LITMIR.BIZ

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monk slept soundly, his breathing less raspy and his fever lessened, thanks to her tea of lemon balm and thyme. The other one, the knight de Valery, lay some distance away, but she could not tell whether he slept or not.

      She watched the inky water below stir into a froth by the ploughing ship. Her chest muscles ached from throwing her stomach contents into the sea. She would not last in such misery until the ship reached Cyprus.

      In Cyprus, once she felt better, she could get her dagger back and then disappear into the populace and search out King Richard. The people spoke her tongue, as well as the mangled French of the Normans, even Greek. Sometimes she wondered if Uncle Khalil had chosen her at the slave auction for her skill at languages. Certainly it was not for her beauty; six years ago, when she was but ten summers, even the promise of beauty was a hazy dream on the far horizon of her life.

      She uncurled one hand from the smooth wooden rail and flexed her stiff fingers. Slowly she lifted her other hand and stood swaying on watery legs. If she could manage to reach the holy man, she could lie down on those foul-smelling sacks and rest. She had always felt somewhat uneasy around men, probably because of her years sequestered in the zenana, but the old monk seemed harmless.

      She could not say the same for the knight de Valery.

      Halfway across the deck she dropped to her hands and knees and ducked her head. The queasy feeling flooded through her; bitter saliva poured into her mouth. She clamped her lips tight shut and waited, controlling her breathing. After a moment she crawled forward, toward the sleeping monk, and then hesitated, remembering the knight’s words. Stay away from him.

      It made no sense, but perhaps it would be better to lie on the other side of the holy man, near de Valery. And await her chance to seek revenge. Before this night bled into dawn, she would keep her vow and kill the Frankish knight.

      Hunched on all fours, she reached his pallet, bent over him and surveyed the knight’s supine body. Already he slept like a dead man, his mouth hanging open, hands at his side. But he was very much alive. His chest and belly rose and fell at each breath.

      The hilt of a small knife protruded from his sword belt. God be praised, she could do it now!

      Carefully she placed one hand on his tunic, then slid it downward, fingering her way inch by inch over the linen. Warmth rose from his body. He snorted suddenly, closed his mouth and rolled his head to the other side.

      When she calmed her heartbeat, she moved her fingers onto his worn leather belt and groped for the weapon. It was not her jeweled dagger, but it was a blade at any rate. God willing, it would do as well. She prayed it was sharp.

      She waited, caressing the small metal hilt, matching her breathing to his. In. Out. Then another sleepy snuffle.

      Very slowly she lifted the knife away from his belt and moved her hand upward, toward his unshaven chin. Eyeing his neck where the tunic gaped open, she drew the blade toward herself and tested the edge with her thumb. Should she plunge the point into the hollow at the base of his throat? Or slice sideways from ear to ear?

      The Frank drew in an extra-deep breath and flopped one arm over his head. The cords in his neck rippled and then relaxed. Soraya leaned closer and raised the blade.

      A pulse throbbed in his throat. She watched his heart beat and rest…beat and rest. She could not take her eyes off that faint flutter of life.

      She tensed her muscles, drew her arm back to give her added force when the blade bit into the skin. His heart pumped steadily on. She listened to his breathing, watched the air enter his open lips and whistle back out. In…and then out.

      She shut her eyes, enacted each step of the deed in her mind to prepare herself.

      Now.

      Her muscles bunched. She ground her teeth together and bent forward, hand raised level with her head, and stopped her breathing.

      To her horror she found she could not move. Some otherworldly force seemed to grip her arm and hold it motionless. Trembling, she sat back and lowered the knife. She could not do it. Lord have mercy. I cannot take this man’s life. I cannot.

      She stared at the blade. An eating knife, for cutting meat and bread. A simple, small weapon. She could easily toss it into the sea afterward.

      But she could not kill him.

      She closed her eyes in disgust. Am I then such a coward? I have not the heart of the weakest harem slave, the most spineless beggar in the market square. Lord, let me die now in shame.

      She turned the blade in her hand, pointed it at her own chest, then lowered it until the sharp tip scratched her tunic just below her sore ribs. Above her head, the rigging creaked.

      She clasped her other hand over the hilt to drive it deep, sucked in a shuddery breath and held it. She must be strong.

      A fist shot out and grasped her forearm. The knife went skittering across the desk, and a cry of despair rose from her lips.

      ‘You pesky fool of a boy,’ the knight’s voice hissed. ‘What do you think you are doing?’

      ‘I swore an oath,’ she said, trying not to sob. ‘I have failed.’

      ‘An oath!’ he snapped in a voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘Think you that Allah hears an oath taken to commit a mortal sin?’

      ‘I swore not to Allah. I am a Christian.’

      ‘A Christian?’ For an instant surprise showed on his face, then was quickly masked. ‘All the more sinful,’ he growled.

      Soraya rocked back on her heels. He thought she had intended to take only her own life! He was unaware of her original intent.

      The knight rose up on one elbow, still gripping her wrist. ‘Do you imagine that God cares whether you live or die? What do you gain by sacrificing yourself? Honour? Wealth? Your name chiseled onto a stone in the desert?’

      ‘I gain self-respect.’ She spoke in jerky syllables, her voice clogged with hiccupy sobs.

      He spat off to one side. ‘Self-respect.’

      Soraya clamped her jaw tight to stop her weeping. Her body shook violently, her limbs twitching as if she had contracted the plague.

      She dropped her chin to her chest and let hot tears drip onto her tunic. Think! What should she do now? The knight released her wrist, and she heard him exhale with a catch.

      ‘Aye, ye poor dumb lad. Come here.’ A strong arm reached to her shoulder and tugged her forward, and she tumbled against his hard chest. Overcome by her cowardice, she felt worse than seasick.

      With a gentle hand he pressed her head against his warm neck. ‘Sha, sha, now. No one need know of your great failure.’

      Soraya closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of his skin. He smelled of sweat and horse and a pungent spice, like cinnamon.

      She swallowed, feeling a wash of heat course through her body. She wanted to taste him! Never before had she experienced such a strange feeling of excitement. Of…yearning.

      She stiffened. He was a man. And a Frank.

      She scrambled away from him, her heart beating like a caged bird inside her chest. Speechless, she stared into the knight’s face, watching his eyes harden, then narrow with distrust.

      ‘You are afraid of me.’

      ‘No, lord. Truly I am not.’’

      ‘You need not fear me, lad. I will not harm you except to protect myself.’

      ‘That is not why—’

      But it was. She did fear him. More than any danger she had ever faced, this man threatened her. He was dangerous simply because he was a man.

      No, not just a man. Her throat tightened. This man.

      Chapter Seven

      By the time the ship docked at

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