No Price Too High by Jo Ann Ferguson Page A

her.
    She did not release her sword. Her fingers were frozen around its hilt. Shouts came from the edge of the village. She did not look up. She did not want to see more death.
    Pain seared her arm. Tearing a cloth from the line, she wrapped it around her bleeding arm.
    She had to get out of here. Somehow she had to return to Tyre. Despair threatened to choke her. With Geoffrey and the knights of Heathwyre, she had traveled more than a day by horseback to reach the cliffs where Abd al Qadir had attacked. Somehow she would find her way back to resume her duties as a Hospitaller.
    A shadow slid over her. She tightened her hold on her sword. Agony seared her arm. Could she heft her sword? She must.
    When a finger tipped back her chin, she breathed, “Gabriel! Where did you go?”
    â€œNot far.” He drew her up into his arms. His kiss was slow and hard as if he were trying to persuade himself that she was still alive. As his arm curved around her, slanting her across his chest, his mouth slipped along her face before his tongue caressed her ear. She grasped the front of his robes, but could not keep her arms from gliding around his shoulders. She shivered as the fire of his touch diminished even the escalating heat of the day. The whisper of his name lured his mouth back to hers, and she swept her fingers up into his hair, wanting the kiss to last and last. His arm tightened around her, and she gasped against his lips when he pressed her even more tightly to his strong chest.
    â€œCome with me, milady,” he ordered as he raised his head. “It is time to leave this place.”
    Melisande nodded as she looked past him. Most of the village was empty. A few shouts came from beyond the buildings, but around the well lay several corpses. She wondered which one was the hill bandit’s leader.
    She winced as she shifted her right arm. The pain that she had not noticed while in Gabriel’s embrace had returned doubly strong. Looking at the horse she had ridden to this village, she hoped she would be able to control it. Again she winced, but not with pain. Would Gabriel grant her the use of the horse to return to Tyre?
    He pulled her closer again as a man came around the edge of the building. When she reached for her sword, he put his hand on her wrist. “It is Shakir, milady.”
    Melisande nodded as she recognized the short man who had led Gabriel’s band on a different route to the village. Gritting her teeth, she was able to hide her pain as even the slight pressure of Gabriel’s fingers on her wrist sent agony erupting up her arm.
    He called something in his language. From every shadow came his men, some splattered with blood, others bleeding. No one spoke as the man he called Shakir walked toward them.
    â€œAbd al Qadir?” asked Gabriel.
    â€œHe is not among the dead,” Shakir replied. He scowled at her. “Your plan to use this woman to tempt him from his lair has failed.”
    Melisande twisted out of Gabriel’s arms. She stared at Shakir. He spoke Frankish! Her astonishment became fury when his words oozed past her terror.
    â€œYou used me as bait!” she gasped. “To lure out your enemy.”
    Gabriel’s face became as emotionless as the hills. “Abd al Qadir let you live once, so I thought he would be intrigued with the chance to claim you again.”
    â€œI could have been killed.”
    â€œI had not guessed,” he said, turning to Shakir as if she had vanished, “that one of his men would dare to do more than take her to him.”
    â€œAnd if he had,” she cried, refusing to be ignored, “you could have followed and killed Abd al Qadir. How long would you have waited to see if he would take me to the hill bandit? Until he was done attacking me?” She used the flat of her sword to push Shakir aside. Paying no attention to his curse, she said, “This alliance is dissolved now, Gabriel. I was a fool to believe your