He Was Hers to Command

Swept away from her home and into the desert, Abigail is as much a prisoner as she is a princess. A ruthlessly ambitious captain of the palace guard intends to force her into marriage and rule Judah through her. Yet the badly beaten soldier Abigail rescues offers another choice—if she dares trust him.

She is royalty, yet Jesse is surprised by the gentle compassion Abigail shows him as he heals. In return, he will help her escape to Jerusalem, protecting her life with his own. But Abigail’s rank and Jesse’s deadly past makes any future impossible, unless forgiveness forged by love can triumph over all.

“I fear our journey will not be easy for you.”

Many of his wounds, were superficial. The chamomile he’d drank, along with the honey slathered over his wounds, had eased the pain and would bring swift healing. If it weren’t for his ribs poking his innards, he’d have no trouble moving. However, Jesse was not about to inform Abigail, lest she change her mind. “I will manage. As I told you before, you’d be surprised at what a man can endure when he wishes to live.”

Her brow puckered, leaving a little crease above the arch of her nose. “Why is that?”

“I believe God gives man courage and strength.”

She shook her head. Her tresses waved down her back. “Why do you wish to live?”

“That is an easy question to answer.”

Her chin tilted at an angle, she leaned forward. “What is it?”

He smiled. “Someone must convince you of your beauty since it’s obvious you do not believe it yourself.”

CHRISTINA RICH

is a full-time housewife and mother. She lives in the Midwest with her husband and four children. She loves Jesus, history, researching her ancestry, fishing, reading and of course, writing romances woven with God’s grace, mercy and truth.

You can find more about her at www.authorchristinarich.com.

The Warrior’s Vow

Christina Rich

www.millsandboon.co.uk

It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness. The Lord is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will I hope in him.

—Lamentations 3:22–24

Cody, thank you for being a man who chases after the Lord.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Dear Reader,

Extract

Chapter One

Judah

Circa 835 BC

The sound of horses’ hooves thundered into camp. Abigail’s pulse hammered in her chest at the commotion outside her tent. She tucked her hands into her sleeves and paced. Had the warrior priests who had attacked the palace and killed her mother found them?

“What is happening, Bilhah?”

Her cousin sat on a pile of furs, her knees drawn to her chest. Black kohl trailed down her cheeks. Abigail knelt in front of her and tried to imitate the strength she had seen her mother exude. “Bilhah, now is not the time for weakness. What if we must make haste?”

Soulless amber eyes stared at her. “There will be no mercy.”

A chorused bellow startled Abigail, sending a tremor racing through her blood, until she realized what she’d heard had been a cheer of victory among her men. Uncertain of her new role as future queen, she forced a smile and rose. “Of course, there will be none. Jehoiada and the usurpers will pay for killing my mother.” She inhaled a shaky breath. “And my brothers all those years ago.”

Bilhah’s brow furrowed as if she was confused. Many such looks had tainted her cousin’s beautiful face since their flight from the palace and Jerusalem. She tilted her head and scanned Abigail from head to toe. “You misunderstand me, Abigail. The God of the priests, the God of our forefathers Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, will not grant us mercy, not if we continue in our rebellion.”

The hot desert wind rippled the canvas around them. Gooseflesh rose on Abigail’s arms and she hugged herself to ward off the omen. She’d heard the servants speak of a god greater than the ones her mother had worshipped, but she’d yet to see him with her own eyes, as she’d seen the wooden and bronze statues in the courtyard outside the palace. “You’ve had a great shock, Bilhah. You do not know what you speak.”

“If they did not spare your mother, the Queen of Judah, they will not spare us, Abigail.” Bilhah’s shoulders sagged as she pressed her face into her hands. Abigail swallowed her fear as the memory of the frantic cries of the servants assaulted her. It was the one time she had willingly crawled into the wooden chest in order to hide from the warrior priests.

It was no wonder the confident, alluring woman who prowled the palace at will crumpled into another round of sobs. The change in her cousin’s behavior since the priests and temple guards had stormed the palace was disconcerting. Abigail was having a difficult time being cast from her home, too. However, if she hadn’t been forced to abide by Captain Suph’s demands, Abigail thought she might actually enjoy her freedom from the palace.

A dark shadow passed outside their tent and then pressed against the fabric. “Princess,” Micah called from outside. “The captain requests your presence.”

As if her nerves weren’t already taut, now the captain requested her presence. He’d not been kind since their flight from Jerusalem and he’d always made her feel less than human, as if she were a stray dog begging for scraps. How could she make him understand she was his rightful queen, would be his queen once her throne was restored in Jerusalem, and as such deserved his respect?

Abigail dried her palms and pulled back the flap. “In a moment, Micah.”

The young servant nodded and crossed his arms over his linen tunic; although no more than a child, he’d been one of her only constant companions for the past few years. One of the only people her mother had allowed to attend her. Abigail faced her cousin. “Once you’ve rested and I’ve taken my position as Queen of Judah, all will be well. You’ll see.” She took two steps, bent at the waist and started to press her lips against Bilhah’s smooth head before halting. If she was to go on as her mother had, if she was to succeed as Queen of Judah, such comforting gestures would no longer be allowed. “Rest, while I see what Suph requires of me. And dry your eyes, Bilhah. Our people need you. You cannot perform in your current state.”

She shook out her tunic and brushed a hand over the dust-infested tunic. With a trembling hand, she patted down her hair before slipping between the folds of her tent. She scanned the desert encampment, pleased that many of her mother’s subjects had followed their exodus during the priests’ attempt to take over Jerusalem. Soon, with Suph’s help, she’d see them returned to their beloved city, where she would reward their faithfulness with a banquet to rival her great ancestor King Solomon. Of course, she’d have to gain Bilhah’s help since she’d no idea how kings and queens dined.

“Come, Micah, let us see what Suph wants, shall we?” She smiled at the boy. His black orbs sparkled before his lashes dipped against his tanned cheekbones. She followed behind him, twisting and turning through the maze of tents that had been hastily erected after their flight from Jerusalem. The people lowered their heads as she passed as if she were already queen. Their actions humbled her. And disheartened her. Until a few days ago many knew not of her existence. Those who did had slighted her, not even treating her with the acknowledgment a servant receives.

Now they looked to her to lead them, to give them back Jerusalem, a task that seemed near impossible given she’d rarely been allowed outside her chambers.

Micah halted and Abigail stumbled into his back because she’d been preoccupied with how she was to lead these people as those who had done so before her.

Captain Suph turned toward her, the lines around his mouth firmed. His eyes remained cold, filled with hatred. She stopped herself from taking a step back, from fleeing to her tent, and allowed a smile to curve her lips. She would show him courage, lest he find her weak and incapable of ruling Judah.

“I have a gift for you, Abigail.”

She tilted her chin and waited. Suph stepped aside, revealing a rather muscular man in nothing but a loincloth and a gem the color of amber hanging from a leather cord around his neck. She drew in a shallow breath and forced calm into her limbs. Her practiced reserve kept her from blushing at the man’s near nakedness, kept her from flinching at the grotesque swelling of his face and the open cuts decorating the rest of his body. She knew her mother had been cruel at times, but had she been this vicious? Would the captain expect the same from her? Abigail hoped not.

“This is the brother of Ari, former Commander of the Temple Guard. This man’s brother is responsible for placing that imposter on the throne, and I’ve no doubt our prisoner took part in the rebellion, as well. He’ll fetch a handsome price. Perhaps even the return of your throne, Abigail.”

She stepped forward and bent closer. The scent of his wounds hung in the air. The whites of his eyes glowed from the bloodied mess of his face. “Is this true?”

The man’s nostrils flared. His jaw clamped tight. Suph yanked his sword from his sheath and swung wide.

Anger surged through her blood, thundered in her heart. How dare the captain threaten a man who couldn’t even stand on his own? “Enough.”

Spears of fire sparked in Suph’s gaze. “You cannot think—”

“You will not dictate the thoughts of your future queen. Is that understood?”

Suph’s chest expanded as he squinted his eyes to mere slits. The lines creasing the corners of his eyes twitched in tandem with the tic of his jaw. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good. Now, clean his wounds. We cannot negotiate using a dead man.”

She twisted on the balls of her feet. Holding her shoulders straight and head high the way she’d seen her mother do, she walked toward her tent. She ducked inside, fell to her knees and retched into an earthen jug. A gentle hand smoothed back her hair. Bilhah knelt beside her.

“What is it, child?” She pressed a cup into her hand.

Abigail swiped the back of her hand over her mouth and gave a nervous laugh. “You call me ‘child,’ yet we are the same age, you and I.”

Bilhah scooted back to the furs and sank against a mound of decorated pillows, her eyes downcast. “We are. Come, what has upset you?”

Abigail curled beside her. “Was my mother so cruel?”

Sadly, Abigail had witnessed a few floggings, and from the way the servants spoke, her mother took pleasure in the beatings. Abigail had also heard them speak of others losing their heads. A part of Abigail had believed it was only to cause her fear so that perhaps she’d behave.

Bilhah’s fingers stopped toying with the furs. “You’ve been sheltered.”

Abigail sat up and looked into Bilhah’s eyes. “You did not answer my question.”

“I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, even your mother.”

Abigail laid her palm against Bilhah’s cheek. “I’ve always known she was cruel to you.” She ran her hand over Bilhah’s shiny head. “Forcing you to serve her gods when you should have married well.”

Bilhah shook her head. “I was your father’s niece—with my father dead I was nothing more than a servant. At the time it seemed a high honor. Or so your mother convinced me.”

Abigail laid her head against Bilhah’s chest. “Thanks to Jehoiada we are all that’s left. I would see him pay.”

Her words sounded hollow as the image of the bloodied prisoner invaded her mind. Her stomach churned. If treating a man like a mangy dog was what it would take, she did not know if she’d have it in her.

“Perhaps not all has been as it seems, Abigail.”

She ruminated on that for a few moments. She was about to ask Bilhah what she meant, but the rhythm of her heartbeat against Abigail’s ear slowed. Rising up on her elbow, Abigail gazed at her cousin, so young yet hardened by the life chosen for her. She sat up and tucked her knees beneath her chin.

Had she truly been sheltered, or had she been forgotten? Bilhah was not the only one who’d experienced her mother’s cruelty. Although she would miss her mother, Abigail would not miss the viperous tongue reminding her she was weak like her father and not the beauty her mother had hoped for. Her arms were too long, her hips too thin. She was lanky and awkward. With her limp hair, her lack of golden hues, her green eyes—a curse from the gods—she hadn’t needed to see the disgust in her mother’s eyes to know she was a disappointment. Aye, she may miss her mother a little, but she would not miss the way she flogged the servants for their inability to make Abigail presentable.

A breeze blew from beneath the tent, carrying with it Suph’s raised voice. Abigail rubbed her arms and rose. She pulled back the flap and peered at the group of men surrounding the prisoner. They had moved the man to near the center of camp. To do her bidding and cleanse his wounds, she supposed. She had been unable to tell what sort of man he was. A warrior, if his sculpted chest and arms were any indication. He was taller than the captain, even slouched beneath the burden of the yoke around his neck. The captain tossed water into the man’s face, causing him to straighten somewhat. The captain, a handsome man when he genuinely smiled, paled in comparison even with the cuts and bruises marring the prisoner’s body. Especially knowing the man had been cruelly treated by Suph.

It had been a rare moment when she stood up to Suph. She’d never spoken with such boldness in her life, but something about the beaten man called to her sense of compassion. She would not allow Suph to kill him.

And how was she to stop him? She glanced down and dug the toe of her sandal into the ground. Her mother’s beauty had commanded respect when she walked into a room. People near fell at her feet and begged to do her bidding, especially Suph. And though he’d shown her some tolerance since their flight from the palace, Abigail was certain it was a ruse. He held no great affection for her.

She was not so naive to believe she’d rule Suph, with or without great beauty, which meant she’d have to take care around him lest she found herself in a worse position than being locked in her chambers.

* * *

Cold water splashed against Jesse’s face. His muscles refused to move away from the offensive attack. His arms were wrapped over a yoke, bound with leather straps. It seemed, by the grace of God, his captors intended to keep him alive. The least he could do was open his eyes and face the traitors.

His uncle Elam hovered before him. “Aye, nephew, you would do well to end your torment and join the captain’s pursuit to recapture the throne.”

“I am not a coward, Uncle. Nor will I betray God as you have done.” Jesse still had difficulty believing his uncle had betrayed his family. If he’d not witnessed his uncle’s insanity, he would not have believed it.

Elam let out a low, harsh laugh. “You cannot think that the child you and your brother helped Jehoiada place on the throne is the rightful heir to the throne?”

“How can you believe otherwise, Uncle?” There were no doubts in Jesse’s mind. Joash was the son of Ahaziah, descendant of King David. Grandchild to the deceased wicked Queen Athaliah. The queen, in a jealous rage, had killed all her husband’s descendants seven years before. All except the infant Joash, who had been rescued by his aunt.

“It is like Jehoiada to deceive the people to gain their cooperation. He’s hungry for power.”

Jesse drew in a breath and clenched his teeth against the pain throbbing in his head. “Is that what you believe? Jehoiada is a man of God, chosen to be God’s high priest to intercede on behalf of God’s people. He does not need to deceive the people, Uncle. He has the approval of God, unlike you and that queen you were loyal to.”

A low growl emanated from his right. The captain shoved Elam aside and pressed the tip of a dagger beneath Jesse’s chin. Eyes, red from too much wine and hatred, glared at him. “It is with great providence our future queen has a soft heart, else I’d leave little of you for the birds.”

Queen?

Certainly the young woman with the pointy chin and high forehead wasn’t a product of Athaliah. Although pretty with her waist-length chestnut hair and her strange green eyes, she wasn’t the stunning beauty her mother had been; nor did she seem to carry the same abhorrent character. Her pale complexion at the sight of him said as much. No, the captain toyed with him. But if Suph thought to play games with the people of Judah, at least he could have chosen a more prominent woman, not one frightened of her own shadow.

Jesse straightened his shoulders, removing his flesh from the man’s blade. “I killed your queen. And I’ll kill her, too, if need be.”

The captain’s fist slammed into Jesse’s jaw. A flash of white light exploded in his head a moment before his feet were swept from beneath him. He landed on his back. Air stole from his lungs as the wooden yoke jammed against his shoulders.

The sun captured and glinted off the dagger held above his attacker’s head. The captain’s chest heaved with each breath. He meant to kill him.

Just as well. Although he did not relish passing from this earth, he hated being a pawn even more. With his eyes set on the captain, Jesse arched his neck. “Go on.”

The captain inhaled as his blade rose higher.

“Enough!”

Jesse pressed his lips together at the sound of his uncle’s voice. The old man’s sanity returned at the oddest times. If Elam hadn’t kidnapped Mira, Jesse’s brother’s betrothed, Jesse wouldn’t have been taking him back to Jerusalem to face the elders, and he certainly wouldn’t be facing death at the hands of a coward. Who killed a man when he was half-beaten and bound?

“Killing him will not achieve our goal, Suph.”

The captain rolled his shoulders, leaned over Jesse and cut the leather strap holding the carbuncle from his neck before sheathing his dagger. “Stretch him out near the altar, but keep him alive.”

Suph kicked Jesse before stalking away, his helmet tucked beneath his arm and Jesse’s tribal identity loose in his fingers. Jesse narrowed his eyes. When he was free from his bindings, he wouldn’t show such mercy. When he was done with the traitor, the captain would beg for the sun’s hottest kiss.

Elam knelt beside him and smoothed a cool cloth to Jesse’s lips. “You should not provoke his anger.”

Jesse narrowed his eyes. “You should have let him kill me.”

A nervous laugh rumbled through Elam’s chest, trembling his fingers. “Your father would have my head if anything happened to you.”

“Your loyalties confuse me, Uncle.”

Elam tilted his head, his brows furrowed. “I’ve always been loyal to my family. Have done what I thought best.”

“And God?”

“Has abandoned us in our greatest time of need.” Elam braced his arms beneath Jesse’s shoulders and helped him to sit. “We must fend for ourselves, stand with those who are strong and bound to rule like Suph’s pawn, Queen Athaliah’s disgraceful daughter. Whether we agree with their beliefs or not.”

Elam motioned for two soldiers to approach. “Stretch him between the postings erected, and then have a servant clean his wounds and feed him. My nephew needs his strength for what he is about to endure.”

The soldiers lifted Jesse to his feet. He looked at his uncle. “I do not know how, or when, but God will reign. He did not restore Joash to the throne only to fail, of that I have no doubt.”

They began to move forward, but Elam’s hand held him still. He leaned close and whispered, “You’ve great potential, nephew. You are strong and with a bit of discipline you could be self-controlled. If you would only see to reason, you could become what your brother Ari rejected. You’d make a much better captain of the guard than Suph. A much better husband to Judah’s rightful queen. If you would only choose, I could make it happen. You could be King of Judah and I the high priest.”

An image of unique green eyes, the color of olive leaves, flickered through his mind.

“So be it, Uncle, but I would not serve a god imagined in the mind of a fallible man. And you can be sure I would never marry a spawn of Athaliah.”

Chapter Two

Heat infused Abigail’s cheeks as she slipped between the folds of her tent and stepped in front of Suph. His jaw hardened. His chest rose and fell in harsh, rapid movements. She laid a hand on his shoulder. A gesture she’d often spied her mother do from the balcony outside her chamber.

His gaze flicked to her hand before settling on her. He shifted his stance, dislodging her hand, and propped a fist on his hip. “What is it I can do for you, Abigail?”

She straightened her shoulders, standing a few inches above him, and tilted her head. “My apologies if I wounded your pride, Suph. However, I believe you can see the wisdom of keeping the prisoner alive.”

He firmed his lips. “Alive, yes. Being left capable of killing what few men we have to protect you, no.”

Her gaze sought out the man carried by her soldiers. His wide shoulders sagged, his arms limp. He couldn’t even walk on his own.

“Do not allow his condition to fool you, Abigail.”

“Even hale I doubt he could do as much harm.”

A harsh chuckle burst from Suph. His eyes bore a mocking yet dangerous glint. “Do not think to underestimate him, dearest. He’s an elite soldier trained in ways I can only imagine, as much as it wounds me to admit. Given the chance, he’ll kill me, kill my men.” He gripped her chin, the scent of blood heavy on his hands. “And he’ll kill you if only to save that child he claims is your brother’s. The child he helped set on the throne. Are you willing to risk as much?”

She thought of the child and the varied stories that had whispered off the palace walls. She’d seen only twelve summers that awful year when word of her brother’s death reached them. At first, she’d heard her mother had gone mad and had had all of Abigail’s male cousins and nephews killed, but then her mother told her otherwise. It had been that priest Jehoiada who had infiltrated the princes’ chambers and annihilated them all.

But then, only weeks ago, rumors of a surviving child began anew. Many said he had the look of her brother. Could it be he’d been spared Jehoiada’s wrath? Why would the priest spare him when he’d killed all the others? To instill the beliefs of their so-called god? Certainly the boy was not her nephew. “Of course not, Suph. However, my stance remains, do not cause the prisoner further harm.”

His lips twitched as if he were about to defy her. “As you wish, but I will do nothing to ease his wounds.” Suph spit at the ground. “His wounds can fester until he dies. I care not. There will be other ways to remove the child from the throne.”

She reached into her soul for courage. “Your grief over my mother credits you, but do not allow it to own you, Suph. You serve me now and will do as I bid. Even if it means cleaning the prisoner’s wounds.”

“You surprise me, Abigail. Your mother claimed you were weak. However, your commands reveal your mother’s courage. Although, she never would have begged for a prisoner’s life such as you have.”

“I do not beg, Suph. I demand his life be spared as I demand his wounds be treated.”

Hatred fired from his eyes, burning through her. His nostrils flared. She halted the shiver of fear snaking through her limbs. She reminded herself that he would not kill her. He needed her. She recognized the moment when he must have realized the truth of the matter, for he rolled his shoulders and began to move around her, but she stayed him with her hand. His gaze dropped to her upturned palm. “What is it you wish, Abigail?”

“The prisoner’s gem.” She arched her eyebrows, daring him to deny her request.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. Fear increased her pulse. One thing she had learned from her mother was that trust should be held tightly within one’s own breast. Her trust did not belong to Suph. His lack of respect for her position proved as much, but if not him, then who?

The sound of a hammer beating bronze caught her attention. She glanced to the temporary altar where workers had erected an image of her mother’s god. A soldier struck the back of the prisoner’s knees, forcing him to kneel before the statue. Another guard yanked his head back by his shoulder-length hair. Even from her position she could see the rebellion shining through white eyes. Working his throat and lips, he spit.

Red-tinged spittle splattered over the man-made idol. The guard holding on to his hair forced his head back farther and uttered a few words Abigail could not hear. The corners of the prisoner’s mouth tensed in obvious pain and then he smiled in satisfaction.

“Do you not see his actions?”

Abigail shifted her gaze to Suph’s, and then to her empty hand. “The gem, Suph.”

He held the jewel up to the light of the sun. It sparkled. The once dull brown caught fire before her eyes. She sucked in a sharp breath as Suph dropped it into her palm.

“Mind my words, Abigail, and tread with care. I see the way you watch the prisoner with curious eyes. He’s not to be trusted.”

Suph pushed past her, and her gaze followed his retreat. “Neither are you,” she whispered to his back.

She squeezed her fingers around the stone. It warmed the palm of her hand. Her gaze settled on the man being stretched out before the bronze idol. His life’s blood flowed freely from his many wounds. Strange how he seemed more alive in his beaten body than Suph did in his able one.

Even the bronze statue, meant to be worshipped and obeyed, held more life than Suph. Odd, it did not breathe. It did not move of its own accord. It was not like the wind to come and go at will, yet her people bowed at its feet. Was there something to what Bilhah had said? Was there a living, breathing God? Was the God of her forefathers real?

The stone heated further and she unclenched her fingers; orange fire glowed and ebbed, taking on a life of its own. Her lips parted; her eyes once again sought the prisoner. Could she trust him to tell her the truth about this God of his?

She took a step forward.

“Where are you going?”

Abigail glanced over her shoulder. Her cousin gripped one of the folds of the tent in her hand, but she remained hidden in the shadows. “To speak with the prisoner.”

“Do you think that wise?” Bilhah moved from the protection of their shelter and out into the sunlight, her arms wrapped around her midsection. Although the kohl had been wiped from her cheeks and repainted around her eyes, she still seemed shaken from their recent ordeal.

“I do not see why not. I have questions about his cause.”

Bilhah laid a hand on her arm. “The sun is waning. It is near time for the nightly worship. Trust me, Abigail, you do not wish to bear witness to such festivities.”

Abigail scanned the camp. She hadn’t noticed the leather tables laid out on the ground, overflowing with bread and wine. Her attention had been on the hammering of bronze, Suph’s words and the actions of the prisoner. She’d not realized couples strode toward the altar. Heat filled her cheeks.

“They cannot think to...to dance, not in front of the prisoner, Bilhah. He’s not used to our ways.” Not that Abigail was used to their ways, either. She’d been kept from the ceremonies. Not because her mother thought to protect her, rather because her mother was ashamed of her lack of curves and spindly arms and legs. Too ashamed of her pale complexion, and even more ashamed of Abigail’s green eyes.

Bilhah’s gaze flicked toward the beaten man tied between the posts. Her lips curved upward. “You’re not much like your mother, you know?”

Her shoulders sagged. No, Abigail was weak like her father had been. She’d heard that often enough.

“Do not fret, Abigail. That is not such a bad thing.” Bilhah grasped Abigail’s fingers. “Come, let us go rescue your prisoner.”

“And how do you propose we do that? Suph would not be happy.”

Bilhah laughed. “You are a princess, his future queen, are you not?”

The corners of Abigail’s lips curved upward even as she choked on the knot forming in her throat. She nodded.

“Then behave as such. Come, I’ll walk beside you. Your people will not deny your request, not with a shrine priestess at your side.”

“If you will give me but a moment.” Abigail ducked into the tent and placed the prisoner’s gem and the leather strap tied around it into an ornately carved wooden box. She wiped her palms down the front of her tunic, straightened her spine and then stepped beside Bilhah. “I am ready.”

They wove through the throngs of people preparing for worship. This time they dropped to a bow as Bilhah glided past them in her purple robes. Her earlier sullenness was gone. “I see your rest has done you well,” Abigail whispered.

Bilhah inclined her head. “Very much so. However, for reasons even I do not understand.” She halted her steps, bringing Abigail beside her. “When this—” she waved her hand about them “—is done, when you are on the throne, I intend to leave my position.”

Air caught in Abigail’s lungs. The thought of losing the last of her family, her only real friend in this uncertain world, churned her stomach.

“Head high, Abigail. You are being watched. We will discuss this matter later, but be certain I weary of performing for the masses. I weary of worshipping false gods made of bronze.”

Abigail glanced at the bronze statue and then back to her cousin. “I do understand.” Abigail had often witnessed the sadness in Bilhah’s eyes when she sought refuge in Abigail’s chambers.

“Princess,” Micah’s voice sounded ragged, as if he’d run a great distance. His eyes downcast, he shifted from one foot to the other. “You should not be here.”

She smiled and patted him on the head. No more than ten summers, his concern warmed her. Would he remain faithful to her no matter what fate directed for her future? “I am well, Micah. Please fetch Dara the Healer and bring her to my tent.”

His eyes shifted to hers, his mouth agape. “Abigail—”

“Go, Micah.”

The child dipped his chin and left to do her bidding.

“Nicely done.” Bilhah’s purple tunic swirled around her feet. She clapped her hands above her head. “What is this?” she screeched, like the commanding priestess Abigail knew her to be. “You dare risk our god’s wrath with the presence of this heathen?”

Bilhah spit toward the man, missing his stomach by inches. The people swarmed around, begging apologies, even the soldiers tying the knots at the prisoner’s hands and feet. Her beauty had nothing to do with their fear of her. No, they feared her because they believed she held sway with their bronze statue and if they angered her they’d be cursed.

“Untie him.” Abigail motioned at the soldiers. “Take him to my tent.”

They glanced at Bilhah. “Go on. Do as your princess commands.”

Their fingers fumbled over the knots as they worked to loosen them. The prisoner’s body seemed to relax. His hard eyes settled on her. A sneer curled his bloodied, swollen lip. The desert wind pushed against her, forcing her to take a step back.

Perhaps she should have listened to Suph.

* * *

Jesse’s muscles tensed when the soldiers jerked him from the ground. A groan rumbled from his chest. The woman who would call herself queen tossed a look over her shoulder. Her waist-length hair danced at her hips. The slip of concern in her eyes soured his stomach.

What game was this woman about? The princess’s cohort was no more than a prostitute, even if she was considered a shrine goddess and held in high regard by those who worshipped the bronze statue. Jesse had no doubt she wouldn’t have considered his presence a defilement to her dead god. He was quite certain the priestess would have relished forcing their rituals upon him. So why would the princess and her priestess move him when their captain demanded otherwise? The tops of his toes dragged over the pebbled desert, biting into his already raw flesh. He’d seen what happened to men pulled behind a horse, but he never imagined the incessant burning of his nerves or the way his bones seemed to detach from his muscles.

His eyes caught hold of the gentle, purposeful sway of the princess’s slender hips. Although she lacked the voluptuous curves of the former queen, she had a regal bearing about her. Of course, that alone did not prove she was royalty. Certainly he would have heard if Athaliah had a daughter.

She halted before a large tent and pulled back the flaps. “You may lay him on the furs in the corner.”

One of the soldiers snorted. “You wish him to bleed on your bedding?”

The lack of respect for the woman, queen or not, did not sit well with Jesse. He pulled against the soldiers’ grips and tried righting himself. He was met with an elbow to the back of his head.

“I requested this man receive no more harm. Would you seek my wrath?” The attempted bravado in her tone eased some of the tension from his muscles. “Those furs belong to my dogs. I’m sure the prisoner will be placed elsewhere before they are returned to me.”

“As you wish.” One of the soldiers pulled Jesse through the tent and dumped him onto the bedding. He was thankful for the soft blow to his chest and battered face.

“You may stand guard outside if you’d like, or return to the festivities. My servant will be here shortly with a healer.”

“The captain will have our heads if this man escapes.”

Jesse didn’t need to look to know which of the two guards spoke; nor did he need his eyes to see the way she tilted her pointed chin and looked down upon them from her impressive height. “I assure you he is in no condition to escape. He can barely hold up his head.”

“As you wish.” He heard them duck outside the tent. “We will stand guard until the healer arrives.”

He rolled to his back, closed his eyes and concentrated on sucking in air. He no doubt had a few broken ribs among the dagger cuts. Jasmine swirled around him as she moved closer and knelt beside him. The warmth of her hand settled on his brow. He grabbed her wrist as he snapped his eyes open.

Fear glittered in her olive-green eyes.

“You play with fire, lady.” He gritted his teeth with the effort to keep her from pulling away.

“That may be so, but I have questions and you have answers.”

Her eyes shifted back and forth, searching his. He released her, dropping his hand to his side. She reached across him and dipped a cloth into a bowl of water before bathing his face. Her gentle caress bit into his flesh yet warmed his heart.

“You are bold for one who trembles with fear.”

Pulling away, she curled her legs beneath her. “I’ve rarely had cause to step foot outside my chambers, let alone leave Jerusalem’s gates. All this is new and a bit fearful.”

“Your honesty does you justice.”

“As I hope will yours.”

She wrung the cloth out into the basin and then ran it over a deep gash on his biceps. He pulled in a sharp breath. “You should not trust me. I will kill you if need be.”

“So I have been warned.” Her lips curved upward; the brilliance of her wide smile lit up the darkened tent. Perhaps he was wrong about her. She was more than pretty, she was an exotic beauty; not like her mother had been, but a beautiful creature nonetheless.

“What is it they call you?”

“Jesse. And you?”

“Abigail.”

“A father’s joy.”

She furrowed her brow.

“Your name, it means a father’s joy.”

Her gaze dropped to her lap, and a deep sadness crinkled the corners of her eyes. Before he could ask her the source of her sadness, a small boy entered with an elderly woman.

“Ach, I’ve heard the rumors of your madness, but now mine eyes have seen the truth.” A buxom gray-haired woman peered over Abigail’s shoulder. “Your captain 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. “Micah, bring a firebrand and come here.”

The boy pulled back the flaps as he entered, giving Abigail a glimpse of the rituals of her people dancing around the fire. Embarrassment knotted in her stomach. She glanced down at her own form swathed in fine linen and knew her lack of beauty had been a blessing.

“Would you rather me leave him to die?” Dara’s sharp tone broke through her musings.

She jerked her chin up. “Of course not. I told you he is needed.”

After she knelt beside Dara, the old woman handed her a thin bone needle threaded with sinew. Abigail’s hands shook as she swallowed back the bile forming in her throat.

“Now’s not the time for weakness, child. Pay attention.” Dara poured olive oil over a long gash on Jesse’s midriff and then pinched the gaping wound together. Jesse sucked air, whistling between his teeth. “You ready, boy?”

His jaw clenched as he nodded. Dara poked the needle near the edge of the flesh and into the second piece. “You must leave a finger’s length of the sinew hanging, else it’ll pull through.”

Smoothing her hair over her shoulder, Abigail leaned closer, paying attention to where Dara stuck the needle. The old woman worked fast with gnarled fingers, creating a clean pattern like that of a ladder. Engrossed as she was in Dara’s work, she’d forgotten about the man until he flinched when Dara cut the sinew with her dagger.

Abigail sought out his gaze. “Are you well?”

Deep brown eyes the color of polished cedar stole her breath. “I am well, Abigail.”

She expected his hatred, his anger. She did not expect the gentle soothing in his tone as if he sought to comfort her in the midst of his pain.

“We’ve no time for this.” Dara’s bleary eyes roamed from Jesse’s legs to his chest, and then his arms. The wealth of blood made it difficult to tell which wounds were the worst. “We’ll allow those on his chest to bleed. Give his body time to purge the poisons. You start on the deeper wounds on his arms. I’ll tend the wounds on his legs.”

Abigail’s cheeks warmed.

Dara cleared her throat. “Not proper for a princess, but we’ve no choice, have we? Now watch and learn quickly. The sooner we get him stitched, the sooner I can return to my bed.”

The old woman poured wine and then more olive oil over one of the cuts. Jesse hissed through gritted teeth. Abigail held her breath as Dara once again pierced the bone needle through his flesh.

“When the sutures are complete, we’ll dip cloths into a honey bath and bind his wounds.” Dara’s thick, gnarled fingers fumbled with the sinewy strand. After long, agonizing moments, she raised her gaze to Abigail’s. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

The white bone needle gleamed beneath the firebrand as Dara pushed it through Jesse’s torn skin. The process looked painful, but minus the first sharp intake of breath, Jesse hadn’t reacted. Abigail drew in a steadying breath. Pricks of anxiety welled in her throat, threatening to spill from her eyes.

“All is well, Abigail.” Jesse’s whispered encouragement tugged at her heart. She stared at the needle in her fingers. Her heart slammed against her chest. Her shoulders sagged and she started to drop the needle to her side. Warm fingers wrapped around her ankle and squeezed. She dropped her gaze to Jesse’s. The hardness in his eyes softened. His silent encouragement gave her the backbone she needed.

With trembling fingers, she gripped the neck of the jug. The liquid spilled, pouring over the myriad of gashes on Jesse’s biceps. The sweet scent of fresh grapes mixed with the olive oil and the bright splotches of blood left a metallic taste in her mouth. She drew in a slow breath and once again flicked her gaze to his. Brown eyes held hers.

His swollen lips curved upward. “You should take care not to drench your dogs’ bedding. I’m sure they would appreciate a dry place to sleep.”

She nodded and blinked her lashes in thanks. “I have no dogs.”

Holding the wound together, she poked the bone needle through the flesh. Jesse’s chest hitched, halting. She glanced at him. He nodded as he exhaled. She pulled the sinew through both sides, leaving a finger’s length just as Dara had shown her.

Whipping the sinew around in tiny strokes, she pulled the open flesh closed as she worked her way along the length. The wound was deep, cutting into his muscle. She wondered if he’d lose the use of his arm. She had no doubt that had been Suph’s intentions.

She tied off the knot and turned his arm to inspect the smaller cuts before turning her attention to the X gashed into his shoulder. “You’ll have quite the scar.”

“Ach, he’s many already,” Dara snarled. “Men fight and die. You obviously did not heed your training, boy.”

A deep chuckle rumbled from Jesse’s chest. “Not so. My scars are no more than love pats from my older brothers.”

The needle halted near the edge of his wound. Laughter danced in his eyes. Admiration and affection colored each of his words. He must love his brothers deeply.

She bit down on her lip and wondered what it would have been like if Jehoiada had not ordered her brothers’ and cousins’ deaths seven years ago. This man followed the same God the high priest did. Had he killed one of her brothers with his own hands? Anger fired in her chest. Swallowing past the knot in her throat, she jabbed the needle through Jesse’s flesh.

He rose off the furs with a roar.

* * *

“Woman, what are you about?”

She jerked back, eyes wide, hand over her mouth. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. The needle and sinew yanked through his arm. The old woman spilled wine over his stomach as Micah jostled her. The boy had jumped in front of Abigail. A dagger gleamed in one hand, the flickering firebrand in the other. Jesse thought the boy looked scared as he squinted his eyes and glared at him. Jesse emitted a low growl just to see if the boy would run, but Micah held his ground. His courage gave him much credit. He’d make a fine warrior one day and Jesse relished the thought of training such a courageous soul. A shame he would not be around to do so.

“I...am sorry.” She leaned around the boy’s wiry legs. Tears filled her eyes.

He scraped his palm over his face and settled back against the pillows. “It is I who should apologize. I was not prepared.”

No, he’d been thinking about his brothers and their families. Thinking about how quickly life could be lost and what a shame it would be to never experience the kind of love his brothers shared with their wives. A love God had intended between a man and woman. A husband and wife.

Abigail crept forward and bent over him. Jasmine once again enveloped his senses. Her hesitant gaze flicked to his.

“Go on.” He smiled. His mouth ached with the movement. “I’ll behave.”

She nodded at the child. The boy tucked his weapon into his belt and stepped back. Abigail lowered her head, and her fingers slid over the edge of his wound and closed the flesh together. The needle pierced more gently. She tugged and pulled the thin line of catgut through his wound.

Her movements, although shaky, were gentle and efficient.

This shy, yet courageous, curious woman drew him. He wanted to calm her, to soothe the wounds hidden in her green eyes, even as she sought to heal his. The care and gentle touch of her palm against his skin, even though it caused more pain, scared him as nothing ever had. Not even when he rushed into battle.

“Here, sip. It’ll ease the pain.” The old woman pressed a copper cup to his lips.

He curled his nose and moved his hand in front of his mouth. “I’d rather suffer.”

“It is true what they say about your people.” The woman’s gray eyes pierced his.

“What is this, Dara?” Abigail tilted her chin. “What truth do you speak?”

The early eagerness in her request for truth lit her pale cheeks, illuminating her eyes like blades of grass in the morning dew.

“He does not drink wine.” Micah’s lips twisted in disgust.

The needle paused in Abigail’s hand. She glanced over her shoulder and then back to Jesse. “Is this true?”

He nodded.

“What sort of man does not drink wine?”

“The kind who wishes to indulge in pain.” Dara set the cup aside and replaced it with another. “Here, it’s water with chamomile.”

“You’re not trying to kill me, are you, Dara?” He smiled.

The wrinkles lining her cheeks smoothed. “I could have done that with my knife, boy. I do not resort to poisons.”

“I will remember that.”

He sipped the offered water. The herb clung to his tongue.

Abigail and Dara resumed their stitching and plastering his skin with glutinous bandages. The discordant drums settled into a steady rhythm, matching his breathing as he relaxed. The lamps flickered and waned. His eyelids slid closed. The soft linen of Abigail’s tunic whispered against his skin as she tended each wound. She leaned over him, her breath soft and warm against his cheek. She prodded a cut above his eye. Her tresses, a light caress on his chest, soothed him the way his own mother’s tenderness had done when he was but a child.

“Jesse.” Her whispered song curled his toes. “Can you roll this way?”

He blinked his eyes open. Her green ones hovered above his. His mouth parched, he licked his lips and swallowed, wishing he could form the words to ask for a drink.

“We need to tend the wounds on your back.”

He reached up to touch the wound above his brow. The flesh puckered between the sutures. How had she been so quick with her needle? he wondered as he tried to comprehend the situation.

“Jesse, we cannot roll... Lie on your stomach...” He never willingly gave a man or a woman his back lest he find himself killed.

“No.” He shook his head. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. What had the old woman done to him?

“Ach, boy. You’re too big for us to move you. You’ve gashes on your back what needed stitching.”

He pulled and twisted. Although the pain dulled, the movement stretched his skin in ways not common to man. He plopped on his chest, his cheek heavy against the pillows. Warm liquid poured over his back. A raging fire burned within the wounds, and he arched his neck.

“Ach, you need to hold still if I am to stitch you.” Dara’s tone, harsh as it was, held a hint of sympathy.

He tried to keep his eyes opened but he became mesmerized by the flickering lamplight and his lids grew heavy. No sooner had he lain on his chest than it seemed the insistent women were waking him. “Jesse, you need to roll back now.”

He wished they would make up their crazed minds. All this moving about caused him great discomfort, especially with the pounding in his skull.

“Jesse.” Hearing his name from Abigail’s lips soothed a loneliness inside him he did not realize existed. He opened one eye and looked at her. “You need to roll back.”

She touched her palm against his ribs. He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled onto his back. Pain cut deep, halting the movement until it could be held no more. He coughed and released the rebellious air before gripping his ribs. “Surely the cords of death have entangled me.”

“You should not move.” Abigail’s gentle voice lulled him into a sense of peace.

Once he gained control over his breathing, he peeled his lids open. A soft golden hue bathed the chamber. With the glorious crown of silken tresses dancing about her shoulders, she looked to be an otherworldly creature. “Beautiful.”

He thought he saw the beautiful woman smile. However, it wasn’t but a moment later, an aging brow and crooked nose appeared. Gnarled fingers pulled back his swollen bottom lip, probing his mouth, before pasting his mouth with a thick salve tasting of honey. “You’ve all your teeth. A good sign you will not perish from starvation.”

Nightmares did not visit him often in his sleep, but he feared the old woman would stay with him for a time. “What is it you tainted my water with, old woman?”

A trickle of laughter danced in the room as a cloth touched his brow. His gaze flicked from the gray-haired woman to the beauty beside him. “Only chamomile to ease your pain and help heal your wounds.” She bent close to his ear. “Dara will not harm you. She’s a healer.”

“I should trust her?”

The tilt of her chin was the only answer he received. The lady was mad if she thought he would trust any of them with his life. Perhaps he was the mad one, for he had put his life in their hands.

“Ow!” He bellowed when Dara poked at the wound near his temple.

“Your captain did not want this man to live long, did he? His wounds are making him crazed.”

Green eyes turned sullen. She dipped her chin to her chest. “I fear the captain is angered by my mother’s death.”

Jesse thought to tell her it had nothing to do with the queen’s death, but his vision began to blacken. Perspiration beaded on his chest. He shivered. His tongue grew heavy and cleaved to the roof of his mouth. He was parched, as if he’d spent weeks in the desert with no water. After a great struggle he swallowed, pulling his tongue from its mooring. “Thirsty.”

Olive oil, honey and figs bathed the inside of his mouth. Certain he would die if he continued to lay still, he tried to push up onto his elbows.

A gentle touch prodded him back to the soft mat of his bedding. “Do not move.”

“Thir—thirsty.” He swallowed hard against the raw scratchiness.

“Here.” She lifted his head and pressed a cup to his mouth.

He clamped his lips shut against the herbs lulling him out of his senses.

“It’s only water.”

He stared into her eyes, seeking deception.

“You can trust me. I will not allow harm to befall you this night.” Her soft whisper broke through the pounding in his head. He parted his lips. Cool water glided over his tongue and down his throat. With the same gentleness his mother had used when he was but a boy, she laid his head back down and brushed her fingers across his brow, smoothing back a lock of hair. Her soft eyes bored into his. His last thought as the light began to dim and his eyes once again slid closed was that maybe he could trust her enough to pay her court.

Chapter Four

“What is this?”

Abigail jumped to her feet and faced Captain Suph. She’d feared he would arrive but hoped he’d been too caught up in his wine to care about the prisoner for the night. Micah once again puffed out his chest as if to protect her from the captain who had always left her feeling as if she should disappear. His black eyes were cold and soulless. What had her mother found pleasing in him?

“Dara is healing his wounds.” Abigail stiffened her spine.

Suph pushed farther into the tent. He peered down at the sleeping prisoner and then at the bone needle between her fingers. “It looks as if you are tending his wounds, Abigail. It’s not fitting for a queen to demean herself as such.”

Abigail felt her eyes widen. “Until a few days ago nobody cared much about my activities as long as I remained in my chambers.”

He reached out and grabbed a handful of hair. His fingers clung to her tresses. “That was before your mother was murdered, leaving you heir to the throne. Your mother never would have lowered herself to a servant’s duties.”

How was Abigail to know this? She rarely saw her mother. If the servants hadn’t told her, Abigail never would have known who her mother was. The beautiful woman had rarely paid her any heed. “You are right, Suph. My mother would have been more likely to help you torture a man than help him.”

Suph swung his arm back. Abigail squeezed her eyes closed and hunched in on herself, waiting for the blow. After several long moments she opened her eyes. Micah, as small as he was, stood in front of Abigail with his arms crossed in front of him.

Suph curled his lip. “You are brave for one so young. It’s an admirable quality. However, I fear it will see you killed if you’re not careful.” He clouted Micah’s shoulder, knocking him to the ground. With nobody standing between them, Suph’s menacing eyes bored into hers.

The hammering in Abigail’s chest picked up the pace. Tears stung the back of her eyes. “I will ask you kindly to leave, Suph.”

The captain growled; grabbing hold of her neck, he pressed his wine-soaked breath close to her ear. “I’ll remind you, Abigail, your position as queen depends solely upon me. Without me, without my men, you are nothing. If this rebel regains his strength, he’ll kill you.” He pulled back. The lines at the corners of his eyes melded together as he clenched his jaw. “Do not doubt me in this, Abigail. He will kill you.”

“Captain, would you be liking a drink? From the royal coffers, I’m certain.”

Suph pulled his gaze from Abigail’s and glanced at Dara. He tore the goblet from the healer’s hand and gulped it down. Red liquid sloshed onto his beard and tunic.

“I forgive you for your lack of wisdom, Abigail, dear.” He handed the cup back to Dara. “Do not cross me again and never speak ill of your mother. Ever.”

Abigail stretched to her full height and looked down on Suph. “When I am queen—”

He grabbed hold of her arm, his fingers bruising her through her garments. “When you are queen, you’ll be my wife and you’ll learn to respect my wishes.” His fingers bit deeper. “Is that understood?”

Abigail couldn’t say a word. The smell of blood, Jesse’s blood, mixed with Suph’s drunkenness, which clung to his person, caused her stomach to churn and bile to rise.

Suph jerked her forward. “I demand an answer.”

Why had he obeyed the earlier commands she’d given him in front of his men, when he now demanded his own of her in private? Did he not trust his men would allow him to treat her poorly?

“Captain, the princess has had a grueling time of it. Having lost the last of her family, being cast from her home and raced through the desert. Ach, my old bones are crying out in agony. How our delicate princess must feel. She’ll be her more biddable self once she’s had some rest, I’m certain.”

Suph released her. His gaze bounced from Dara to Micah, and then to the prisoner before once again halting at Abigail. “Do not touch him. Do not attempt to heal him, or I’ll kill him and things will not go well with you, my dear.” He curled his lip and glanced at Micah. “Nor with you.”

Micah held Suph’s murderous gaze. Suph settled his hand on the hilt of his sword. His fingers clenched around the bound leather. Fear permeated Abigail’s core, causing her knees to quake. She stilled the temptation to shield Micah from Suph’s wrath. Doing so would only ensure Micah met a wicked end.

Perhaps worse than Jesse’s.

“Do not force my hand, Abigail. I will do what I must.” He dropped his hand to his side, turned on his heel and ducked between the tent flaps.

She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders sagging. “What am I going to do? I cannot bow to his demands. He’ll perceive it as weakness and use it against me.”

A warm hand touched Abigail’s forearm. She glanced down at the gnarled, papery hand and then into the warm, kind eyes of Dara. “We should go back to Jerusalem. The priest, Jehoiada, would offer you refuge.”

Abigail sucked in a sharp breath. “He had my family killed.”

Dara shrugged and then knelt beside the prisoner. “Only your mother, child.”

“What do you mean by such words?” Silence echoed against the fabric of the tent. Abigail paced, uncertain of what she should do.

“Dara is correct, Abigail.” Micah’s soft, childlike voice whispered in the tent. “The captain means you no good. He needs you to rule Jerusalem.”

Of course. Fool that she was, she somehow believed her position as queen would gain her respect. Even from the captain. She did not ask to be queen and had no desire to be as such. If only she could return to her chambers and be left alone... Her gaze dropped to Jesse’s sleeping form. He needed her help. No matter Suph’s threats, she would not allow him to die or to remain within reach of the captain’s cruel hands.

“Do you wonder why your mother did not marry him, child?”

The question knotted in Abigail’s chest, twisting and turning. “I was kept in a chamber, Dara. I have little knowledge of my mother’s activities.” She sighed and dropped to her bedding. “I fear I have little knowledge of the city I grew up in. Perhaps you’re right and I should rest. The morrow will look much brighter.”

Her words seemed hollow. As long as Suph controlled her and threatened the people within this tent, nothing would be bright.

“Child, there is no time for rest. You must decide to act now.”

Abigail jerked her head up. The skin between her eyebrows knitted together. “What is it you are suggesting?”

“She’s suggesting—” Jesse swallowed, his voice weak “—you choose your own fate, Abigail.”

She shuddered. “How am I to do that?”

“I will help you.” He pressed up on his elbows. Tremors raced through his body at the effort.

Abigail laughed. “You are half-dead, prisoner.”

He smirked. A dark eyebrow arched under his black curly hair.

“I will help,” Micah offered. “Suph’s reputation is fierce. Cruel. He’ll do as he says and kill us if we don’t obey.” The boy dropped his chin to his chest. “And most likely even if we do as he demands.”

She shook her head. “I do not see how we will make it out of the camp. Alive.”

Dara’s raspy chuckle filled the tent. “I can help with that, and there are others who would help. Of course, you may never be Queen of Judah. However, you would be free to live as you please.”

Abigail pressed her fingers to her forehead in an attempt to ease the beginning of a head pain. “I can’t. That child the priest insists is the rightful king—”

“He is the rightful king. The son of your brother Ahaziah, your nephew, Abigail.”

Butterflies danced along her skin. She’d wanted to know the truth but hadn’t expected this. Could she trust this man? “How is it you believe this?”

“I do not just believe it, Abigail. I know it. I knew your brother.” Dark shadows flickered in his eyes. “The child is his.”

* * *

He had no idea how this was going to work. An old lady, a child, a timid woman and himself. Abigail was right, he was barely alive, but if he did not convince her to leave, no doubt he would soon be dead. As would she.

“I do not know who or what to trust.” Abigail pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin there.

“I will not ask you to trust me. We are strangers. However, you should trust your captain’s words. He will not hesitate to kill Micah, nor you if he chooses.” His strength began to wane and he dropped against the pillows.

“How can you be certain of Suph’s character? How do you know he is not full of words?”

Her innocence reached somewhere deep inside. This was not only about his survival but hers, as well. After fighting the excruciating pain for so long he’d dozed off only to wake to an atmosphere so tense he wouldn’t have been able to cut it with his sword. Suph’s threatening manner had tempted Jesse to rise and dispatch the man. If he’d been able to he would have, too. But Jesse knew better than to interfere lest he meet his death then and there. If that had happened there would be no rescuing this lady and her young protector. He wouldn’t be able to keep Judah, his beloved country, safe.

Jesse shifted his gaze toward her. “Suph left many villages in desolation. He burned their crops, slaughtered their animals.” He paused, uncomfortable with his next words. He closed his eyes, recalling with clarity the devastation and the weeping mothers. “He cut down their children in the name of your mother, looking for a single child, your nephew, King Joash.”

“This cannot be true. My mother—”

“Ordered the atrocities.” He tore his gaze from hers. The horror etched on her face left him feeling like the worst kind of evil. Perhaps he shouldn’t have told her, but she’d asked for the truth, and that was one truth she needed to hear, even if it wasn’t the one she had meant.

“Ach, your mother was as cruel as any.” Dara hid her dislike behind a goblet.

“It is true,” Micah said. When Abigail glanced at him, he shuffled his feet. “I heard some of the soldiers speaking about it.”

Jesse found it odd that these people agreed with him. It was a mercy he was more than thankful for.

Abigail wrapped her arms around her waist and bent over. A soft keen echoed in the tent, intruding on the flickering firebrands. Piercing his heart. He wanted to reach out, take her in his arms and offer her comfort. However, it was not his place.

“If we are to sweep you away from the camp, child, we need to act now.”

Her rocking motion came to a sudden halt. She sat up straight as she swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “How is it even possible?”

The corners of Dara’s mouth slid upward. “You give the command. A little of this,” she held up a small earthen jar no bigger than the palm of her hand, “in their wine and the entire camp will sleep until midday.”

Abigail’s gaze settled on Jesse. “And what of him?”

Her question formed a knot in the pit of his stomach. Not that he thought she’d leave him behind. The care she and Dara had taken with his wounds told him they were both compassionate, even if he was their enemy. No, the fact that she thought things through, when he had a tendency to act first and think later, caused him a bit of shame.

“I’ve chamomile and my sons. They were not pleased to be forced from their home. They do not like Suph.”

Jesse did not like the way the tension left Abigail’s face, nor the way her eyes lightened at the mention of Dara’s sons. Had she affection for them? Not that it mattered. However, a part of him did envy whoever it was who caused such a reaction in her.

He glanced at the old woman and prayed her sons were able-bodied men and not frail. Given the size of their mother he doubted such mercy had found him. “You would be surprised what things a man can do when he has the will to live. I will have no more of your herbs, old woman.” He couldn’t risk having dulled senses.

Abigail considered him for a short time as she chewed on her bottom lip. Jesse smiled. The more time he spent in her presence the more beautiful she became. Not the magnificent beauty her mother had portrayed, but a beauty in her own right, with her high forehead and wide mouth. But what made her even more splendid was the gentleness of her soul. The pureness radiating from her.

Abigail glanced at Micah. The boy nodded and she seemed to sigh in relief. It was odd she took cues from the child. She looked back toward Jesse. “I do not trust you, Jesse. However, something tells me you will help me find the truth I seek.”

The truth of the one true God. He only hoped he could offer her counsel. He was not his brother Ari, a man well versed in God’s law. No, he was a warrior who spent much of his time praying, nothing more. She bowed her head. “It is obvious I am in danger if I stay here.”

“I can make you no promises, Abigail. I have vowed to protect Judah. At all costs. As long as you and your people do not stand in the way of that goal I will bring no harm upon your heads. However, one hint that you betray the greater good of Judah and King Joash, and I will have no constraint. In that your captain is correct.”

“You are loyal to your cause. I admire that strength. If only I knew what my cause was.” She tilted her chin. The glow from the firebrands illuminated the innocence in her eyes.

“I am loyal to the one true God, Abigail, and Judah belongs to Him. Not the false idols your mother worshipped. Not the one your people shame themselves before tonight.”

“Where would we go?”

Jesse twisted his lips. Where would they go? He couldn’t take her to Manna. He would not risk the people and their secrets there, not even to protect this woman, though she might be innocent of her mother’s crimes. He had no doubt Ari and Mira would welcome them, but he had no way of knowing if his brother and his love had returned safely to her father’s village, which left him only one choice.

“I will take you to Jerusalem to see Jehoiada, the high priest.”

Her lips parted as her eyes widened. She shook her head.

“Ach, our time is running short. What will it be, Abigail?”

“I do not know.”

“If you stay here, Suph will force a marriage upon you. He said as much. And if he succeeds in ousting King Joash he will raise himself up as King of Judah. You have seen his cruelty, Abigail. Are you willing to chance how he will treat you as his wife? How he will treat the people of Judah?”

The color in her cheeks drained, leaving her pale. She buried her face in her hands. She looked so small, no more than a child. The desire to protect her and those she cared for flowed in his blood. He glanced at Micah. The boy’s fierce protectiveness caused pride to swell in Jesse’s chest.

“What will it be, Abigail?”

Chapter Five

The turmoil of the past several days was enough to make her weep. How was she to decide which choice to make? One thing was for certain—Suph was a tormentor. One look at Jesse told her the truth of that. What kind of man tormented another man to near death, even if he was a prisoner?

And there was something about Jesse that urged her heart to trust him. What little she could see through his swollen lids beckoned her trust. Besides, if there was the slightest chance that this boy king was her nephew, she owed it to her brother to protect him, even if that meant coming face-to-face with the man responsible for murdering her family. She owed it to herself and to Judah to discover the truth.

She recalled little of her father other than his crazed rantings about a living God, a God her mother had called weak, else he would have rescued the royal family when Jehoiada had slaughtered them in their sleep. If what Jesse said was true and Joash was her brother’s son, why would her mother seek to kill him? Wouldn’t she want to embrace her only grandchild?

Ha, she had never embraced Abigail. She’d only loved Ahaziah. Her joy, and then he was murdered. Releasing the tension in her neck, Abigail exhaled. “I cannot leave Bilhah.”

“You trust the priestess?”

Abigail crossed her arms over her waist as she bit down on her lower lip and then nodded. “I trust her more than anyone.” She smiled at Micah. “Besides you, of course, my young friend.”

Micah bobbed his head. “I understand. She is your cousin.”

Jesse scrubbed his hand over his face and mumbled something unintelligible. “Your cousin? Another princess?”

“Yes. She was my father’s niece. My mother honored her by making her the priestess.”

He laughed, coughed and then moaned through battered lips. Her heart lurched at his discomfort. Pride kept her feet planted. Why would he laugh at such a thing?

“It is more likely she thought your cousin a threat and sought to remove her from the royal house by soiling her reputation.”

Heat climbed up her neck and to her ears. She rose to her feet, fists clenched at her sides. She glared down at him. “I should allow Suph to kill you for speaking such things about my mother. And my cousin. She is not soiled.”

Jesse held her gaze. He didn’t move a muscle for long moments. When he spoke it was clear to her he fought for control. “But you won’t. You desire the truth. You need me to meet that end. Without me you get nothing but a marriage to Suph. I’ve no doubt he’ll control your every move. That alone would be a slow death to a woman like you who is used to doing as she pleases.”

She sucked in a sharp breath. Doing as she pleases? Ha, as long as she was locked in her room where nobody could lay their eyes on her. Her lack of beauty had brought her mother much shame. “You know nothing.” She turned to Micah. “Find Bilhah, tell her to not drink the wine and to come to me as soon as the revelers begin to seek their beds.”

Micah’s eyes lit with excitement. An excitement Abigail wished she felt. “Dara, find your sons and do what you must. We will need donkeys. Gather a few days’ worth of supplies.”

“Donkeys will be no match to the captain’s horses,” Jesse said.

“Ach, I will see what can be done.” Dara pierced Abigail with one eye. “I cannot leave you here with him.”

Abigail raised her brow. “It’s not as if he can move much.”

“True, child.” She turned a hard glare on Jesse. “Don’t make me regret tending your wounds.”

“You have no need to fear me, old woman.”

“And, Dara, I’ll need a plain tunic. Two, one for Bilhah. We can’t wander the desert in these.” She gripped her intricately decorated tunic and held it out.

Dara’s gaze climbed from her feet to her head. “I’ll see what I can find.” She tossed one last glance at Jesse. “S’pose I’ll find something for him, as well.”

Abigail’s cheeks warmed. “Of course.”

She watched as Dara left.

“Abigail, it is not my wish to upset you. I should not have spoken harshly about your mother.”

She wrung her hands together and then sighed. “Rumors of her brutality were often whispered. However, I do not know what to believe. Was she kind and gentle? Or wicked as they say? Truth be told, I did not know my mother well. She rarely visited my chambers. Instead, I was cared for by my nurse, Shema.” Abigail wouldn’t tell him why, for the shame and disappointment in her mother’s eyes still haunted her. Nor did she mention that Shema had left her for the same reasons her mother didn’t visit. Abigail was an oddity, a curse from the gods.

“It remains. I should not have spoken about her thusly. I would ask your forgiveness.”

She shook her head. “What is this forgiveness?”

“It is where I apologize for my actions and you accept it, if you are willing.”

“Then there is no need. It is obvious my mother was not kind, but I believe she adored Bilhah and for good reason—she’s beautiful. More beautiful than my mother, even.” The corner of her lip inched upward, even as pain sliced in her chest. She looked at her toes peeking from beneath her tunic. “My mother loved beautiful things.”

“Then she must have loved you deeply.”

Her head snapped up as if she’d been slapped. She blinked, disbelieving what it was she’d heard. There was no sign that he mocked her or played her false. Only sincerity. He’d said the word beautiful in the fit of pain, but she hadn’t dared to believe he spoke of her. Abigail thought him harmless in his current condition, but given the way her knees wobbled at his compliment, she’d been wrong.

Thinking to take her mind from his words, she paced to the opening of the tent. She snaked her fingers between the slits and pulled back the fabric. The shadow of dancing bodies disappeared into the firelight. The music faded as Jesse’s words echoed in her head.

The words tumbling from him had caused air to knot in her throat and blood to beat faster in her veins. She glanced over her shoulder at the man who had no idea of the turmoil he’d caused between her heart and mind. His words pulled on her emotions, tempted her to trust him, even though he distinctly told her not to. She puffed out a sigh. As much as she wanted to believe his words, believe that she was beautiful, too, she knew he spoke lies, for she was not beautiful. Far from it.

How was she to discern when he did speak the truth? For she had no doubt he would kill her if she threatened Judah’s new king. Moreover, how could she put her life in the hands of a man who lied to her?

Because she needed to know the truth. Needed to know if this Hebrew God her mother hated, the one her father had spoken of during his madness, the one Shema had loved, was real. And she needed the truth concerning the death of her brothers and cousins.

Abigail had no choice but to save this man from Suph’s wrath and trust he wouldn’t kill her. And hope he did not wound her heart.

* * *

The way Abigail continued to worry her lip told Jesse a battle waged within her. She did not trust him, but he could also tell by her reaction to Suph that she loathed him. With good reason.

He adjusted his position and groaned. She spun around, the tent flaps closing behind her.

“Are you well?” Her cheeks reddened in the lamplight. “It is obvious you are not. Would you like some more water?”

“It is not tainted with poison?” He smiled, his lips smarting with the movement.

A soft lyrical tone danced into the air and skidded along his limbs as she laughed. “Of course.”

Her teasing turned his innards upside down and set a knot in his chest. He rubbed his fist against the uncomfortable ache. He’d often joked with his family. Not many outside their close-knit ties had understood his humor or dared to return his teasing. She was a rare gem to be held and cherished, much like the carbuncle he’d worn around his neck. “My throat is parched. I could use the sustenance.”

She glided toward the earthen jug and poured water into a goblet before kneeling beside him. He allowed her to help him to a sitting position as he sipped. After he emptied the contents, she lowered him back to the pillows and then rocked back on her heels. Her gaze roamed over his arms and chest. “I fear our journey will not be easy for you.”

He believed many of his wounds were superficial. The chamomile he’d drunk along with the honey slathered over his broken flesh had eased the pain and would bring swift healing. If it weren’t for his ribs poking his innards, he’d have no trouble moving. However, he was not about to inform Abigail, lest she change her mind. “I will manage. As I told you before, you’d be surprised at what a man can endure when he wishes to live.”

Her brow puckered, leaving a little crease above the arch of her nose. “Why is that?”

“I believe God gives man courage and strength.”

She shook her head. Her tresses waved down her back. “Why do you wish to live?”

“That is an easy question to answer.”

Her chin tilted at an angle, she leaned forward. “What is it?”

He smiled. “Someone must convince you of your beauty since it’s obvious you do not believe it yourself.”

Her lips parted and her eyes grew wide, and then she smiled. “You tease.” She tapped him on the shoulder.

“Ouch!” he bellowed at the unexpected jab.

“Oh, oh, I am sorry.” She leaned over. Her hair fell over her shoulder, brushing his skin. She gingerly pressed the tips of her fingers to his wound. He could not feel the tender probe for he was distracted by the way her hair cloaked him. The way cinnamon bathed his cheek as she breathed. Dare he wish for a kiss to his forehead as his mother had done? A kiss to the cheek? “It does not bleed.”

He swallowed the stone in his throat. It tumbled to the pit of his stomach, like hard bread.

She pulled back, her soft green eyes peering into his. “Will you...how did you say it, forgive me?”

As he breathed air into his nose, his chest expanded, causing all the minor cuts Suph had inflicted onto his body to split apart. There was something about this woman, the daughter of one of his greatest enemies, the daughter of the woman he’d killed only days ago, that drew him. He trod on dangerous ground, and if he knew what was good for him, he’d leave her to Suph and walk away from this camp of his own accord. Without the help of this shy yet courageous teasing woman.

He raked a palm over his face and felt the swelling and bruising. He must look a beast, he knew, but in his heart he could never act one. He’d killed her mother for the good of Judah. It was a just cause, but he could not, would not, leave Abigail to the hands of Suph’s evil, for Jesse knew the wounds he sported were no more than child’s play. If this woman did not do as Suph wished, he’d no doubt leave her scarred much worse.

“After the care you and Dara have given me, how could I not forgive you?”

The soft glow of the firebrands bathed the smoothness of her skin. Slices of light reflected in her eyes. “My thanks.”

He reached for her hand, the hitch in her breathing tumbling in his gut. “I should be the one thanking you.”

“Ach, I knew I should not leave you two alone.” Dara bustled between the flaps, a linen bag hung down her side. “Your people are dropping off to their sleep. Soon my boys will gather the horses and we’ll be on our way.” She dug into the linen bag, pulled something out and thrust it at Abigail. “It’s the best I could find. There aren’t many women as tall as you are.”

Twin roses painted Abigail’s cheeks. Did her height embarrass her? It shouldn’t. Jesse found it appealing, especially since he wouldn’t have to hunch over too far to press his lips to hers. Aye, where had that thought come from? The old woman’s herbs must have dulled more than his pain.

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

“I’ll cover his eyes while you change.”

Abigail’s gaze darted to him; her cheeks brightened further.

“You’ve no choice unless you decide to stay.”

Abigail nodded. Dara dropped to her knees beside Jesse and draped a cloth over his eyes. Her gnarled fingers poked a cut. Jesse gritted his teeth. “The honey works. I’ll be binding the rest of your wounds now.” He felt her move closer, and the smell of decaying teeth permeated his air. “Do not think to peek at the princess, or I’ll leave you to rot.”

“You’ve my word, old woman.” Jesse waited in anticipation as Abigail’s soft movements filled the tent enclosure. He tried to tell himself that it had more to do with their need for haste; however, he knew otherwise. He wondered if her green eyes would dominate her face once her hair was veiled, making them even more luminous. Aye, he could not fathom such a thought. The woman already lured him to think upon things like marriage and children with her innocent glances. He was so distracted by his thoughts he barely noticed the old woman hovering over him, binding his wounds. If this was how his thoughts turned with only a short time spent in her presence, how was he going to endure their travels to Jerusalem without becoming completely enamored with the princess?

Chapter Six

Abigail dropped the tunic over her head. The scent of sandalwood cloaked her. Embarrassment stained her cheeks at the awkward intimacy of wearing a man’s garment, but it was quickly replaced by curiosity and delight. She hadn’t looked forward to her skin being chafed by a rough-spun garment, especially traveling in the desert, but this... She raised her arms, the fabric falling to her ankles, and then wrapped her arms around her waist. The linen, a finer weave than that of the tunic she’d just discarded, was like being cloaked in fleece. She dropped her gaze to the hem pooled at her feet. Where had Dara found such a garment?

“What is this?” She held up a worn leather strap.

Dara looked over her shoulder. “A belt.”

“Oh.” Abigail inspected the wide material. A tanner had taken great care to pound out the designs. “What do these symbols mean, Dara?”

“Ach, how should I know? They belong to your prisoner.”

Abigail’s fingers trembled. The belt slipped to the ground. She bent and picked it up. She stood over the man whose belongings she now wore and removed the cloth over his eyes. “Jesse, what do these symbols mean?”

“Do you not know your father’s language?”

She glanced at the belt. Her fingers traced the indentations. Some of the symbols looked familiar, but nothing she would have learned from her father.

Rather Shema. Abigail tried to recall the time she’d spent with her nurse. The woman had always smiled at Abigail whenever she entered her chambers. Had always embraced her. Those were the things she remembered most. Perhaps because Shema had made Abigail feel loved.

An image of Shema drawing her fingers through a box of sand forced its way into her thoughts. “See this one here, Abigail. It is Ya.” It was no more than a curl of Shema’s finger, much smaller than the other characters, much like the one carved into the leather. Abigail could not remember what it meant but knew Shema had thought it important.

“This one, what does it mean?” She pointed to the indented symbols as she held it before Jesse’s face.

“Yahweh.”

Dara clapped her hand over her mouth and began muttering beneath her breath. The adoration in Jesse’s voice as the word rolled off his tongue left a hunger in Abigail’s stomach, a pang in her heart and a thirst for something she did not understand.

“But what does it mean?”

The healer turned a dark eye on her as she held a shaky hand toward Jesse. “It is well we rid our camp of him before Suph gets his hands on him again. We’ll all perish of fire and brimstone if he dies. No more questions, child. Some things are best left unspoken.” She turned to Jesse. “And you, you should not encourage her. Her life is precarious as it is.”

“I want to know, Dara.” She glanced at the belt in her hand before turning pleading eyes to Jesse. “I need to know.”

His gaze danced between her and the healer. His lips parted as if he were about to say something, but they were interrupted as Bilhah ducked into the tent.

Abigail turned toward her. “Are all asleep?”

Bilhah nodded. “Those that linger are too drunk to have their wits. Let’s hope Suph will not chase after us for some time.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief. Her cousin had never liked the captain. “Grab your things.”

“What of my uncle Elam?”

“He is drunk.” Bilhah picked up a bag and draped it over her shoulder.

“Here.” Dara thrust a plain tunic at her. “You must change.”

“Of course.”

Once again, the healer covered Jesse’s eyes. Abigail wrapped the belt around her waist and clipped it closed. She slipped the wooden box with Jesse’s gem nestled inside into a bag. It was all she needed, nothing more. Bilhah tugged the veil from Abigail’s head and wrapped her hair into a knot. She then tied a plain linen cloth around her head much like Dara’s. A piece braided over the top of her head and tucked in the back.

“Come, Abigail. Micah is waiting.” Bilhah parted the tent.

Shaking her head, Abigail rooted her feet. “Not without him.”

Bilhah dropped her hands to her sides. “We cannot take him with us. He’ll slow us down.”

“He has given his word to help me.”

Bilhah assessed Jesse. “He cannot even lift his head from the pillows, how is he to help?”

“He’ll guide us and he’ll tell me the truth.”

Bilhah’s eyes widened. “I will tell you what you want to know, but we must go. Now.”

“Not without him,” she repeated.

Bilhah paced to her and grabbed hold of her hand. “Why is he important to you, Abigail?”

Abigail’s lashes brushed against her cheeks. How could she explain to Bilhah, a woman who’d served her mother’s false gods all this time, that this man could tell her the truth not only about her family, but about his God? She pressed her fingers against the indentations on the belt and bit down on her lip. She opened her eyes and looked at her cousin. They’d shared the same nurse. Perhaps Bilhah would remember Shema’s words, as well. “Because he knows,” she whispered as she eyed Dara.

“Knows what?”

“Yahweh.”

Dara began another fit of muttering. Bilhah looked as if she did not believe her. She glanced at Jesse. Abigail willed her cousin to believe. To hope in the stories told them by a beloved nurse as she had tucked them into bed.

Bilhah shook her head. “The people believe this God of his is dead.”

“It is not so.” Jesse’s voice cut through the silence.

“You are nothing but a rebel, willing to sacrifice Abigail’s life to meet your end.” She looked at Abigail and squeezed her hands. “When the temple guards stormed the palace, there was a moment when I thought...” Her gaze darted to Jesse. “I thought He might live, that his God might rescue us, but here we are cast from our home and at the mercy of a madman if we do not leave now.”

“Bilhah, you said earlier this God would show no mercy.”

Her cousin gave her another reassuring squeeze. “You are correct. I did say such things, but now I have to wonder...”

“In time, you will see God has never left Judah.” Jesse eased off the pillows.

“I cannot risk Abigail’s life. If Suph discovers what we’ve done this night, he will kill her.” Bilhah wrapped her arm around Abigail’s shoulders.

“Ach, he’ll kill all of us, no doubt.”

Her cousin leaned away from her and peered into her eyes. “It is why we must leave now.”

“Bilhah, I will not leave him.”

Her cousin sucked in a breath. “He cannot even stand on his own. How is he supposed to travel across the rough terrain?”

“The old woman is quite the healer,” Jesse said as he rose to his full height.

“You—you are well?” Abigail trembled. She wrapped her arms around her waist. The musky scent of sandalwood cloaked her. She felt protected in his tunic.

Hard lines formed on his brow and near the corners of his eyes. He swayed and she reached out to steady him but he waved her off.

“I am well enough to leave this place.”

Bilhah nodded. “Fine, we will take him. However, if he falls he stays where he lands. We will not stop.”

Sweat beaded on his face and he swayed once again. “I would not expect you to.”

Abigail knew better than to argue, but if he fell, she’d stay with him, no matter what Bilhah thought.

* * *

Jesse sucked in a breath and girded his loins. He pressed his palm against the stabbing in his side. It took all his strength to stand, even more to speak without slurring his words. The pounding in his head roared with a vengeance and the pain in his ribs felt as if he were being severed in two. He was beginning to think the old woman’s herbs hadn’t dulled his senses and perhaps he’d been knocked in the head too hard.

“Ach, are you able to walk?”

Clenching his jaw, he nodded. The old woman must have seen the way he gripped his side for she dug into her bag and pulled several long strips of linen from its depths.

“Bilhah, hold on to him while I wrap this around his ribs.”

“We do not have time.”

The old woman’s beady eyes pierced the shrine priestess. “He’ll move quicker if I bind the breaks.”

“Very well, be quick.” Bilhah wrapped his arm around her shoulder to steady him.

“You were more charitable earlier.”

Bilhah glanced at Abigail and then glared at him. “That was before I discovered you would have us killed.”

“He cannot help his wounds. It is not Jesse’s fault Suph captured him.” Abigail twisted her hands together.

Jesse growled. It was his fault. He should have been alert to his surroundings and taken heed of the warnings that there was a faithful remnant to the deceased queen who would seek to harm King Joash and remove him from the throne. Jesse shouldn’t have stopped for rest and fallen asleep before returning to Jerusalem. However, Jesse had not been wise to the threat. In his arrogance he believed all of Judah celebrated the new king and the removal of all idol worship. How wrong he had been. As each of his wounds testified.

“That does not mean we have to save him, Abigail. You always were one to rescue the weak.”

Her taunt wounded his pride. He puffed out his chest and quickly deflated it when his ribs sliced at his innards.

“Hold still, boy,” Dara said as she began wrapping the linen. “Suck in your air and hold it.” She pulled the linen tight. After wrapping three layers and tying the ends, she held out a tunic to Bilhah. “Can you—”

“I’ll do it.” He grabbed the tunic from Dara’s hands. “If I cannot dress myself, I might as well wait for your captain to sleep off his stupor and kill me.”

He gathered the ends of the tunic to the neck and dipped his head, thankful Suph had not crushed his hands. He slipped the tunic over his head. Dara handed him a braided belt, which he tied around his waist with great effort. Every movement caused him discomfort, but the bindings around his ribs seemed to sturdy his midsection and lessen the pain. At least now he could breathe without too much difficulty.

Bilhah stuck her head out the tent flaps and then waved them forward. Abigail, seemingly anxious and excited, if the curve of her lips was any indication, rushed out behind her. Dara held the opening of the tent back and motioned for Jesse to exit. He ducked, the movement causing him to lean a little too far forward. Digging his feet into the ground, he rocked back to steady himself. Dara’s aged palm flattened against his back. “Do not crush me, boy.”

He smiled. “I will try not to.”

They skirted along the edge of the tent and made their way out of the silent camp. The large crackling fire cast their shadows before them as if to lead their way. A horse whinnied, another snorted as they proceeded through the maze of tents with as much silence as possible. Warmth rushed into his cheeks; if they got caught escaping he knew it would be his fault, considering his gait was unsteady. How was he to protect this queen’s daughter, a shrine priestess and an old woman?

Sweat beaded on his forehead and he raised the back of his hand to wipe it away. Soon they’d take on Micah and Dara’s two boys. If God had any mercy, they’d be of some help. However, he had a feeling the boys were no older than Micah.

After what seemed like half an hour’s time but was mayhap only ten laborious minutes, Jesse spotted a lone tree. Shadows began to separate from the trunk, appearing now as if there were three trees. Jesse swiped at the sweat pouring into his eyes and tried to focus on the images. One tree, not three. He gritted his teeth. His brothers had given him beatings during training when he was a boy and he’d received many wounds in battle, but he’d never been sliced open so many times at once. The wounds must be taking their toll if he was imagining things.

His muscles began to shake more viciously with each step. His legs reminded him of honey outside an earthen jug, with no real substance to hold its shape. He was about to give up and lie down on the rocky desert when an odd noise pierced through the thundering ache in his head. He narrowed his eyes into the dark and fought for focus.

Bilhah and Abigail halted their steps. Dara ran into his back. He clapped his hand over her mouth before she could “ach” him and waited. Another low-pitched chatter skirted down his spine. The mimicked sound of a bird did not belong to an animal, but a human. He grabbed for his sword and met his hip before recalling Suph had taken his weapons when he’d captured him.

Biting back his foolishness for once again letting down his guard, he pulled Abigail and Bilhah behind him. It was one thing to be captured while in the presence of his traitorous uncle, quite another with harmless women. He motioned for them to crouch low and was surprised to find even Dara do his bidding. Two behemoth-sized apparitions separated from that tree. Swordlike shadows rose from their sides as they crept toward where Jesse and the women crouched. God, I need Your help.

Jesse moved forward. His gaze focused on the armed men. “Who goes there?” He mustered the strength to keep his voice steady. Blood pumped hard in his chest as he waited for their answer. How was he to take on two armed men in his condition?

“Nathan and Jonathan.”

“Ach.” Dara’s whisper rippled through the tension. She rose and tried to rush past Jesse.

Jesse grabbed her arm. “Do you wish to meet your Maker?”

She swatted at his hand. “From my own sons? I think not.”

Abigail’s quiet laugh caused him to relax as she and Bilhah skipped behind Dara. He tried to keep his eyes on Abigail’s proud shoulders, on the veil swaying across her back, but his vision darkened. A tremor raced over his muscles and his legs quaked.

“The horses are beyond the rise. We did not think it wise to keep them within sight of the camp,” one of Dara’s boys said.

The display of wisdom by Dara’s boys released some of the tension from his shoulders. Jesse breathed out a sigh of relief that Abigail seemed to be in capable hands. If only they knew how to get her out of the captain’s reach, then he could give in to the nothingness beckoning him from the grave.

Jesse rocked back on his heels, his head snapping back. He looked up at the twilight sky and breathed deeply. He exhaled, closed his eyes and fell to the ground. Air stole from his lungs. His ribs jolted his innards at the impact. Rocks invaded the cuts and scrapes, pierced his flesh anew and jarred his already thundering head. “Lord, take me into Thy eternal sleep, if You will.”

“Are you well?”

He didn’t need a firebrand or the light of the moon to know Abigail leaned over him. He didn’t need the thundering in his head to halt in order to hear her voice. He could smell the scent of her, feel the way her jasmine scent made the air seem lighter. A peace cloaked him. A peace that came from her genuine concern, for no woman outside of his family had ever cared to ask if he was well.

He reached his hand up and ran his fingers along the curve of her jaw. She shivered beneath his touch, and he smiled. If he died this moment, he’d go a happy man. For what more could a man ask for than to be cared for by such a beautiful and kind woman? “I am.”

Chapter Seven

Abigail plopped down beside him and tucked his hand into hers. A warm sensation fluttered in her chest. “I am happy you are well.”

The corner of his lip curved upward and she wondered what he looked like beneath the swelling and bruises. If fate shined on her, he would not be handsome. Not at all. For why would a handsome man wish to court her even if she was a princess...or a queen.

“You cannot stay here, Abigail.”

“I will not leave you.”

His eyes slid shut and for a moment she thought he might be sleeping. If it weren’t for the warmth of his hand or the pulse in his palm, she’d weep.

“Abigail, listen to me. Go with Dara’s sons. They will take you to Jerusalem.”

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