Maria dropped down onto the cushions piled on the floor and blew out an exasperated puff of air; the heat of the sun had long since dissipated, but the humidity had not lessened one jot and her clothes were sticking to her flesh, which only served to further annoy the Englishwoman. For the past hour the gentle sounds of the musician plucking the strings of his qanun told her the men enjoying the feast were still eating, but in the past few minutes she had heard the duduk and riq adding their melodic voices to the soft strings – things would no doubt liven up soon.
With each pluck of his instrument she felt like what he was really doing was twanging on her last frayed nerve. In her mind's eye she could see the scantily clad dancers, moving their hips perfectly in time with the slow tempo of the music, teasing and tempting the men sitting around the table. Casting a disapproving eye around her room she searched for something that would serve to distract her, but here in this place of fine silks and glass so fragile it would break if you stepped too hard beside it there was nothing for her to hit – or at least nothing she could afford to replace.
They had been travelling to the harbour of Imam Khomeini in what Maria called Persia in order to book passage to India. Altaïr felt the last part of their journey would be quicker and safer by sea and she had no reason to doubt him; anything that would keep him away from endangered citizens or madrasahs could only speed up their progress. The man had a seemingly unquenchable thirst for knowledge matched only by his strong sense of justice; he simply could not pass a wise man or a civilian in trouble and had gotten them into some fairly serious scrapes along the way.
She would huff and complain before he entered the schools, but the truth was it was only because she wasn't allowed to go in. He would come out hours later armed with parchments and information which he would share with her, never becoming frustrated if she didn't grasp what he was saying quickly. Many a day had been brought to a close with them both sitting beside their campsite reading by the last light of the setting sun, and so their progress had been slow but utterly rewarding.
When she first joined him on this journey it was her natural curiosity that had been the driving force behind her decision, and they still had many quarrels about their different views, but as the weeks passed those became less until they eventually reached a point where discussion could solve most of their problems. She was still in her Templar robes and he still wearing the garbs of his order, but that hardly mattered to her anymore. They had become clothes and nothing more; any symbolism she once attached to them had faded; that is, until they had reached Najaf and met up with a man who reminded her how different they were.
His name was Qamar Al Assad, and he was one of the wealthiest men in the southern region of the Holy Land. Altaïr fascinated the man, and so they had been invited to travel with him to his home on the Persian border so they could spend some time perusing his vast library. It was on an almost direct path to the port they were trying to reach, so any refusal on her part would have been churlish; besides, she had to admit the men were well met. Qamar surrounded himself with scholars and spent virtually every waking hour deep in conversation with them. Altaïr had found a kindred spirit, and so it was they had travelled with him and his silk trade caravan to his home near the port where they would sail for India.
Qamar's welcome was extended to Maria, but she was fully aware he disapproved of her, considering she was both a Crusader and a single woman travelling with a man who was not her husband. She could see why, but when she overheard two of his guards mocking her that understanding didn't shield her from the sting in their words.
"Why is that woman here?"
"She is a companion of the assassin, and so we must tolerate her presence."
"If he was bedding her I could better understand, but she sleeps with the women. Hopefully the time he is spending with our Master will show him that Crusaders are to be driven from our shores and not befriended."
The other guard had laughed. "And that women are good for many things, but friendship is not among them."
Maria had stayed low behind the cart when they spoke and waited until long after they had moved on before she came out. She wasn't offended by their mocking her gender: it was how they questioned her right to be considered a friend that troubled her.
She had spent the better part of the trip to his home travelling with the women, but Altaïr would still find her to share some of what he had learned and that made it almost tolerable. The night she overheard the guards talking she had declined his invitation to join him, telling him she was too tired, but he had persisted.
"Maria, we have a great deal to discuss; I have much to share."
She rolled her eyes, irritated by his enthusiasm when she herself felt so miserable. "You always have much to share. Sherazade herself would be envious."
His head had dropped momentarily. Had she wounded him? "I'm sorry. I thought you looked forward to our chats. I will stop pestering you."
Catching his sleeve as he turned away she apologised. "I'm sorry, I do look forward to them. I suppose spending all my days with these chattering women has put me out of sorts. Please stay."
And so he had but it was spoiled; she had wounded him, and the passion that usually lit up his face during these talks was absent. They were sitting off to the side of the caravan beside a small fire with the obligatory books scattered around them, but it wasn't the same. He hadn't spoken for a few minutes, instead keeping his head buried in one of the books and Maria decided to use the pause to try to repair what damage her earlier words had done, to restore the passion she found herself missing more than she would have believed possible.
"Let's go somewhere else."
Lifting his head from the book he looked at her quizzically. "Where do you want to go?"
She had to force herself to keep her eyes on him as she spoke. "A place where the words 'Assassin' and 'Templar' mean nothing."
"We are in such a place now, just as we are every time we find ourselves alone." He glanced over his shoulder at the tents behind them. "Have you been treated poorly?"
Reaching for a book she shook her head. "No, everyone has been far kinder than I could have expected."
He had nodded and proceeded to show her some of the pages in the book he had marked for her. The rest of that night had gone well, the mood had been lifted, but Maria found herself unable to concentrate on his words. She had made a discovery of her own – she was falling in love with the assassin.
It was thanks to her being quartered with the women she had learned of one of the dancers' more than passing interest in her companion and of her plans to seduce him at the very feast now torturing her senses. The beat had quickened to an almost dizzying pace; the dancers would now be moving at a speed which would draw attention to every moving bump and curve on their bodies.
Maria looked over to the open doors that lead to her balcony. "I should close them and shut out that infernal noise!"
About to get up to do that very thing, footsteps in the hallway outside stopped her. Continuing to her feet she altered her course to the door and listened to the male voices moving outside her room.
"Are you sure I cannot convince you to stay a while longer? We have barely touched my library."
"My thanks for your generous offer, but we set out to travel to India, and I feel the time is right to continue that journey."
Qamar sounded disappointed and Maria could sympathise with that. She too had come to dread the day the assassin left her life. "Perhaps on your return you will do me the honour of visiting?"
Altaïr's voice became muffled as he turned the corner but she could make out him suggesting that would be highly likely. Her joy at the news they would be moving on erased any trace of her earlier annoyance, and wearing the biggest smile she had managed in weeks, she moved to her small bundle of possessions to begin packing.
"I should go ask what time we will be leaving." She had made it clear across to the door before she remembered he hadn't actually told her of his plans yet, and so spent the time moving along the hall concocting a reasonable excuse to show up unannounced at his door to give him the chance to tell her his "news."
Just before she reached the corner she heard a light rapping sound and stopped. The sound again, a hand on a door, and edging to the corner she peered around. Bujah the bloody dancer was standing bold as brass outside Altaïr's door, her hand poised to deliver another knock, when it was pulled open. She saw the shape of him in the doorway, but pulled her head back around the corner before he put his head out, sure he would have known she was there watching. The sneaky bastard seemed to have a sixth sense about things like that.
Hearing his soft voice greeting her felt like a knife in her heart, but Maria Thorpe wasn't the sort of woman who bore pain with dignity, and so she made her way to the garden scowling and kicking out at anything unfortunate enough to come within range of her foot.
"Fucking painted Jezebel, what sort of woman would go knocking on a man's door in the middle of the night?" Ignoring the fact that she had been about to the same thing she continued. "And him, just like the man he is, all smiles and fawning; well, she can bloody well have him, and with my blessing!"
She entered the garden muttering curses and wishing them all manner of poxes, but her reflex reaction to what she had seen wasn't heartfelt. The knot of pain in her stomach, the tears glistening in her eyes which would not be permitted to fall, were both far more sincere expressions of her true feelings, but she would deny those until Hell froze over.
Walking towards a beautifully ornate fountain she stopped and sat on the bench facing it, the window of his room just overhead. The doors were closed and the drapes drawn over the windows, but his lamps were still burning. Maria forced her gaze away, sure in the knowledge that if she kept looking she would see the lovers' silhouette framed in the window.
When had this change happened, when had she become this woman who would allow a man into her heart to inflict whatever damage he saw fit? When had she stopped seeing him as a friend? She realised she hadn't and he had never tried to make her see him as anything else and that was the root of her problem. He let her be herself, never telling her how to behave or how a woman should dress. She became so at ease with him, this friend that she had let her guard down entirely leaving her wide open to this nonsense which now spread unfettered through her brain.
Dragging a hand over her tightly plaited hair she glanced once more at his window where thankfully there were no shapes to add to the misery her own imagination was inflicting on her.
"Take hold of yourself, Maria. This is not who you are."
She spoke the words with far more conviction than she felt, and stayed put in the seat, not knowing what to do. She could never tell him how she felt - that would be ruinous - but could she continue on with him, suffering the fleeting glances of his chest as he washed, or his eyes as the light caught them in spite of his hood?
What choice did she have? Rush up to his chamber declaring her newfound love for him and imploring him not to take another to his bed? . . . She would die before she would humble herself in that way. No, things would go on as they had, and she would learn to control her foolish heart.
Of course she looked back to his window, and this time his room was in darkness; he had been unable to resist her charms. What else could she have expected? The woman was like an exotic bird of paradise with her flimsy, colourful clothes and her glowing olive skin, whereas she ... Maria looked down at her own travel-battered clothes and winced. Had she really expected him to see her as a woman when she did all she could to deny that was what she truly was?
"Maria..."
A soft male voice interrupted her damaging thoughts, and Maria turned to greet the owner of the voice.
BIG thank you to Saphruikan (Saphira and shruikan) for editing and correcting this for me and for helping to make this fic "The best it can be" :)