The Crusader's Heart

by Claire Delacroix

  Ysmaine herself was a beauty. She was at least five years younger than Christina, though said to have been widowed twice before wedding Gaston. Doubtless her beauty had driven that situation. She was petite and finely wrought, such a perfect contrast to Gaston that they might have been made for each other. Her manners were elegant and she was soft-spoken at the board, thanking her maid and deferring to her husband. There was something about her posture, though, that made Christina conclude that Ysmaine was not so fragile as she might appear.

  Indeed, that woman had survived a considerable challenge.

  Why had she taken the reliquary?

  Christina had a difficult time believing ill of someone who had spoken to her with kindness. It seemed a small thing, to be polite, but she knew it was more than could be expected from most. She was inclined to think well of Ysmaine.

  Once the boys had served the meal, they took their seats below the salt and ate with gusto. The fish stew was not so delicious that any other than the larger boys requested more. It was decent fare, but not the concoction of a skilled cook. The sauce could have had more spice, to Christina’s thinking, but the ingredients were fresh and that was no small thing. The bread was plentiful, and the wine was much more thin than that served to patrons at Costanzia’s abode. It was a more robust wine than what she had shared with the other women, though, and Christina sipped it with pleasure.

  A mediocre meal was a small price to pay for another night of freedom.

  But what about the morrow, when the party departed from Venice? Christina feared that Wulfe’s changed manner could only be an indication of her own prospects. He meant to leave her behind. It was only a matter of time before she was found by Costanzia and forced back to that house. She did not want to imagine the beating she would be given, or how much less desirable her life would become. She had heard fearsome tales of how the defiant were reminded of their place.

  She yearned to speak with Wulfe, but knew such a discussion must be held in private.

  Christina endeavored to engage the others in conversation at the board, which was no small feat. The mercenary Duncan and his knight Fergus were cordial enough, but Gaston’s wife spoke to her husband and her maid only. Gaston’s squire was similarly unresponsive and Joscelin had left to dine with friends. She had not anticipated that she would miss the merchant’s company but at least he spoke to her. The nobleman who so resembled Helmut did not so much as glance at her and she had yet to hear him called by name. He was the Count of Blanche Garde, which she gathered was a holding in Outremer.

  Was she wrong about his true identity?

  More importantly, where did Wulfe intend that she should sleep this night? With him, or not? Bartholomew was the first to rise from the board, and Christina watched as he filled two more bowls with stew. He nodded at Kerr as he picked up two crockery cups. That boy’s lips tightened before he fetched a goodly quantity of bread and a pitcher of wine. They went to the stables together, such a silence and a space between them that Christina sensed they were not friends.

  At least someone fed Laurent and Hamish.

  When Wulfe rose from the board, Christina remained in place. To her surprise, he went through the courtyard to the kitchens and she heard his voice as he spoke to the women there. She could not quite make out his words, but there was some debate.

  Did he settle the bill? Make arrangements for the morning? Christina could not imagine what errand he performed that could not be done by another.

  He returned moments later, his brow dark, and strode up the stairs to his chamber without another word. Simon and Stephen finished their meals quickly, Stephen eating a final piece of bread so quickly that Christina feared the boy would choke. They followed their knight with water for bathing and another pitcher of wine. She knotted her hands together in her lap, waiting until Wulfe was alone.

  As soon as she heard the boys in the corridor above, Christina excused herself and pursued Wulfe.

  She had to know the worst of it.

  * * *

  Puttana.

  Mona.

  Wulfe knew the first word and he could guess what that the second one also meant ‘whore’ but in a less flattering way. Truly, even if he had not understood any word the two women in the kitchen had uttered, their expressions had made their meaning clear.

  Not to mention the way the second had spit into the fireplace.

  There would be no labor for Christina in this house.

  Indeed, without his protection, she might have been chased into the streets this very day, for her occupation was clearly not in doubt. He recalled her conviction that she would be recognized and returned to Costanzia and understood only now how true that was.

  He retreated to his chamber, considering his course. He could not abandon Christina in Venice, but could he escort her all the way to Paris? He should be able to do so, treating her as a pilgrim, but he feared his own weakness. He could not risk any scandal linked to his name, especially now that the coin of the Temple was lost.

  He could not dismiss the thought that he had paid for her and should savor her.

  The woman was temptation itself.

  Was there some half measure that would see her saved but removed from his company sooner? Perhaps, once she left Venice, her past could be disguised and she could join a different company of travelers.

  But how? She had no coin to pay her way and he had none to grant her.

  So intently did he consider the issue that Wulfe barely spoke to the boys as they completed their duties. Stephen removed his belt and frowned that his scabbards were both empty. Wulfe ignored the boy’s reaction and was glad he had not carried his sword on this day. That was a loss he would have sorely regretted.

  Simon helped to remove his chain mail hauberk, then Stephen unlaced his aketon. Wulfe kept his features impassive, hiding any evidence of the aches he was beginning to feel. He declined further assistance, in case there were already visible bruises. He reminded the boys that they would likely depart in the morning, so they had best be prepared to ride out.

  Wulfe was not truly surprised when Stephen opened the portal to reveal Christina outside it. He knew this discussion was inevitable and reminded himself of his resolve even as it faltered. She was not just beautiful, but strong and vulnerable. The sight of her awakened a chivalry Wulfe had not known he possessed and made him yearn for what he had always known could not be his own.

  He was a Templar knight. A warrior and a monk. The order was his past, his present, and his future.

  The boys ducked past Christina as she studied him with obvious expectation.

  “They will not let you remain here to labor honestly in the kitchens,” he said by way of greeting. “I asked.”

  “I would not stay if they did,” she countered, stepping into the chamber as Stephen reached the summit of the stairs. She smiled at the boy, then closed the door and leaned back against it. Wulfe was certain he could smell her perfume.

  Though it might simply have been the scent of her skin. Either way, it sent fire through him. He averted his gaze, his mouth dry.

  He frowned. “Do you not wish to leave your trade?”

  “Of course, but I must leave Venice to do as much.” She gestured. “They will find me and drag me back, upon that you may rely, and there will be no second chance of escape.” She stifled a shudder and Wulfe could well understand her reaction.

  “You do not have to go back,” he said, without having intended to do as much.

  She fixed him with a look, curiosity bright in her eyes. “Have you changed your thinking?”

  Wulfe grimaced. “It was changed for me.”

  Christina watched him, waiting.

  He grimaced and admitted the worst of it. “I will have to tell Gaston that I was robbed this day.”

  “Nay!” She fairly flew across the chamber, her concern evident. Her hands danced over him, moving as quickly and lightly as butterflies. “Are you injured? Were you wounded? Was it the villain from last ni
ght? How could that fiend still target you…”

  “It was not the villain from last night.” Wulfe held her gaze deliberately.

  “But if you know who it is…” Christina fumed, then abruptly fell silent. The color left her cheeks, making her look fragile, and she took a step back. “Costanzia,” she whispered.

  “Not exactly. It was the guardian from the portal and two of his friends. The fourth kept a boat at the ready for their escape.” Wulfe sighed and went to the window, where he tapped his fingers on the sill. He was simmering, keenly aware of Christina’s presence and proximity. He reminded himself that he should be her defender, not her patron.

  “They relieved you of all your coin.” Christina was close behind him, for he could feel the heat of her presence.

  He closed his eyes and wished for strength. “I chose and I am not proud of it.” Wulfe closed his eyes when she gripped his arms and leaned her cheek against his back. He could turn around and have her in his arms. He could take one step and claim a kiss that would heat him for the entire night…

  “You were wise,” she whispered. “They have killed others without remorse.”

  “But I must lie about it as well.” He winced at the truth of that. “The coin was not mine. It was granted to me for expenses that would be incurred on the journey west. I should have defended it to my last.”

  “Then you would have been dead and they still would have had the coin,” she said with a pragmatism he appreciated.

  When he did not reply, Christina ran her hands over him in a gentle but thrilling caress. She knew her trade, to be sure. Wulfe kept his back to her and fought his yearning for more.

  “You judge yourself more harshly than any other soul would do, Wulfe,” she whispered. Her hand slid down his side and he stiffened slightly. “Did they injure you?”

  “A good beating, no more than that.” He tried to be brusque. “I fared well enough, given that they were three.”

  “And they struck only where the bruises would not show. Some tendencies are never forgotten.” Christina reached beneath his chemise before he could stop her, then her attentions were so welcome that he did not want her to stop. Her hands were so soft that he knew he would soon be seduced by such pleasure. He tried to step back when she pulled up his chemise, but Christina scolded him.

  “Do not fuss so,” she chided. “Simply stand still. I will not hurt you.”

  “That is not what I fear,” he murmured. Their gazes locked and held, even as his heart pounded with greater vigor. A sparkle lit in Christina’s eyes as she understood, and a flush touched her cheeks.

  “Have you bought me, Wulfe?” she asked in a playful tone. “How should I reward such valor?” Her hand slid downward and Wulfe caught his breath as she caressed him.

  “Nay, Christina. Do not do as much.” Wulfe stepped back again, denying them both the pleasure he wanted. “What does mona mean?”

  Her gaze became steely. “It is not polite.”

  “Tell me.”

  She stretched and whispered a word in his ear that he never thought to hear from a lady’s lips. It was a crude reference to a woman’s genitals, and Wulfe found himself shocked—not that the word existed, but that the women in the kitchen had used it so readily in reference to Christina.

  She smiled at his outrage and quickly kissed his cheek, as if aware that she had to steal such a touch. His cheek burned at the point, the imprint of her lips making him clench his fists. “I have heard worse,” she said lightly.

  “As have I, but not from women.”

  Christina shrugged, her manner turning practical. “We are the most harsh judges of each other. Let me see your injuries. Costanzia’s men are good at breaking ribs, and ribs should be tended sooner rather than later.”

  Wulfe found himself divested of his chemise, and Christina traced each rib in succession. Her touch was not seductive, yet he found himself enticed by her all the same. He liked that she was concerned for him. He liked that they could talk as if they were allied in this quest, though truly he had never spoken so openly to a woman before as he did with her.

  He looked down at her, his chest tight with the reality of what she had endured. She knew how these men gave beatings. How many times had she watched them? How many such beatings had she endured herself? He both wanted to know and could not bear to ask.

  The marvel was that, despite all Christina had seen and been compelled to do, there was an elegance about her. He could never have called her by either of those names. He found it hard to even call her by the more familiar ones. She had the manners of a noblewoman and he could not think of her otherwise.

  Christina was so close before him, her hair falling over her shoulder in a gleaming braid, that Wulfe could not keep himself from lifting one hand and resting it upon her shoulder. His fingers curved around her and he acknowledged a desire to protect her, though he could do little about it.

  What if he had been born to advantage? What if he had been a man with choices? Wulfe had never yearned for a different life before, but now he did with vehemence.

  Christina spared him a smile then checked his other side, her fingers sliding over his skin in a way that made him wish she would never stop.

  When she looked up at him, she was close enough to kiss. “You seem to be most resilient,” she said. “I cannot find a break, though you will be bruised to be sure.”

  “A mail hauberk has its advantages.”

  “I suppose so. Your bones may have cracks, though so you should take care.” Her gaze dropped to his lips and she smiled just a little, a secretive smile that made her eyes dance. “Perhaps it is just as well that you are so hale.”

  “How so?” Wulfe found his voice husky.

  Christina’s smile broadened as she turned, somehow ensuring that in one smooth gesture she was in his arms when she stood before him. There was but a finger’s span between them but he could feel her heat and smell her arousal. Naught could have fed his own desire more than that beguiling scent.

  She was the most alluring woman he had ever met.

  Christina touched her lips to his throat and Wulfe closed his eyes as his resolve melted. He was alive and he wanted to celebrate that fact. He wanted to celebrate his survival, and her freedom, with Christina.

  One kiss, Wulfe resolved. He would allow himself one kiss. Surely there could be no harm in that.

  “You will have need of your strength,” Christina whispered against his skin. “As I mean to reward you this night for your deed.”

  “What deed?” Wulfe murmured as her kisses burned a path toward his lips.

  “You bought me,” she replied, her breath making him shiver. Her hand slid down the length of him, then made quick work of the laces on his chausses. “And such an investment must be rewarded.”

  There it was: the unwelcome acknowledgment that this was a transaction, just like every other transaction she had made in this city. Wulfe found himself wanting far more.

  Indeed, Christina’s summary of the situation restored his lost resolve.

  Wulfe stepped back, putting distance between them, and forced his tone to be resolute. Officious, even. “There is no reward due. You are a pilgrim who will be escorted from this city, and I will perform my duty in this.” He expected her to be insulted that she was so rebuffed, but should have anticipated by now that Christina would surprise him anew.

  “Truly?” she demanded, her expression alight with pleasure. “You will allow me to remain in your party? You will escort me out of Venice?”

  Her excitement made her, if anything, more enticing than she had been when bent on seduction. Wulfe shook a finger at her, sensing that he would lose this battle. “I escort you as a pilgrim and naught else. There will be no relations between us, for I cannot risk the loss of my place in the order…”

  He managed to protest no more before Christina flung herself at him with a laugh of delight. “You truly are my champion!” she declared. “I knew it would be so!” Wulfe lost his balance
and they fell back together on the pallet, the lady atop him. He could not protest his state, not when her eyes shone with such delight.

  Not when she kissed him so soundly.

  Not when it was Christina herself who finally embraced him. She was astride him and framed his face in hands, but her eyes had been clear. There was a new hunger in her kiss, an enthusiasm for the deed that she had not shown the night before. He knew it was the true woman who would seduce him. She wore no courtesan’s mask, or performed an intimacy as she had been taught. Christina herself was with him.

  His resistance crumbled to naught even before her lips closed over his own.

  Then Wulfe was lost in her kiss.

  For this one night, he had no wish to be found.

  * * *

  Wulfe would help her!

  Christina wanted to ensure that the knight had no chance to regret his choice. There might be no other opportunity for intimacy after they left this house, so in this moment, on this night, she had to show her appreciation fully.

  She straddled him, holding him captive to the kiss she was determined to give. She framed his face in her hands and kissed him with sweet ardor, endeavoring to show the magnitude of her relief with her touch. Wulfe was aroused, but he was tense, his hands balled into fists at his sides. She knew he intended to resist her, but Christina would not accept that response. She slanted her mouth over his and slipped her tongue between his lips, threading her fingers through his hair.

  She knew the moment he surrendered to her. He shivered then sighed, his hands locking around her waist. His fingers fanned across her back and he pulled her closer. Then he rolled her to her back, his weight between her thighs, and kissed her with a potency that made her dizzy. She laughed when he lifted his head, glad to see his lips curved in a sensuous smile and his eyes dark with desire.

  “You are indeed hale,” she whispered, rubbing herself against his arousal.