’ sleep?”

“Aye, my sweet Mary,” sighed the Scot. “She would
doubtless give me a pretty scowl and and say, ‘James Malcolm Logan, I told you you were mad to leave me to chase glory in that accursed place. Now get your fool’s arse back home where you belong before I—’ ”

A movement in the distant darkness caught Sebastian’s eye. He stopped walking, silencing his friend with a slight lift of his hand. “Over there,” he said when Logan, too, paused. He kept his voice to no more than a whisper. “Something moved behind that row of tents.”

Without the moon to offer light to the camp, it was difficult to see anything beyond the pale shapes of the soldiers’ tents and the dark, rising swell of Ascalon’s crumbling city wall in the immediate background.

Beside him, Logan was peering into the dark and shaking his head. “I see nothing.”

“No,” Sebastian insisted, certain he was right by the sudden prickle of rising hairs at the back of his neck. “Something—someone—is out there.”

And then there was another shift of the darkness up ahead as a slender figure seemed to materialize from out of the gloom. Clad in black from head to toe, the intruder hunched low, creeping toward the center of camp with unmistakable purpose. Sebastian did not have to see the dagger that curved out of one fist like a deadly steel talon to understand what this intruder was …

Assassin.

“Blood of Christ!” Sebastian drew his sword and lunged forward. “The king, Logan! Go to the king!”

While the Scotsman raced for the candlelit glow of Richard’s pavilion, Sebastian’s boots chewed up the space of earth between him and the Syrian agent of death. In the camp, some of the other soldiers had begun to rouse. They tumbled out of their tents and grabbed up weapons, alerted to the situation by Sebastian’s shout of alarm.

The ruckus must have taken the Assassin aback, for he paused suddenly as if to assess the pending threat of capture.
The hesitation proved costly. Sebastian headed him off and was fast on his heels as the would-be assailant turned and ran for the open city gate. If he let him escape to the labyrinth of Ascalon’s streets and alleyways, Sebastian knew he would never find him.

The Assassin was slight of form, but quick. Sebastian was close enough that he could have cut him down with his sword at least twice, but the agile little bastard dodged away each time, scrambling out of his path like a hare fleeing a hound. The Assassin had nearly reached the freedom of Ascalon’s arched gate when he suddenly lost his footing, slipping in a patch of loose gravel. One leg skidded from beneath him and he started to fall. Sebastian hurled himself forward, reaching out with his free hand to grab the Assassin’s flailing arm.

“Uh—no!” he shrieked, the thready voice pitched higher than Sebastian might have expected.

A stripling youth, then, sent down from the mountains to kill a king? It seemed a ridiculous notion, but Sebastian had no time to consider it further.

Without warning the Assassin spun on him, and, in pure speed of motion, he hit Sebastian in the side. The blow was not the hardest he had ever taken, but it was swift enough to knock all the wind from his lungs. He lost his grasp on the Assassin’s arm and the lad broke away in a run. Sebastian followed, but quickly found he could not keep pace. His feet began to drag beneath him; his sword became a weight he could scarcely hold. He took a couple more steps, his boots scuffing in the sand as the Assassin slipped around the corner of the city gate and disappeared.

At his back, Sebastian heard the clank of weapons and the heavy beat of footsteps as a company of soldiers jogged up behind him. He had not realized he’d stopped moving until he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder.

“Are you all right, Sir?” one of the crusaders asked.

Sebastian nodded his head and pivoted toward his men,
trying not to let the effort that small movement took show in his face. “Lost my … breath.” Impatiently, he waved off the assisting hand one of the knights offered him, frustrated that he had let the Assassin get away. “The bastard hit me, and I lost my breath. Leave me alone. I’ll be fine.”

A dozen guards stared at him in mute stupefaction, wide-eyed and astonished beyond words.

“Jesus,” a young soldier managed to gasp.

Sebastian looked down to where their gazes were rooted, and acknowledged the source of their concern with a grim laugh. At his waist, a large pool of blood soaked through the fabric of his tunic and down onto his hose, seeping out of him from a wound at his side. The little whoreson had stabbed him—quite efficiently, from the looks of it.

It was no wonder the men gaped at him as if he were a ghost. In a few more hours, he likely would be.