.
He looked up at the flat roof, carefully weighing his
next move. The windowless front wall was high, but he was probably tall enough
to reach the ledge if he jumped for it.
Guy did just that, grimacing at the pain that shot
through his shoulder and right arm. Ignoring it, he pulled himself up, swinging
his leg to the side and over the ledge. In the next instant he was hugging the
roof's tiled surface, where he craned his neck and got his bearings.
From what he could tell, the house was very large and
divided into two main sections, with multileveled roof terraces here and there
and large, lit spaces which must open into courtyards. All he had to do now was
find the harem.
He crept across the roof, listening for any light,
female laughter. If this physician was so wealthy, surely he had dozens of
women to pleasure him. Thinking of Leila among that number, he felt anger sweep
through him, fueling his furtive search.
He kept low, sometimes stealing on his hands and knees,
until he reached the first terrace. All was still and silent; no one occupied
the white gazebo. He moved around it and came to a courtyard, his eyes widening
at the sight of a stout, silk-clad woman reclining below on a central divan
while what appeared to be slave women scurried around her bearing silver trays
laden with food and drink. The richly dressed woman's tone was sharp and
commanding as she clapped her hands, and Guy shuddered, frowning.
Probably a wife . . . and a most unappealing one at that,
he guessed, watching for any sign of Leila among the many slaves.
Long, tense moments passed, and still he did not see
her. Growing impatient and beginning to doubt his chances of finding her, Guy
crept past a trellised terrace toward the farthest corner of the house, then stopped again when the roof opened into another
courtyard lit by softly glowing lanterns. He crouched there, his gaze sweeping
the lush, green interior, but it was empty.
He sat back on his haunches, a hollow ache of despair
welling inside him. It was an emotion that rarely afflicted him, and he didn't
like it at all. Yet as he considered his next move, he couldn't seem to shake
it.
Maybe Leila wasn't here. Maybe Sinjar Al-Aziz had several homes in Damascus, one for his wives and one for his concubines. He had heard stories of such practices among the
small Moslem population in Acre. If that was the case, the odds of finding her
were dwindling indeed, and he was fast running out of time. Surely his escape
from prison would be discovered soon, if it hadn't been already. Once the alarm
was raised he would never get out of the city, whether she was with him or not
Guy froze, his breath catching at the sight of a
petite, dark-haired woman entering the courtyard. Dressed in rose-colored silk,
she paused by a marble couch, her head bowed, the gold embroidered edges of her
translucent veil hiding her face from view. He heard her sigh, and his heart
seemed to stop at the plaintive sound. Then she slowly lifted her head,
revealing an exquisite profile . . .
Leila!
Guy jumped from the roof and landed as silently as a
cat upon a grassy mound at one end of the courtyard. He stole up swiftly behind
her, his footsteps masked by the babbling stream. The last thing he wanted her
to do was scream . He caught her around the middle and
pressed his hand over her mouth.
"Leila, don't fear," he whispered soothingly
as she struggled against him. "It's Guy de Warenne .
I've come to help you . . . to take you with me."
His voice had the desired effect, for she seemed to go limp
in his arms, and for a fleeting moment he thought she might collapse. Holding
her close, he turned her around to face him, her features hidden by his
towering shadow. As he removed his hand and gently tilted her chin toward the
lamplight, his stomach suddenly sank into his boots.
"By all that is holy, you're not Leila!" Guy
was so shocked that he released his hold on the woman and stared stupidly at
her. From her glossy black
He looked up at the flat roof, carefully weighing his
next move. The windowless front wall was high, but he was probably tall enough
to reach the ledge if he jumped for it.
Guy did just that, grimacing at the pain that shot
through his shoulder and right arm. Ignoring it, he pulled himself up, swinging
his leg to the side and over the ledge. In the next instant he was hugging the
roof's tiled surface, where he craned his neck and got his bearings.
From what he could tell, the house was very large and
divided into two main sections, with multileveled roof terraces here and there
and large, lit spaces which must open into courtyards. All he had to do now was
find the harem.
He crept across the roof, listening for any light,
female laughter. If this physician was so wealthy, surely he had dozens of
women to pleasure him. Thinking of Leila among that number, he felt anger sweep
through him, fueling his furtive search.
He kept low, sometimes stealing on his hands and knees,
until he reached the first terrace. All was still and silent; no one occupied
the white gazebo. He moved around it and came to a courtyard, his eyes widening
at the sight of a stout, silk-clad woman reclining below on a central divan
while what appeared to be slave women scurried around her bearing silver trays
laden with food and drink. The richly dressed woman's tone was sharp and
commanding as she clapped her hands, and Guy shuddered, frowning.
Probably a wife . . . and a most unappealing one at that,
he guessed, watching for any sign of Leila among the many slaves.
Long, tense moments passed, and still he did not see
her. Growing impatient and beginning to doubt his chances of finding her, Guy
crept past a trellised terrace toward the farthest corner of the house, then stopped again when the roof opened into another
courtyard lit by softly glowing lanterns. He crouched there, his gaze sweeping
the lush, green interior, but it was empty.
He sat back on his haunches, a hollow ache of despair
welling inside him. It was an emotion that rarely afflicted him, and he didn't
like it at all. Yet as he considered his next move, he couldn't seem to shake
it.
Maybe Leila wasn't here. Maybe Sinjar Al-Aziz had several homes in Damascus, one for his wives and one for his concubines. He had heard stories of such practices among the
small Moslem population in Acre. If that was the case, the odds of finding her
were dwindling indeed, and he was fast running out of time. Surely his escape
from prison would be discovered soon, if it hadn't been already. Once the alarm
was raised he would never get out of the city, whether she was with him or not
Guy froze, his breath catching at the sight of a
petite, dark-haired woman entering the courtyard. Dressed in rose-colored silk,
she paused by a marble couch, her head bowed, the gold embroidered edges of her
translucent veil hiding her face from view. He heard her sigh, and his heart
seemed to stop at the plaintive sound. Then she slowly lifted her head,
revealing an exquisite profile . . .
Leila!
Guy jumped from the roof and landed as silently as a
cat upon a grassy mound at one end of the courtyard. He stole up swiftly behind
her, his footsteps masked by the babbling stream. The last thing he wanted her
to do was scream . He caught her around the middle and
pressed his hand over her mouth.
"Leila, don't fear," he whispered soothingly
as she struggled against him. "It's Guy de Warenne .
I've come to help you . . . to take you with me."
His voice had the desired effect, for she seemed to go limp
in his arms, and for a fleeting moment he thought she might collapse. Holding
her close, he turned her around to face him, her features hidden by his
towering shadow. As he removed his hand and gently tilted her chin toward the
lamplight, his stomach suddenly sank into his boots.
"By all that is holy, you're not Leila!" Guy
was so shocked that he released his hold on the woman and stared stupidly at
her. From her glossy black
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