No Price Too High Read Free Page B

Aquitaine.
    The old woman turned away, but Melisande grasped her black robes. “If you cannot understand me, find me someone who can,” she said in her sternest tone. “Where is the man with the white robes? He understands my language.”
    The old woman shook her head. Her gnarled hands drew her robes out of Melisande’s grip. Reaching beneath them, she offered Melisande a green bottle.
    â€œWhat is it?” Melisande asked.
    The old woman regarded her with a toothless grin and drew the cork. A flowery fragrance emerged.
    Melisande touched the top and rubbed her fingers together. The scent was as sweet as the rose garden at Heathwyre.
    The old woman mimicked pouring out some of the oil and rubbing it onto her skin. She closed her eyes.
    Melisande gathered her feet beneath her. Before she could move, the old woman opened her eyes, pointing to the bottle. Her smile vanished, and the fervor in her eyes was a match for the nameless man’s.
    Sitting back on the pillows, Melisande tilted the bottle and brushed the oil onto her hand. Coolness eased her sand-scored skin. Dirt ground into it was soaked away as her hand began to glisten. Tears welled into her eyes. How could she enjoy this when her brother might be dead or dying?
    Melisande shoved the cork back into the bottle. “Take it away.”
    The old woman repeated the motions of rubbing the oil into her skin.
    â€œNo.” When the old woman did not take the bottle, she set it on the rug. She drew her knees up and leaned her chin on them as she fought tears. If she had not insisted on riding for Acre, Geoffrey would be safe.
    The old woman tried to shove the bottle into Melisande’s hands.
    Melisande folded her arms. “I don’t want it. I want someone who will speak to me.”
    â€œWill I do?”
    The old woman prostrated herself on the rug.
    Slowly Melisande came to her feet as she stared at the man who had refused to tell her his name. He was alive … and dressed in robes of scarlet and purple that would befit a prince. An infidel prince, she realized with horror. No Frank had ever donned flowing robes that were bloused into soft boots rising to his knees. His head was draped with fabric tied back with a sash as bright as the purple one at his waist, but his long hair, which was as ebony as his beard, brushed his shoulders.
    His smile could not soften his face, which was as sternly carved as the cliffs. As she was caught by his jet eyes, which possessed an arrogance dimming even her brother’s, she noted the breadth of his shoulders beneath the robes that moved with sinuous grace as he walked toward her.
    He paused as he passed the old woman and spoke what must have been an order. She rose, put her hand to her forehead, and bowed before scurrying away. He did not look to see if the tent flap dropped back into place, warning of his easy expectation that every order would be obeyed.
    He bent to pick up the bottle and held it out. “This is pleasing.”
    â€œThe truth would be more pleasing.”
    â€œHow do you fare?”
    She touched the aching spot on her skull. “It is nothing that shall not heal. I believe you repaid me in full by saving my life … sir.” She was not certain what title he was accustomed to. He wore his power with the ease of a man who had borne it all his life.
    â€œI will admit that it was easier to save you when you did not contradict every order I gave.”
    â€œYou cannot fault me for distrusting a man who will not speak his name.”
    With a chuckle, he motioned for her to sit.
    Melisande hesitated, then lowered herself into the nest of pillows. She kept her feet ready to vault her up, although she doubted he would give her the chance to flee.
    He squatted so that his incredible eyes were level with hers. When he smiled again, his teeth contrasting with his sun-burnished skin, it was the triumphant grin of a cat that has secured its prey. She wondered if her