n like Simon is in love--" she said, and stopped. "You _do_
understand what I mean by love?" How did a man brought up in Egypt as a
slave to Turks feel about women? Saracens, she knew, kept their many
wives locked up most of the time.

Daoud shrugged. "I can only guess at what _you_ mean by love."

"A man like Simon shows his love by holding back his ardor. He does not
realize that I know this. I have let him think he is teaching me about
courtly love."

"And what did you learn by letting him woo you in this courtly way?" He
looked pleased. He was beginning to believe her.

"He tried to find out things from me. He is such an innocent. He had no
idea that I was telling him what you told me to tell him."

David sighed, stood up, and walked to the window. She could see the
tension in his back. How broad his shoulders were. Not huge, like those
of some knights, but graceful and powerful. His posture was not just
erect; it was perfect, straight yet flexible, like a blade of the finest
steel. She imagined him with his shirt off. The palms of her hands
tingled at the thought of stroking his shoulders.

"Did you not want to take him into your bed?" His voice was cold.

She thought back to her night with Simon. During those hours when she
had been Sophia Orfali, she had been disappointed when Simon insisted
that he would not touch her. But Sophia Orfali had to accept his
judgment.

Earlier, she had wanted to take Simon to bed as a kind of revenge on
David for letting Rachel be used by the Tartar. But last night she had
let Simon decide what they would do. When she was with Simon, she was
what Simon wanted her to be.

_Is that what I am, a woman who becomes whatever the man she is with
wishes?_

She expelled her breath in a short, sharp sigh.

"I wanted to do whatever was necessary. If it had been necessary to make
love to him, I would have done it."

She shut her eyes momentarily. Her head spun. Now, with David here, she
wanted David, not Simon. And she hated herself for wanting him, when he
saw her as no more than a useful object, as Manfred had.

_If only Alexis had lived. These loves I feel for men, for Manfred, for
Simon, for David. I cannot help myself, and it betrays me. It divides me
against myself. And they do not return my love._

And yet, she was sure David did care for her, perhaps even loved her,
though he would never admit it. Why else this jealous questioning?

_That might even have been why he ki