Pretty much since the end of the second series, I've had it in my head to write a story about Djaq and Will and their life together in Acre. I kept putting it off, and now it's getting a little late. The third series has only just started (not sure what to think of it; really, BBC? Really?) so it's possible that this story won't match up with later canon events—if that happens, I'll change the summary to warn for AU or alternate timeline. This story takes place after the end of 'Second Chance', but you don't have to read that story to understand this one. (It just might help.)

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the BBC's characters—I only borrow them sometimes. Any of the characters you don't recognize, chances are I made them up.

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

It was morning, and very early—early enough to still be dark outside—but already warm enough that Will had kicked the sheets off. The days became hot very fast here; the nights were cool but just as soon as the sun rose, it grew warm quickly. What month was it now? End of November, maybe—beginning of December? If he was still in England it would be icy cold, and he'd be sleeping under many blankets and waking up to brush the frost out of his hair.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling; he had no reason to be awake this early, and would have liked to have slept longer, but it was a habit now. His days always began early in Sherwood. Maybe he would be able to sleep past sunup as he became more acclimated to this new place and this new life. He'd been in Acre with Djaq for a fortnight, but it still sometimes surprised him to wake up indoors, on a bed, rather than in the forest. Nobody was calling on him to arm himself and prepare for a fight, or rousing him to make deliveries before the sun came up, or to run and hide from the Sherriff's guards who had come into the forest again to make trouble for the gang. Here it was quiet and peaceful.

It felt weird.

He turned to his left, but the space next to him was empty. Djaq must've already gone back to her own room. They weren't married—not yet—and had separate rooms in the house, but they rarely stayed apart at night. After the house had gone to bed, she would sneak into his room and sleep there with him; and in the morning, before everybody else woke up, she would go back to her own room and disarrange the bedclothes so it looked as if the bed had been slept in so that nobody would be the wiser. She hadn't minded at all that their friends knew when they slept together, but she was unwilling to have that same cavalier attitude about it with her uncle and the people she grew up with.

"These are people who knew me when I was little," she tried to explain. "It would be more than a little odd for everybody involved if I went from being twelve years old in their minds to sharing a room with a man."

Maybe the people here knew a different Djaq than he did—that she was a totally different person now than when she lived here. For one thing, the woman they knew was Safiyyah. Her real name was Safiyyah, and 'Djaq' was the name she'd taken from her deceased brother. He learned quickly not to call her that where other people could hear it—strangers would look up with questioning expressions on their faces to see why the idiot Englishman was calling a woman by a man's name. So he had to train himself to call her 'Safiyyah' when others were about; in private, however, she was still Djaq. She always would be to him.

She acted much different now than she did when they were in the forest. Then she had just been 'one of the lads'—smiling and laughing with them, fighting alongside them, following Robin's directions, and accepting their unspoken rule that they were all exactly the same. And aside from being confronted with an undercover Djaq in a dress when they made a move on the Sherriff's strong-room, Will was probably the only one who didn't think of her as just another one of the lads. Here, though, it was completely different. She dressed differently, in feminine clothing, with silver bangles on her wrists and dangling from her earlobes; she acted as a well-brought-up Saracen woman was likely expected to act. Even though he'd always suspected that the object of his affections came from a far better upbringing than him, now more than ever he was confronted with that fact. She was nobility, from an obscenely wealthy family, and so far out of his league that he almost wondered what she saw in him.

And then, when it was just the two of them, she was still the same woman he'd always known and loved.

The smells from the kitchen were wafting up through the courtyard and through the open window in his room—the cooks were already starting to make breakfast. He pulled a pillow over his head and flattened it, trying to block out the smells of the spices they used. It was an overpowering smell to his nose; apart from salt, he'd never tasted or even smelled much spice in his life. It was a luxury available only to the upper classes, certainly never something that a dirt-poor carpenter could possibly afford. Except in Acre, apparently, they were easier to obtain and far more plentiful—on the market days, it scented the entire city right up to the rooftops. All of those too-powerful smells mixing together in the air gave him a headache. He'd grown used to the less-intense smells of the kitchens, but he still didn't like it.

It was still dark, and even the morning call to prayer was still a long ways off. Breakfast wouldn't be for another few hours yet, and everybody who didn't have some work that needed to be done was still in bed asleep. Perhaps he should try to get a little more sleep himself—just a few minutes, at least. He didn't have to go anywhere, or do anything. He rolled onto his stomach and kept the pillow flattened over his head, but he couldn't make himself go back to sleep. When it grew too warm under that pillow, he tore it from his head, only to have an even more intense smell of spice choke him.

This bed was lonely. He'd gotten used to it being too soft—stuffed with feathers instead of sharp straw—and to the too-many pillows and the sheets that didn't leave a rash on his skin in the morning. But sleeping all alone with a room all to himself wasn't as easy to acclimate to. All his life he'd shared very close quarters with many other people—being by himself in a big room, without the sounds of other people sleeping, felt lonely. And on the nights when Djaq didn't come and stay with him, he found it almost impossible to get to sleep. He just couldn't do it.

Sleep was elusive now, too.

He sat up and leaned over the side of the bed, reaching one long arm down to root around underneath it for something. He found the wooden box just where he'd left it, hidden carefully up in the bed slats. He was a little surprised that none of the household staff had found it yet—it was a fairly good-sized box, a foot long and wide and more than six inches deep, but apparently nobody gave much thought to cleaning underneath the beds so it remained undisturbed in its hiding place. He pulled it into his lap and opened it.

Old, well-loved pieces of clothing, full of holes, were neatly rolled up inside it. He ran his hands over the coarse fabric—his old clothes. A rather cantankerous-looking old man argued with Djaq for ages about it. He had no idea what was being said—the exchange was entirely in Arabic, and so rapid that he wondered if either of them were going to chip their teeth on the words—but he learned later that the man had wanted to take their English wool clothing, all dirty and smelly from having been worn almost nonstop, and burn them. Djaq hadn't let him do it, and argued with him until he'd either relented or given up all together, and then she gave the bundle to him. He kept them in this box, though he had no idea why he'd even wanted to. Perhaps it was because they were among his last real, tangible links to England.

He pulled one piece in particular out—an old shirt, long faded to a sort of dusty purplish brown colour and the pattern that had once adorned it almost indistinguishable. It had ragged edges at the collar and sleeves and on the bottom where it had been cut down to fit the pervious wearer. Whether or not Djaq knew she'd given him her old shirt along with his own things he had no idea—but it was still there and he kept it.

The fabric was thick and heavy, clumsy, made with only one function in mind: to cover her and keep her warm. It didn't float or swirl around her like her Saracen clothes did, nor was it brightly coloured or of any speakable quality. He closed his eyes and touched it to his cheek. It was coarse and scratchy—wool, not silk. But when he inhaled deeply, he could still smell Djaq on it. Filthy Djaq, covered in dirt and sleeping on the ground in the forest with the rest of them, wearing the same clothes day in and day out; there was still, too, the faint hint of the forest embedded in that cloth. As he breathed it, he could almost imagine himself there once again, among the green and the towering trees.

In his mind, he pictured their camp—the one he was so proud of, that he'd designed and built, cleverly hidden and camouflaged with the forest floor, that kept them from living like gypsies and always going from one campsite to another—and imagined that they were all there together. Robin fletching arrows, Much stirring something in that great iron pot, John quietly brooding—John was always brooding about something, even if there was nothing to brood about—and Allan, always uncomfortable with silence, trying to talk to him. He imagined Marian was also there, alive and whole and well, looking up from her own small chore every so often to look cheekily at Robin. Even in his mind, Djaq was busying herself with her magical herbs—she always hated it when he called them 'magic'—but every so often she'd look up from her work and fix him with the same mooncalf expression that Marian would look upon Robin with.

That was a perfect place, he decided. His mind blocked out the heat of the morning and the smell from the kitchens and the sounds of a crowded city waking up, replacing it with a comfortably familiar coolness and the smells and gentle sounds of the forest. Slowly, he fell asleep to that. Acre would be his new home for a long while—until Djaq decided it was time to go back to England—and he accepted that. But it didn't stop him from missing his forest, and the people in it.

o…o

He didn't know how long he'd slept. He hardly even realized that he had fallen asleep until he was aware that somebody was trying to wake him up. Anybody who was sent up to his room to wake him up usually tried to do it from a distance, without touching him—except for the crabby manservant, who would stand directly over him and bark at him in Arabic until he scared himself awake. Whoever was in his room now was sitting on the edge of the bed and gently brushing his hair back with cool hands.

"Will."

The voice sounded foggy over his head; he didn't respond.

"Will."

The hand went from his hair to his shoulder and shook him slightly.

"Wake up."

"Nuh."

He was rattled again.

"Up!"

He grumbled this time; in reply, he was rattled harder.

"Don't be horrible!" He groused in a rather Much-like whinge as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. The room was flooded with light and very warm now—how long had he been asleep? And sitting at the edge of the bed, a little grin on her face and her lower lip caught between her teeth in that heart-melting fashion, was Djaq.

"Good morning," she purred.

Grunt.

"Though I suppose 'afternoon' is a more appropriate greeting," she added. "You slept very late, but I did not have the heart to wake you before now. You have not been sleeping like you should."

"Can't help it," he said back. "I keep expecting someone to come and tell me it's time to make deliveries. Or steal from somebody. Or could I please stop Much killing Allan with his ladle."

She laughed softly and shook her head. "I know it is a lot to get used to," she said. "Even I am finding it difficult, and this is the life I used to live. I cannot imagine how strange it must seem to you."

He nodded slowly. She came forward and planted a gentle kiss to the top of his head.

She pulled away suddenly, as if remembering something, and reached into the folds of her shawl for something. "This is for you," she said as she withdrew a little cloth bundle. "You missed breakfast."

Will hadn't noticed he was even hungry until then and his stomach let out a loud growl. There was some fruit and bread and cheese in the bundle, probably the plainest food she could find, and he ate them all so quickly he ended up with hiccups.

"I had to sneak that out of the kitchen," she told him as she passed him a water skin. "Khalad was there and he would not take kindly if he saw me stealing from him."

"Hup!" He hiccupped again. "Why?"

She shrugged. "He hates me—always did. I have no idea why."

"I'm sure he doesn't hate you," he said. "Hup!"

"He was the stuff of my nightmares when I was little. I used to imagine that Iblis—the devil—looked like him."

"That's…"

"He used to crack my hand with a spoon any time I went near his kitchen."

Pause.

"And drag me about by my hair when he was angry with me. Which was often." She threaded her hands briskly through her short dark hair. "I don't know if he could do it anymore, but I would rather not tempt him."

He pictured it in his head—Djaq as a girl being forcibly towed around this house by her hair—and he bristled. He didn't like knowing that anybody had treated her that way, even though it was such a long time ago.

They were quiet a while before she tapped his leg and stood up.

"Come on," she told him. "Up."

"I am up."

"I mean get out of bed. And get dressed. We are going out."

She simply stated it. She didn't ask him if he wanted to and probably wouldn't have taken no for an answer even if he'd refused. He didn't mind that, though—he sort of liked it. She was always the one who took charge. In everything.

"Where are we going?"

"The horse market," she said.

A horse market? He frowned. "Why?"

She sighed. "Because I am tired of trotting around on Bassam's half-dead mare and I cannot stand camels. I need something I can get around on—and so do you."

His frown deepened. Horses were expensive enough to buy without having to keep one. He didn't want to bring that kind of expense on Djaq's family. "I can't take—"

Apparently she knew what he was thinking. "Yes you can," she interrupted.

"But—"

"Please?" She looked at him with pleading eyes and his willpower dissolved. He could hardly ever say no to her when his feelings were a secret; nowadays it was absolutely impossible. She always knew exactly what to do to get him to do what she wanted—even before she realized she was doing it.

"All right," he said. "I'll get dressed."

In all of his life, Will had never seen a people more in love with their horses than the Saracens were. He'd always thought of them as beasts of burden—something to pull a plough or a wagon, to carry men into battle or take them from one place to another faster than simply being on foot. They were a tool to use—and an expensive one to maintain, at that—but not anything much beyond that.

The Saracens, on the other hand, almost revered their horses. Horses were a show of wealth, for sure, but more than that they were a show of wealth draped in other shows of wealth. The horses were dressed better than most people he'd known. Expensive silks and bangles, decorative saddles, and heavily embroidered blankets decorated the horses of the wealthiest people. Even those who weren't quite so wealthy tried to make some effort to adorn their horses and braided colourful glass beads into their long manes and tails.

On the walk through the market, Djaq explained it to him. Her people were a horse people; Allah had blessed their horses, and for thousands of years they had carried her people through victory and defeat alike. Mohammed, the last prophet, had five of the most faithful horses and from them were bred the mounts of royalty, and rose to Heaven on the back of a horse.

It seemed interesting that their faith should pay so much attention to horses.

They were such spindly little animals, though. Petite and lithe, more like deer than horses. The horses he'd been around in England were proper big bulky horses, strong enough to carry a man in armour or stocky ponies to pull a heavily-laden cart. He found it hard to believe that an empire could have been built on the backs of these dainty and delicate little things. He worried that if he tried to mount one of them, he'd simply snap it in half.

But apparently they'd done something right, since the people were so enamoured with them.

He stood at the makeshift fence and watched the little Saracen horses flit around their temporary pen at the horse market while Djaq was off elsewhere probably arguing with the stablemaster. That was another thing these people loved: arguing.

Colourful tails and bodies floated past him as he stood there. Reds and greys and creamy whites and wildly varying shades of brown ran back and forth, showing off for the people watching and begging for treats. If he hadn't believed that horses were incapable of it, he'd've thought that they were vain creatures.

As Will watched the horses, he became aware that the other spectators were now looking at him. Why wouldn't they? He was so obviously not one of them. He was European—these people had probably come to associate anybody with pale skin with the Crusaders who savaged their homeland. Some of them looked at him with a frightened look and others with curiosity; it made him uncomfortable and he shifted in place, trying to think of something else. He could hear people talking around him, but he couldn't understand what any of them were saying.

Djaq had been trying to teach him some of her language, but it was hard for him to grasp and he still couldn't speak more than a few words—nor could he understand much of what was spoken to or around him. It was a curious feeling, strangely deaf to the world around him. All of these sounds and words and people talking and it all had no meaning to him. He was always afraid that they were talking about him, saying terrible things—or that they were talking about Djaq and wondering what such a well-born woman was doing wasting her time with the dirty Englishman.

Rather than think too much on it, he looked forward and focused his attention on the horses.

A showy dappled-grey mare stepped closer to him, possibly eyeing him as something of a curiosity herself. She was taller than the rest, but just as lean and slim and delicate-looking. The mare went around the pen and stopped to stare at him again, then repeated the process—maybe she wondered if the Englishman was safe to walk up to. Then she came up to him and thrust her silky pink-and-grey muzzle into his hands, apparently demanding his complete and undivided attention, and he laughed softly.

Even if the people here wouldn't like him, perhaps their beloved horses would.

When he felt a hand flatten on his back, he knew it was Djaq.

"Safiyyah," he said, using the name he had to use for her in public. He could swear he saw her twitch when he said it.

"She likes you," she commented, nodding to the mare.

"Possibly because she doesn't know I'm English."

She extended a hand and let the horse snuffle and lip her palm.

"Well, I will not tell her if you don't," she said. "It will be our little secret."

He snorted at her little joke.

"You are a good and gentle man. She knows that—and so do I."

She squeezed his hand gently, and he felt himself relax. He hadn't even realized how tense he'd been until just then. For the time being, at least, he stopped caring that there were people around possibly talking about them. Having Djaq around made him feel almost… safer. Not knowing the language or the customs or much of anything about this place made him nervous, but as long as she was there with him he didn't feel so anxious.

"Come on," she said, breaking his reverie. She was already halfway over the fence. "If you are going to take one of them home with you, you ought to get to know them first."

He wanted to protest again at the unnecessary expense that would come with getting him a horse of his own, but he knew there was little point in that. In order to get anywhere outside of Acre, they'd need mounts—the desert was massive and all but impassable on foot, and the distances between cities were far more vast here than he'd ever known in England.

So he followed her over the fence and stepped in amongst the horses.

Immediately, the tall grey mare was right at his side, nudging his shoulder with her nose and following him wherever he went. She started chasing the others away from him, so that she could keep him all to herself.

"I should probably warn you," he told her in a low tone, as if the horse could understand him. "I'm practically a married man."

She rubbed her head against his chest and leaned into him.

"I'll only break your heart."

Nudge, nudge.

"You can tell her that all you like, but I do not think she will care," a female voice said. It wasn't Djaq; he turned around to see who was talking to him.

Standing at the fence and leaning forward to pet the horses as they walked by, was a very fair-skinned Saracen woman. She was dressed simply, but the quality of her clothing betrayed her high status—her tunic was trimmed with colourful threads and beads, and the loose veil she wore over her hair was bright peacock-blue silk. Dark red-brown hair peeked out from underneath the shawl; her eyes were green-blue and she had freckles all across her nose and cheeks. She hardly looked Saracen at all. She was far too light—but she was too dark to be English.

"She is smitten with you—and these horses are very determined."

"So it would seem."

"You are looking for a mount?"

After a pause, he nodded. No sense in lying.

"Hmm…" she reached out to run her hands along the horse's neck and shoulders. "She is good and sturdy. Strong. Young, too."

Wonderful—another horse person.

"She would be a good mount for you," she continued. "Tall. Most people would not want her because of that, because she could not bear perfect foals, but she would do well for you."

She paused and looked him up and down once before nodding to herself.

"You are all leg."

She smiled at him, and he hesitantly smiled back. He wondered why she was even talking to him—it was surprising that she could even speak English. Most people here couldn't be bothered to soil their tongues with the language.

"Where did you learn…?" He trailed off, not knowing how to finish the question.

"When I was a girl I had a good friend who knew it," she explained. "English was our secret language—we spoke it whenever we did not want the adults to know what we were saying."

"Oh."

There was a silence then. He didn't know what to say and she didn't say anything at all. Finally, she reached into the pouch at her belt.

"Here," she said, handing him a piece of bread. "Give this to her—" she nodded to the mare still standing over his shoulder "—and she will love you forever."

"Thanks."

She began to walk away through the crowd.

"Wait!" He went to the fence; she looked back over her shoulder at him. He didn't even know why he'd called out, he just didn't want to end the first conversation he'd had in days. Quickly he came up with something to say. "What's your name?"

"Gabrielle," she said.

And then she vanished into the crowded city streets, before he could say anything else.

That was… interesting. A Saracen woman—who hardly looked at all Saracen—with a French name who spoke English. Not only was she not afraid of him, but she'd actually given him advice. And talked to him. Will had never thought himself the type to need constant conversation—that was more of Allan's thing—but having gone two weeks and hardly being able to speak to anybody was frustrating. He felt bored, and more than a little lonely. It just felt nice to talk to someone.

Gabrielle. Maybe he'd see her again.

She'd been right about the bread. His grey mare gobbled it right up and then absolutely refused to let him go anywhere without being right there at his back. This horse would undoubtedly be coming back with him whether he liked it or not.

He found Djaq later, looking over a fence to another portion of the pen where a lone horse was kept. This one was coal black with a white face, and acted outright wild—kicking up dust and throwing his head and kicking his hooves out. Young men surrounded that fence and talked amongst themselves, nudging each other and behaving animatedly. Some things weren't lost in translation, he decided; he knew exactly what they were doing. They were all trying to convince the others that they could absolutely tame that black stallion there. They reminded him of a lot of Saracen Allans—all trying to prove that they were the best.

Djaq turned to him when he came up behind her, and grinned.

"I think I found a horse," he said casually.

"I think she decided for you," she said, reaching out to pet her muzzle over his shoulder. "Does she know you are engaged? I should hate to think that I have competition."

He laughed—he'd always known that Djaq had a sense of humour, but it didn't come out much when they were in the forest. Here in Acre, with little else to worry them, she made jokes all the time.

"She is tall—that will be good for you and your legs."

He raised his eyebrows. "That's exactly what—" then he stopped.

"What?" She asked.

"Nothing—it's just that a woman said the same thing just before. I'd need a tall horse because my legs are long."

"She spoke English?"

Nod.

Djaq frowned. "What was her name?" She asked carefully.

He wondered what was going through her head. "She said… it was Gabrielle."

Then her eyes went wide, but only briefly.

"No," she murmured. "I doubt that."

"What?" That mad no sense. Did she think he was making it up? Or was she thinking of something else?

"It is nothing." Then she turned back to the stallion in his own pen.

He would have liked to ask questions—to figure her out—but he didn't know what had intrigued her. She'd tell him eventually, he was sure, and the horse market wasn't the best place to try to talk information out of her.

She was watching the black stallion very intently.

"He is beautiful, isn't he?" She sighed.

Pause. She wasn't seriously thinking about that horse, was she? There were plenty more and far less dangerous horses right behind her.

"Sure," he said. "He's beautiful and he could kill you."

She snorted. "He will not hurt me. He just needs a firm hand."

He chewed his lower lip nervously, but he knew better than to argue with her.

A large man walked by—apparently the stablemaster—and she said something to him. The man looked at her with a shocked expression, and she repeated herself and pointed to the stallion. From what he could gather, the man was shocked that she was asking about that horse. The stablemaster looked her over slowly—and Will did not like the way he was looking at her—before he nodded and grinned.

"What's going on?" He asked.

"He said he will only let me have that stallion if I can get on his back," she explained. "I think that is fair enough. He told me that he is saddle-broken, just finicky about who he lets ride him."

"Is that even safe?"

Shrug. "He is a stallion. They are all like that."

She took off her shawl—the one he'd given her on the ship on their way to Acre; it seemed like such a long time ago now—and her belt and handed them to him.

"Safiyyah—Djaq—please," he begged. That horse looked dangerous, and he didn't want her to get hurt.

"I will be fine," she murmured. "Just hold these for me."

He was hardly in a position to argue, so he just took the items and watched her scale the fence and wait for the stallion to approach her. She dug into her pockets and offered the horse some tidbits. His ears pricked forward and he carefully moved toward her. She murmured softly and gently to him, trying to coax him closer with bits of bread and fruit. At least for now, the stallion wasn't acting out—he only hoped it would stay that way.

Despite being nervous, Will couldn't help but be sort of fascinated. Whether it was because she was a woman, or because of her tone, or because she was bribing him with treats, or some combination of all three, he had no idea, but the stallion was very docile with her. She was very gentle and careful with him, inspecting him with her hands over his neck and shoulders and back. He'd never seen it much before coming to Acre, but Djaq was an experienced horsewoman. It didn't surprise him, though—everybody here knew horses.

The people around the horse market had stopped to watch what was going on with interest, to see the small and harmless-looking noblewoman try to conquer the black stallion. The young men who had all been trying to convince each other that they could easily do it whispered amongst themselves, probably doubting that she would be able to do it. Will knew that to the casual observer, his love looked very unassuming and harmless, like she couldn't possibly possess great strength or be a threat to anybody, and certainly like she couldn't tame that horse. That was part of why he loved her so much—she didn't look as if she could hurt a fly, but she could come out on top in a fight against almost anybody.

His grey mare was breathing heavily in his ear, just as interested in the scene before them as any of the people were.

"I know," he sighed. "I'm not sure, either, but I can't stop her."

Snort, snuffle.

In the separate pen, Djaq was making her way around to the horse's side. She stroked his back, and he didn't seem bothered; she draped her arms over him, and again he did nothing. Then, quickly, she sprang up and pulled herself into position on his back.

He held his breath.

The stallion stood there for a few moments, surprised to find himself now bearing a rider.

The people watching chattered among themselves, equally surprised that she'd been able to do it. The stablemaster, who had also been watching the whole thing, nodded once—apparently he was satisfied that Djaq could handle the horse and would let her buy him. She looked over to Will and gave him a shaky smile, and he released a tense breath.

And then suddenly, the horse got over his surprise and charged across the pen, taking Djaq by surprise. She grabbed handfuls of mane and held on; then he stopped suddenly, and threw his head down, launching the woman from his back and sending her flying through the air and crashing into the fence.

"Djaq!" He forgot to call her by her proper name and didn't care what anybody thought of it as he jumped over the fence and ran to her as the crowd chattered around him.

He ran to her side and knelt on the ground next to her; she pushed herself up.

"Are you all right?" He gasped.

"Yes—I think so. Ouch."

"Are you sure?"

"I am sure. Nothing feels broken."

He looped an arm around her and helped her to stand—let the people watching say whatever they wanted about them.

"You scared me," he murmured to her.

"I am fine, I promise. I will hurt tomorrow but nothing is… damaged."

"Will you leave that horse now?"

"No—I like him."

"What?"

"He is a little feisty, but I like that about him."

"Dj—Safiyyah—Djaq…" he sighed.

"I like a challenge, you know that," she said. Then she nodded to the horse. "He is a challenge."

"You are a challenge," he whispered.

She giggled and kissed his cheek; he felt a selfish little swell of pride when he noticed the disappointed looks on the faces of some of the young men who had been watching them.

That's right, he thought smugly. Mine—all mine.

When Bassam saw what the two of them had brought home, he smiled and shook his head. They'd made good choices, he told them; then he led them to the stables where new bedding had been laid in the stalls for their horses. Then he noticed Djaq looking quite battered, and Will was worried what he was going to say about it. Instead, he just sighed.

"That is my Safiyyah," he said. "She does not do anything half way."

It seemed he was well used to this behaviour.

The following days saw Djaq waking early and spending long periods of time in a staring match with her new charge—then she'd try to ride him again and the horse would toss her around like a rag doll and sent her flying to a crumpled heap on the dusty ground. And then she'd come to bed at night, bashed and bruised from head to toe, tired but still determined. He hated seeing her hurt herself, but he also knew damn well there was nothing he could possibly do or say to dissuade her from doing it again the next day. She was so determined and steely, and he loved that about her, but it also scared him. He worried that she was going to cross the line from 'determination' into 'recklessness' and hurt herself.

Like she was now.

When he wasn't taking his own mare for a ride around, he'd taken to watching her while she tried to conquer the stallion, even though there was nothing he could do if something went wrong and he had to sit there and watch her get thrown around. At least he could be there to help her up and clean the blood from her scraped-up knees and elbows.

He winced as he watched her fall again, popping right out of the saddle when her stallion jumped up and bucked, whipping his whole body and ejecting her from her seat. He expected her to crumple on the ground, but she tumbled as she fell and managed to land on her feet and immediately grabbed the reins and forced him to calm down so that she could mount again. She was being relentless—she was refusing to let the horse win this, and every time she got back into the saddle she managed to stay a little longer and the horse behaved himself a little bit more. She worked with him on the ground, too, teaching him to obey her commands and get used to having her around him.

Her stallion was far wilder than his mare—she was spirited, but not at all wild and he never felt that he was in danger of being thrown out of the saddle. The stallion was either only half-trained or was testing his boundaries.

He was still worried that she was going to hurt herself. Only yesterday she'd gotten a nasty cut on her knee when she got caught in the stirrup during a fall. He'd had to help her clean it and bandage it before it became infected, and she had been very difficult to help because she kept trying to pull away from him; she apologized over and over again, saying that physicians always made the worst patients.

The horse was behaving himself now, walking along the fence at a steady pace, and Will waited nervously for the next accident to happen.

"It is difficult to watch, isn't it, Englishman?"

He turned to see Bassam standing there next to him, watching Djaq and her horse.

"Yes," he said, suddenly very tense. "It—it is. How did you know…?"

"Because I love her, too. I hate to see her hurt."

He felt suddenly nervous with the stout man there next to him, talking so casually to him. Apart from Robin and Djaq and the very occasional titled patron, he had absolutely no experience with nobility—and Djaq and Robin were hardly typical. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to act or talk or what he was supposed to say, so he was always conscious of himself whenever Bassam was around.

"You need not be so worried about yourself, you know," he said. "You are a guest in my home and my niece's intended—I should not like to think that I make you uncomfortable."

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "It's just… different. I'm not used to living this way and I don't want to upset anybody—"

"Please do not worry. I am a difficult man to upset," Bassam cut him off. "I am an old man. I have lived through a lot, and I have seen a lot. And since bringing up Safiyyah, nothing can ruffle my feathers."

Will couldn't help it—he laughed. A few admissions and stories from Djaq and Bassam about her past led him to understand that she was a horrible child who got into trouble constantly because she got bored so easily.

"So do not worry so much."

They were silent as they watched the scene before them. Djaq still had control, but the horse was acting out. She kept calm and steered him back on track to do just what she wanted him to do.

"She has always been that way," the older man explained.

"What way?"

"Fearless."

There was a pause; Will nodded slowly.

"She is not afraid of anything, and she is stubborn." The older man smiled and clapped him gently on the shoulder. "You shall have your hands full with her, young Englishman—but I suspect you already know this."

He smiled. "That's why I like her," he said softly.

And it was. He would be very bored if she was anything else. She was his Djaq—always.

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

I have to stop this chapter before it gets out of control. But at nearly 7000 words, I think I passed that point about half a chapter ago. Oh well. I had to dig up my previous years of horse experience to write this chapter—talk about regression! I rode and trained horses for about seven years, but it's been many years since I've had anything but a casual ride. I wanted to include something in this story about horses—why not? Horses are very, very important to the people in the Middle East. They always have been—they take their horses very seriously! Also, Arabs—the horses, not the people—would look pretty wimpy to someone who'd only ever seen big clunky European warhorses their whole life.

Feedback, should you choose to leave it, is always loved. Look for the next chapter in a week, just like always.