The Warrior's Vow. Christina Rich

will not like this, not one bit. I will not risk his wrath. I will not.” The woman planted her fists on her hips.

      Abigail jumped to her feet, towering over the woman, hands clenched at her side. “Yet you’d risk mine, Dara.” She glanced at the boy. “Micah, remove her from my presence and fetch a willing healer.”

      “Yes, Princess.” His dark head bowed. Jesse rolled his eyes and stared at the billowing tent. Even this child believed her to be a princess. Their future queen if Suph had his way. “Come, Dara. I will take you back.”

      “May the gods allow you a restful sleep, Dara.” Abigail’s tone held a hint of sarcasm. It was not lost on the old woman, either, for she twisted her lips as if to consider Abigail’s wishes.

      “Allow me to retrieve my herbs.” The woman slipped between the opening.

      “Micah, I do not trust Dara to keep from mumbling.” Abigail twisted her hands together. “You know how she is when agitated. Make sure she speaks to no one. If she does, you’ll tell me?”

      “Of course.” The child left.

      “You risk death to save me. If Suph does not kill you in a fit of rage, I might.”

      She stared down her slender nose at him. A manicured eyebrow arched upward. “You are a man of honor, Jesse.”

      He tried to prop himself up on his elbow but ended flat on his back with air whooshing from his lungs.

      Abigail bent over him. “Are you all right?”

      “Yes, of course. Considering your captain used me as target practice while my hands were tied behind my back.”

      Her lips parted. Her hand pressed against her heart. “A coward?”

      Jesse blinked.

      “Here.” She grabbed hold of his shoulders. Jasmine filled his nostrils. She propped pillows behind his back until he was sitting and then fetched him a goblet of water. “Better?”

      “Yes.” He considered her a moment as she pressed the rim of a cup to his lips. Cool liquid flowed over his tongue and down his throat. He pulled back. “What makes you think I’m a man of honor?”

      She set the cup aside and swayed across the room. Her long tapered fingers reached for a small wooden box. She opened the lid and pulled out a leather strap. His signet dangled from her fingers. She lifted it to the light and then glanced at him. “You are a Levite, no?”

      He forced air in and out through his nose and forced calm into his limbs as he recalled Suph cutting it from his neck.

      She held it above her head. The firebrands caught the gem, shooting little sparks of light upon the fabric walls. “A priest, a man of this so-called living God? A man of honor?”

      He’d known many a Levite, many a priest, with no honor, his uncle Elam included. “What is it you want, Abigail?”

      She wrapped her fingers around the stone and knelt beside him. Her gaze bored into his a moment before she pressed her curled fist against his chest, and then she flattened her palm. The stone was the only barrier between them.

      “The truth about this living God of yours, Jesse.”

      Chapter Three

      The stone warmed against her palm. Jesse’s eyes blazed with fire. Lines of pain etched his jaw as he grimaced. She inhaled a sharp breath and sat back on her heels. “I am sorry. I should not have done that. You have wounds, which need tending.”

      The beat of a drum pounded in tandem with her heart. A lyre struck up a chord. The nightly ritual of chanting sounded much more eerie this close to the revelry. She began to scoot away from Jesse, but he grasped hold of her wrist. His hold, gentle, unlike his earlier attempt at holding her still, sent an awareness of him straight to her toes. He slid his fingers down the leather thong and wrapped them around the gem.

      “It is nothing more than a rock, Abigail. A sign of my tribe. It does not mean I know the truth of God.” He coughed, his body propelled upward until he doubled over in a harsh moan. He settled back against the pillows, his eyes closed. “You may keep it if you wish.”

      Her lips parted in disbelief. She knew from Shema, her old nurse, the signets were of great import, especially to a man of a Levite tribe. Why would Jesse give up his treasure?

      Perhaps he was not to be trusted after all. She studied the lines formed across his brow and the discolored swollen cheeks above his black beard. Thick, dark curls rested against his bare shoulders. She wondered what he looked like when not so badly beaten. Even now, with his eyes closed, he was nothing more than a man. A giant of a man to be sure, but not the trained warrior Suph had cautioned her about.

      She slipped from the edge of the bedding and replaced the jewel in her box. She would have Micah fix it for her later and wear it around her neck for safekeeping. Sitting on the far side of the tent, she watched Jesse for a moment. The palm resting on his chest rose in small jerky movements as if each breath was difficult.

      “Does it hurt?”

      He squinted one eye open. The coldness of his glare froze the blood in her veins.

      The chanting of the worshippers grew louder. The richness of the roasting wild fowl permeated the air, churning her stomach. Abigail picked up one of the pillows and buried her nose into it.

      Dara pushed into the tent, carrying a linen bag of supplies. Abigail dropped her pillow and composed herself as a princess should.

      “They’re more riled than usual. I’d say—” Dara’s gaze darted toward the prisoner and she clamped her lips together. “Are you sure you want to save him? He looks to be at death’s door. A bit of this,” she said, pulling a tiny earthen jar from her bag and holding it up, “he’ll be out of misery if it’s mercy you wish to give.”

      Abigail folded her hands together. Would Dara understand her need to keep this man alive? Her gaze settled on Jesse, uncertain if he would understand Abigail’s true motives and not the lie she was about to speak. “Suph needs him to restore Jerusalem back to my hands. He’ll not die, Dara. Not if you wish to continue on in your position.”

      The skin around the old woman’s eyes crinkled. Dara had been a constant in Abigail’s life, ever since that day when Shema had abandoned her to the cold isolation of her chambers.

      Air caught in Abigail’s throat as unshed tears burned at the memory of Shema. Her old nurse had been like a real mother to her, one who kissed her scraped knees and comforted her after night terrors. Now all she had left was Bilhah, a child servant and Dara, a rancorous old woman. For which she was thankful, even if the old woman wasn’t Shema.

      Guilt cloaked Abigail’s shoulders, for she had never threatened Dara. Doing so now did not settle well in Abigail’s stomach, but what choice did she have?

      None if she were to discover the truth. Not only about Jesse’s God, but she hoped he would also tell her the truth about this high priest and whether he had ordered the deaths of so many of her family.

      One corner of Dara’s mouth curved upward. “Ach, I’d heard you were crazed. Turned into your mother.” Dara settled beside Jesse and dug through her bag before looking at him, and then Abigail. “I see I’ve heard wrong. You always were one to mend a wing. Perhaps you’ll do Judah some good after all. I had my doubts, I tell you. Call your boy in, I’ll need light if my eyes are to see. And I’ll need you. My hands are too old to be closing his wounds.”

      Abigail felt the blood drain from her face and she stood frozen. It was one thing to clean his wounds, which she’d failed to do. Quite another to force more pain upon him.

      “Come along, girl. I’ve not got all night.”

      Abigail’s eyes flickered to his, catching his anger. He nodded. It was a slight movement, one that Dara missed. However, it gave Abigail the courage she needed. She moved toward the opening of her tent.