The Princess and the Templar (3 page)

He returned to the princess and leaned down, pushing away the fine wisps of hair from her forehead. Touching her thus, he found himself lingering over the task, marveling at the soft and luminous quality of her skin. With the pad of his thumb, he traced one blue vein from her brow to her chin. With a thirst no wine could slake, he drank in the noble beauty of her face, thinking the Sinclair was a lucky man.

But then Raul’s glance fell upon the ragged wound he’d inflicted. The cut wasn’t deep, but like as not, it would leave a scar. He’d never meant to harm her. Would she forgive him? Did he have the right to expect her forgiveness?

And what would his lord say when he saw his intended bride? The thought of explaining the extraordinary events to the hotheaded earl gave Raul pause.

The princess moaned and tossed on the couch, breaking his guilty reverie. He leaned down again and sponged her face, soothing her with soft words and cool water. Though he tried to concentrate on comforting her, he couldn’t help but notice the perfect sculpting of her heart-shaped face. Or the feathery web of her red-gold eyelashes, lying long and thick against her alabaster cheeks. Or even more, the sweet curve of her full, pink lips.

His nether parts tightened painfully, and his cock stirred. Lust filled his veins, a hot coursing. A painful reminder of his very human nature, despite the Templar vow he’d taken. He forced himself to tear his gaze from her lush mouth and to step back a pace. He put the cloth aside and knotted his hands behind his back. He dug his nails into his palms, reminding himself he had no right to think of her that way. She was a princess, betrothed to his lord, and he was but a lowly knight, a lowly celibate Templar knight.

The solar door banged open. Clach hurried to his side, lugging the heavy satchel with his medicines. Behind his squire, the knight who had allowed him entrance to the castle stood in the doorway. Raul thanked his squire and ignored the knight.

But the knight didn’t leave. He crossed the room to stand beside the couch. “I’m called Malcolm O’Conner, and I’m her lady’s bailiff. What might be your name, Templar?”

Raul retrieved the healing salve from his satchel and carefully spread the poultice over her wound. Only when he was satisfied with its application did he straighten and wipe his hands on a clean cloth.

He bowed. “Raul de Porcelos. At your service.”

Malcolm returned the bow and pushed past Raul. Taking the princess’ limp hand, he kissed it. “Will you keep your vow? Will she live?”

“Yes, she will live. The wound isn’t serious.”

The hint of a smile lifted Malcolm’s mouth. “’Tis good, Sir Templar, for I wouldn’t want to have to kill you.” His gaze snagged Raul’s. “We voted that you and your men can stay.”

“What say you?”

“That we accept the Sinclair’s protection in the name of the princess.”

Malcolm’s unexpected capitulation surprised him. Might it be a trap? Or was the man telling the truth? “Why did she resist the earl’s protection?”

The young knight crossed to one of the long slits in the wall that served as a window. “Do you have a family, Sir Raul?”

“Of sorts. My father and uncle. I never knew my mother.”

Malcolm turned from the window and said, “The princess has buried—these two years past—her father and four brothers slaughtered by Anglo-Normans, sent by the English king.” He spat. “Like yourself, she never knew her mother. Milady’s alone in the world, and all she has is this.” He lifted his arm and made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the room and more. “She won’t give it up. Not after her family died fighting to hold this castle and lands.”

Raul understood loss and loneliness. But hearing the harsh tale from Malcolm, a man who cared for his lady, lent the story an added poignancy.

Malcolm fisted one hand in a gesture of defiance. Then his eyes darkened with confusion, and he let his hand fall. “I know why she does what she does, but we can’t fight on. She doesn’t want to accept it, but she will wed a powerful man who can protect her. She cannot stop the way of the world.”

“You believe this?”

“Aye, and so does her master-at-arms, Dwyer MacMalley. He wanted to welcome your party, but she forbade it. She had me take his place at her side.”

“There will be no further resistance?” Raul asked.

Malcolm strode to the couch and gazed at the fallen princess. A variety of emotions, like scudding clouds, crossed his features. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Nay, no more resistance. She must understand. Even so, she’ll think we’ve betrayed her.”

Raul put his hand on Malcolm's shoulder. “Perhaps not. Let me speak with her when she awakens.”

Malcolm snorted. “I’ve heard of Templar exploits. But I doubt you can persuade her.”

“Let me try.”

The knight tugged on his short beard. “Mayhap you can persuade her for you speak right good Gaelic, though your name proclaims you a Spaniard.”

“Yes, I’m Spanish born, but I’ve an ear for languages. I know nigh unto a score.”

Malcolm’s eyes widened. “A score? ’Tis a gift, that. And the healing arts, too.”

“Yes,” Raul agreed and then he hesitated, wanting to choose his words with care. “Sir Malcolm, I must ask a boon. I’ve two wounded men. Can you bring them to me?”

The young knight nodded slowly. “’Twill be done. Your wounded will be brought here, and I’ll send the servants with pallets.”

“And the other knights and squires. Where will they lodge?”

“In the castle with my men. We’ve room enough.”

Raul bowed again. “I appreciate your hospitality.”

Malcolm inclined his head and darted a glance at the princess. “I only hope my lady can find it in her heart to forgive me.”

****

The cool touch of water revived Cahira, lifting her from the depths of a dreamless sleep. She lay drifting with her eyes closed. When she tried to gather her wits, her thoughts were fuzzy, misshapen things, and her head pounded as if the castle’s smithy had misused it for an anvil.

What had happened? And where was she?

She thought to open her eyes but reconsidered. She’d met the enemy and done battle with a Knight Templar. His broadsword had tangled in her visor, and she’d experienced the sharp bite of its edge. After that, she remembered nothing.

What if she’d fallen into enemy hands? Better to feign sleep until she knew. Keeping her eyes closed, she called upon her other senses.

She recognized the splash of something being dipped into water and then the refreshing coolness of a wet cloth on her forehead. She concentrated on the sensation, noting her caretaker’s hand was rough and callused.

Her nose twitched when she sensed the unknown caretaker leaning closer. Not the smell of a woman, either, but of a man. Salty perspiration mixed with the metallic odor of chain mail and musk.

It was then that the truth struck her with the force of a winter squall, and she clenched her teeth to stop from crying out.

Her men would have taken her to the castle to be cared for by her servants. If a man tended her, it was obvious she’d fallen prisoner. But where were her knights? They’d outnumbered the Templar’s men three to one.

Her unknown caretaker crossed the room with a heavy tread. From a short distance, she heard the distinctive groans of a man and a whispered conversation. Who was that speaking? Where was she?

She had to know.

Her eyes flew open, and she glimpsed the familiar sight of beveled glass at the top of her solar. Surprise and fear commingled in her belly, spurring her heart to a fast gallop. Blinking at the bright sunlight, she turned her head to one side, her thoughts jangling like a jester’s bells. If she was in her own castle, then who was caring for her?

She glanced across the room and saw three pallets on the floor, two of which were occupied by men she’d never seen before. Kneeling beside one of the pallets was another stranger, wearing a red cross on his tunic.

Sweet Jesú! Her enemy!

The knight who had brought her down. Was he the one doing the tending? Where were her men? And why had they deserted her? Had that black-hearted Dwyer taken control of the castle while she lay senseless?

A strangled cry escaped her raw throat, and she lunged to her feet. Standing but swaying, she watched as the rounded walls of her solar danced a slow, sickening circle. She gritted her teeth and raised a hand to her throbbing temple. Her fingertips grazed the linen bandage encircling her head. Half-blind with pain, she managed one tottering step before falling into a pair of strong arms.

But they were
his
arms—the arms of her enemy. She stared into his eyes, eyes as black as Dwyer’s heart, eyes as black as the pitch she had poured on besiegers, eyes as black as the darkest recesses of Hades.

Shaking her head, she pushed against the wall of his chest, crying, “Malcolm! Malcolm!”

Where was her guard? She was as weak as a newborn lamb, and her enemy seized the advantage, pushing her down on the couch and murmuring low words meant to comfort her. She tried to twist away from his grasp, for she found no comfort in his arms, only pain and terror. And humiliation.

The solar door swung open, and Cahira glanced up, hopeful of rescue. But an unfamiliar dark-haired youth entered the room and said, “Aye, sir, I heard someone call.”

“Yes, Clach, go fetch Sir Malcolm for her lady,” the Templar commanded. The lad touched his forelock and scurried out.

He was bringing Malcolm? Then Malcolm must know. Why had her guard surrendered to the enemy? Had Dwyer poisoned her men’s reason? She collapsed on the couch, her head pounding and the bitter taste of betrayal coating her tongue.

****

Cahira allowed her maidservant, Mildread, to spoon broth into her mouth. Malcolm had come and gone, trying to explain away his defection while loudly proclaiming his loyalty. She’d listened without comment, sour bile filling her throat, almost choking her.

Malcolm had merely repeated what Dwyer had said before, claiming she needed a powerful husband to protect her. She’d wanted to fling the words at his face, reminding him that she didn’t need a protector because she’d been trained to fight alongside her brothers.

But when she gazed into his haunted eyes and saw the lines of exhaustion etched into his young face, she knew the real truth. Her men were past being exhausted, wearied to the bone from fighting and sieges.

By accepting protection from a powerful earl, their struggles would cease. To their way of thinking, she would wed and find her rightful place in the world. And she understood their ready acceptance of the Sinclair, too, for at least he was a Scot and not the murdering English.

What her people couldn’t know was she didn’t want a marriage alliance—didn’t wish to wed a stranger who didn’t care about her. But her men didn’t know how she felt or why. All that concerned them was staying alive and keeping their bellies full. And sweet Jesú, she couldn’t fault them for that.

Even if she understood her knights’ plight, her heart rebelled at their easy capitulation. And they didn’t bother to spare her their joy, either. Through the floor of the solar, she could hear the merrymaking in the great hall below, deep male voices raised in songs and loud jests. A roar of masculine laughter smote her ears, and she covered them with her hands.

Not that she begrudged them their frolic. They’d earned it, pushing back one wave of English after another. Alas, she might understand their motives, but the thought of her men romping with the enemy made her physically ill.

She lifted her hands from her ears and pushed aside the spoon. “Enough, Mildread. Thank you, you may go.”

Mildread gathered the remnants of the meal and curtsied. She pulled the heavy oak door shut, leaving Cahira alone with the two wounded men. Sharing a room with two strange knights, wounded or not, was another indignity. She should have complained to Malcolm, but she’d been too upset by his betrayal.

She wished her mind would clear so she could think. Her men may have given up, but she hadn’t. There must be something she could do, someone she could turn to.

Only her great-uncle, the King of Ulster, came to mind, though there was bad blood between their families. When Da had sent to his uncle for additional knights last year, her great-uncle had refused because he was parlaying with the English king, Edward I, the one called Longshanks.

The Anglo-Normans, over the past two centuries, had slowly encroached on the Isle of Ireland. They held fast Edinburgh, and many of the fiefdoms surrounding the capitol city. Other parts of Eire, swayed between capitulation, fighting, and paying tribute to the English king. Her great-uncle had proven to be a master at preserving his kingdom, despite increased incursions under Longshanks.

When her great-uncle refused Da help, relations between the two branches of the royal family were strained. The King of Ulster had sent his condolences when her father had been killed, but he’d not come personally to pay his respects. Only last month, Cahira had learned that her royal kin had paid tribute to the despised English king.

Despite her great-uncle’s questionable alliances, she still harbored hope he might come to her aid. Kinsale was one of the few ports of Eire that remained in Irish hands, giving it strategic importance. Her uncle’s Kingdom of Ulster was land-locked. An alliance between them would bring mutual benefit, even if she had to legitimize it by wedding one of his grandsons.

’Twouldn’t be a love match, but at least the man would be a relation, rather than some strange Scot. It was a desperate gamble, but her only chance.

The door creaked open, and the Templar stepped inside. She’d yet to speak to him, although she’d listened while he talked with Malcolm. His Gaelic was lightly accented yet intelligible.

Though he spoke well, she despised the sight of him. She loathed the way his inky eyes traveled over her and his forceful male smell when he stood close. His dark wavy hair fell over his forehead, giving him a youthful appeal she steeled herself against. Weren’t monks supposed to shave their heads? It was passing strange for a monk, even a warrior monk, not to wear a tonsure.

When she gazed at his graceful, muscular form, she felt her cheeks heat, and all sober reason deserted her. What evil spirit had invaded her reason? Not only was her brain addled, her body felt drawn taut as a longbow, tight and thrumming.