She rushed at him so suddenly that he barely caught herhand before she slapped him. He hit his head on the low rafters trying to dodgethe blow. Yet the dull pain seemed like nothing compared to the sheer miseryreflected in her gaze. Tears swam in her eyes, and her expression was so anguishedthat he was assailed by guilt. He had pushed her too far.
"Not a . . . helper," she choked, sobbing andstruggling against his iron grip, her face wet with tears. "My father mademe tell you that . . .to—to protect me. I was—"She drew a shuddering breath, which made his throat tighten all the more. "Damnyou, deWarenne, damn you to hell! I was hisapprentice! After my marriage, I would have been a physician. I would havejoined my father's practice along with his son, Jamal Al-Aziz . . . my newhusband. It was my dream! To be a physician was all I ever wanted . . . and nowyou've ruined everything!"
Guy was stunned. He had never heard of a womanphysician. Women healers and midwives abounded in England, but schooledphysicians were always men. His gut instinct told him she was speaking thetruth—no mere helper could possess the superior medical skills she haddisplayed in his prison cell—yet it was so hard to believe. To him, a woman'slife work consisted of caring for her husband and children and supervising agreat household.
"How can this be?" he queried sharply. "Iknow of no female physicians—"
"In my culture they are a common thing!" shebroke in hoarsely. "Do you think male physicians are allowed into a harem'sguarded sanctity? No! Only a woman may enter, a woman skilled in all aspects ofmedicine who may treat whatever malady she encounters. It is the same in ourhospitals, where female patients too ill to remain in the harem are cared forin secluded wards. Yet I was also allowed to treat men. How else could I haveassisted my father in your care? And do you think I learned how to cauterizewounds by chance, a skill which saved your life? No! I have been studying formy profession since I was ten years old, and I have been an apprentice for thelast four. Nine long years" —her arm wildly swept the cabin— "only tohave this happen to me!"
Guy's amazement was great. Leila was so different, sofar outsidehis ownexperience. She was like an exoticflower opening to the sun, the unfurling petals revealing layer upon layer,each more rare than the last. Trained in sensual arts. A female physician. Hewas utterly fascinated by her. Yet her life would be far different in England,and it was best that she realize that now. She must begin to prepare herselffor the reality of her true homeland.
"You may have held such a position in Damascus,but that will not be possible in England," he said, knowing from herstricken expression how cruel he must sound. "When you become the mistressof your husband's castle, you must confine your medicine to the care of yourfamily and perhaps your servants. It is the way of things."
"No! I will never accept it!" Leila criedvehemently, striking his chest with her fists. "You bastard! What a fool Iwas! How could I ever have pitied you? I wish I had never seen your face! Iwish they had chopped off your head!"
Guy grimaced as she lent a blow to his shoulder wound,but somehow the pain seemed well deserved.
How deeply he had just hurt her, yet he never meant herany harm. He had unwittingly altered her life and her dreams because he hadbeen convinced she would welcome his rescue.
Now there was nothing he could do but fold her in hisembrace, for already he heard the captain shouting orders to his crew to mantheir oars. Already the ship was shuddering and creaking as it was pushed awayfrom the dock. They were under way, their journey begun.
Guy inhaled Leila's clean rose scent, the headyfragrance heightened by her futile struggles.
His captive rose . . . and so she would remain untilthey reached England. For despite everything she had told him, nothing hadchanged. He would never let her go.
"Shhh, Leila," hewhispered in her ear, holding her close though she fought him with all thestrength her delicate frame possessed. She was virtually trapped in his arms,yet still she writhed furiously, desperate to be free. She must have felt theship's movement, too, for she began to weep harder.
"I hate you! I hate you!" she shouted, hervoice hoarse from sobbing.
With her cheek pressed against his chest, Guy could feelher hot tears soaking through his tunic to his skin, her curled fists stillattempting to bruise him though he held one to his lips and the other behindher back. "Listen to me, Leila," he crooned over her heartrendingcries. "You must believe that what your mother did was for the best. Youmust look ahead, not behind.Shhh, Leila, love.Shhh. . ."
Suddenly it all proved too much for her. As Leilacrumpled in his arms, Guy picked her up and gently laid her down with him onthe bed. He held hertightly,whispering to her,murmuring her name . . . cradling her long after the ship had left the rockyshores of the Holy Land far behind them.
Chapter 11
It was almost two weeks into the voyage before Leila feltwell enough to sit up in bed. She did so with great difficulty, gritting herteeth against the ever-present queasiness in her stomach and the woozy feelingin her head. She would have sunk back down upon the mattress if not for Guylifting her beneath the arms until she was half-reclined upon a brace of plumppillows.
"Is that better?" he asked, taking a seat inone of the high-backed chairs that had become a permanent fixture beside thebed.
Leila turned to face him, nodding weakly. There werelines of strain and weariness around his deep blue eyes, and his handsomefeatures were so clouded with concern that she was touched, though she wouldnever have admitted it. Just as she would never understand how this samehardened giant of a crusader who had threatened and bullied her aboard thisship could have such gentle hands.
Strange, the workings of kismet.
Since they had sailed from Acre she had become the nearhelpless patient and Guy the attentive provider of care. He had scarcely lefther side, nursing her through wretched bouts of seasickness that she believedhad come close to ending her life, though he still contended that she was notdying, only suffering from a malaise common to many seafaring travelers.
The past days were much of a blur but for thatrecurring, almost comical argument, and she would have laughed if she had thestrength. Instead she sighed, chagrined by her own lack of mettle. Now that shewas feeling somewhat better, it was clear she had overreacted.
"Do you want another pillow?" Guy offered,misreading her reproachful sigh for one of discomfort. He started to rise, butshe shook her head.
"No, these two are enough," she insisted,giving him the slightest of smiles as he sat down heavily and ran his callusedfingers through his long hair.
In the bright afternoon sunlight streaming from thewindow above her head, she could see how the blond streaks had faded, turninghis hair predominantly brown. She imagined it would easily lighten again oncehe spent more time out-of-doors, doing whatever English knights did to occupythemselveswhen they were not off crusading across the seas.
Wondering what that might be,Leila met his eyes. Her cheeks warmed as she realized he was studying her justas intently. Despite his evident fatigue, his expression was open and relaxedand his gaze curious, as if he sought to discern what she had just beenthinking.
"I will have to teach you some courtly etiquettebefore we arrive at Westminster," he said conversationally, breaking theawkward silence. "You blush too easily, my lady. You will have every unmarriedknight at court hovering around you like keen-eyed hawks sensing a gullible andmost delectable prey." He gave a dry laugh. "Most likely the marriedones as well."
Leila lowered her eyes, amazed that no cutting remarkcame to mind when his comments were so ripe for one. It seemed her sickness hadlowered her guard or muddled her brain, for truly, she still felt too miserableto spar with him.
