The Crusader's Heart

by Claire Delacroix

  “I would still have starved,” she replied, her lack of regret clear. “For I would have been cheated of its value and there would not have been sufficient coin to return home. Indeed, there would be no point in returning home without the ring.”

  “Because it was a token from your lord husband?”

  “Because it was my wedding ring.”

  There it was again, the evidence that she yet loved Gunther. Though Wulfe could offer Christina very little and knew he had no right to expect any sweet surrender from her, still the realization disappointed him. It was unfair. It was unreasonable. But it was honest all the same. He had hoped to win her heart.

  For she had claimed his fully.

  He sat there, stunned by his own realization, and knew he dared never tell her of it.

  Wulfe compelled himself to speak of more practical matters instead. “So, you would accuse a man of murder, but you have no evidence of his deed.”

  “You sound like Gunther,” she said, her tone dismissive. “I know he is wicked!”

  “That is not the same as being a murderer.”

  “I nigh saw him!”

  “But you did not see him,” Wulfe felt obliged to counter. “It could have been a thief.”

  Christina’s lips set. “I do not like him and my instincts are infallible.”

  “Christendom is replete with men I do not like,” he noted. “God forbid that they should all be murderers.”

  She laughed, surprised, then frowned at him. “You would mock me.”

  “I remind you of good sense,” he said gently. “Recall how your position has changed. Who will believe the word of a whore over that of a nobleman?”

  “But he is an imposter.”

  “Even if you were believed in some court, opinion could be swayed with coin, which neither of us possess but Everard holds in abundance.” Wulfe touched a fingertip to her chin, compelling her to meet his gaze. “Do not make this claim aloud until you have proof, I beg of you.”

  Her expression was mutinous. “If I find proof, will you aid me in ensuring that justice comes to him?”

  Here was the truth of Christina. She loved her husband still, and would avenge him. Although it was reasonable, Wulfe found himself wishing he could do more than aid her in that quest.

  If even he could assist in it.

  “Perhaps.” Wulfe shook his head at the flash of anger in her eyes. “It is not a question of my resolve. I merely doubt that evidence can be found after so many years.”

  “I will find it,” Christina vowed. “Upon that you can rely.”

  He nodded, liking her determination well, even if it was in the name of justice for her beloved spouse. He was too aware of her softness beside him and the allure of her scent, as well as the anticipation conjured that must be denied. “Do you not think it time that you found your pleasure?”

  Christina smiled. “Because you are tempted by proximity?” She did not wait for a reply, to his relief, but emitted a moan that nigh shook the floor. Her eyes were sparkling with delight at his astonishment.

  “Do not be surprised,” she advised in an undertone. “I have learned to feign this pleasure well, for such pretense is oft required.” Her lips twisted. “It is said to be good for the trade of the house.”

  Before he could reply, Christina arched her back and moaned again. “Wulfe!” she cried, her voice rising high. Indeed, she ended his name with a gasp that prompted a reaction within him. She parted her lips and closed her eyes, running her tongue over her lips.

  Wulfe had to move away, the better to ensure that he was not tempted to partake of the feast before him. Christina’s chemise was unlaced and he could see the ripe curve of her breast as she panted with evident pleasure.

  “Wulfe!” she gasped. “By Saint Margaret! By Saint Ursula!” She began to pound her fist upon the floor, her voice rising higher and higher. Wulfe could not tear his gaze from the vision she created. His body responded with predictable enthusiasm, though he knew she was not his to claim.

  “By Saint Christopher and Saint Rupert!” Her fist hit the floor with increasing speed, matching precisely the tempo he would have taken had they been locked in an intimate embrace. “By the archangel Michael,” she moaned. “And all the heavenly chorus. Wulfe! I beg you for release! Wulfe!” She screamed then, fairly shaking the house to its foundations, her fist striking the floor rapidly as she seemingly found her satisfaction with an endless moan.

  Then she opened her eyes and smiled at him, mischief dancing in her gaze. “Oh Wulfe,” she purred and he had to put distance between them. He stood and stared at the wall, some steps away, endeavoring to control his desire.

  She loved her husband yet. That should be sufficient realization to cool his ardor and remind him of his duty to defend orphans and widows.

  The weight of Christina’s hand landed upon his back. “You are welcome to claim what you have bought,” she murmured, but her words only drove home the realization that to do so would be wrong.

  Wulfe knew he had to adhere to the rules of the order to ensure his own future.

  Christina was not his to touch.

  He strode to the table and quaffed a cup of wine, fighting to still his reaction, and refused to look upon her. He claimed the pitcher of wine, unable to forget Christina’s feigned pleasure. That did little to discourage his own arousal. He had never seen the like and truly, he wished to witness it again.

  Nay, he wished to participate and make it genuine.

  Wulfe scowled at his own folly and leaned out the window. “Duncan! Might you favor me with that key?”

  The older man bowed. “It would be my pleasure, lad. Of course, you have had your pleasure already.” He chuckled at his own jest, but retrieved the key.

  Duncan cast it to Wulfe without further comment—though Wulfe suspected that happy state would not last, given Duncan’s grin—and Wulfe snatched it out of the air. He made for the door, knowing that he would only loose Christina’s hold over his thoughts when he was away from her. He was certain the lady could not surprise him more, but was to learn his mistake.

  He had unlocked the portal and had his hand upon the latch when Christina spoke.

  Her voice was lazy and soft enough to send fire through him anew.

  But it was her words that startled him into spinning to face her.

  “How many of you know that the squire Laurent is, in truth, a girl?”

  * * *

  Wulfe’s shock might have been more satisfactory if Christina truly had been pleased by his touch. As it was, she felt cheated and more than a little irked. She had hoped to tempt him to possess her one last time, but he had held fast to his principles.

  And she, curse her nature, had sufficient principles of her own to refuse to test him further.

  What cursedly poor fortune it was to finally find a man whom she might love with all her heart, only to discover that he had no right to claim a bride?

  Wulfe stared at her in dismay, slowly closing the door. “You jest,” he said, but she knew he did not believe it.

  Christina shook her head. “She might even be a Saracen.”

  He blinked at that, his astonishment clear.

  She liked that he did not ask again, that he evidently believed her. She could not be glad that he was so shaken by this revelation. He, she was certain, had not known.

  “They said he oft helped in the stables at the Temple,” he said quietly. “I guessed there was some Saracen blood in his veins, but thought him a bastard, perhaps an orphan.”

  “Another for your collection?” she teased and moved to stand beside him. Wulfe appeared to be puzzled. “Stephen told me of his parents, and of Simon’s history.”

  “Simon is not an orphan.”

  “He might as well be. An oblate has no known kin.” She brushed a speck from his tabard. “And you are without kin, as I am without a spouse or defender in this city.” She smiled at him. “I like that you protect widows and orphans, Wulfe.”

  H
er words seemed to discomfit him and he stepped away from her. “But Laurent? Truly?”

  “Are you shocked to learn his gender?” Christina leaned closer. “Or to discover that the treasure has been entrusted to a girl?”

  If Wulfe had been shocked before, now he was doubly so. His eyes rounded in horror. “Do not speak thus aloud!” he said, his words forceful for all that they were almost mouthed.

  “You knew!” she charged in a hot whisper.

  “You knew!” he retorted in kind.

  Christina laughed. She spared a glance to the window and moaned his name anew, panting a little as her eyes sparkled. “Why?” she mouthed and Wulfe shook his head.

  “I was not told.” His lips tightened and he spared a glance toward the window, though Christina suspected his thoughts were of Laurent and his saddlebag. “If you guessed, who else did so?”

  “The one who has taken it into protective care.”

  He eyed her warily. “It is there no longer?”

  Christina shook her head. “I witnessed the transfer.”

  He nodded, his eyes glittering as he considered this. “And you know its location?”

  She nodded.

  “And are convinced of its safety?”

  Christina nodded again.

  “Is there any deed I can do to defend it?”

  “Not so long as we are in this house, I think. Its defender is most vigilant.”

  He eyed her, his gaze clear. “Yet you will not tell me who it is?” There was no question in his tone.

  Christina put her hands on his shoulders, her heart leaping as she stepped closer to him. She touched her lips to his throat and felt him swallow. “Every woman has her price, Wulfe,” she whispered.

  “And every man has his limit,” he muttered to her surprise. Christina found her nape caught in one strong hand. She was drawn to her toes and had but a glimpse of the purpose lighting Wulfe’s eyes before his lips closed over hers.

  It was a demanding kiss and satisfying for all of that. Christina pulled him closer, opening her mouth to him, ensuring that he knew she wanted all he had to give and more. The kiss heated her blood to boiling, the grip of his hands upon her making her feel claimed in truth. He backed her into the wall and feasted upon her lips, fairly devouring her as he let his passion loose.

  Christina was both thrilled and awed. She met him touch for touch, savoring his possessive kiss.

  It ended all too soon. Wulfe released her and took a step back, his eyes flashing as he surveyed her. “And they say that all the sirens are in the sea,” he whispered, before he pivoted, set the key upon the small table, and left the chamber.

  Christina remained as she was, catching her breath and waiting for her pulse to slow. She heard Wulfe descend the stairs and heard Duncan call a teasing greeting. A horse neighed and she knew he was in the stables, but still she simmered for his touch.

  And Wulfe, she could tell, was not as immune to her as he would have preferred her to believe.

  Christina closed her eyes and dared to pray for the one solution that would make her every dream come true.

  Saturday, July 25, 1187

  Feast Day of Saint Christopher and the apostle, Saint James the Great

  Chapter Twelve

  Laurent, a girl?

  Once Christina had drawn his attention to the matter, Wulfe could not believe he had not realized as much himself. The supposed boy was so small and delicately wrought. The truth seemed so obvious, at least in hindsight.

  Wulfe sat sleepless in Teufel’s stall that night, his thoughts spinning and his flesh aflame. He yearned for what he had not shared with Christina and consoled himself with an attempt to solve several riddles.

  It was a poor substitute for the pleasure the lady could offer, but he meant to redeem himself before reaching Paris.

  Laurent slept, as always, draped over that saddlebag. At some point, it had held the treasure, though Christina insisted the treasure had been moved to safer custody. Was Laurent’s gender the reason why?

  How could Wulfe not have noted the truth sooner? He supposed his assumption had been based upon the endorsement of the other knights in the party, those from the Jerusalem Temple.

  Did Gaston know Laurent’s secret?

  How much of a secret was it?

  Why had neither alerted the Temple to the presence of a young girl in the stables? It seemed he was not the sole one inclined to bend the rule, when it so suited him.

  But why had the treasure been entrusted to a young girl? She could not have the strength to defend it. Wulfe supposed that her very appearance led to the conclusion that she could be trusted with naught of value. It was a risky ploy, if the one who had given her the prize knew the truth.

  Did Fergus know? Wulfe had to believe that it had been that man’s decision to allocate his baggage as he had. Though Fergus had been entrusted with the treasure, it must have been his choice to entrust it to the girl.

  Events did seem to make that allocation appear wise. The oldest of Fergus’ squires, Kerr, was not a soul in whom Wulfe would have entrusted the care of any secret. Truly, he would not have even granted the boy the responsibility for brushing his steed. Kerr was of that ilk who gathered tidings of others and did as much so overtly that none would trust him a whit.

  And Hamish, the younger boy, well, he was not the keenest of wit. He was not a bad boy, but he was clumsy. He might well have dropped the treasure, and if it was fragile at all, seen it ruined before it reached its destination.

  Perhaps the girl had been the best choice.

  What of Duncan and Bartholomew? Was Wulfe the sole one who did not know that Laurent was a girl?

  Wulfe rolled over, endeavoring to sleep. If Kerr gathered secrets, perhaps that boy had discovered some detail that could identify the villain. Wulfe resolved to ask Stephen about the other boy. Then he tossed and turned, unable to sleep for he could not forget the sweet heat of Christina’s kiss.

  How would he deny his desire for her, all the way to the Saint Bernard pass?

  * * *

  It was dawn when Wulfe had the idea.

  All night he had burned with desire denied. All night he had been tormented by the conviction that Christina had loved her husband, Gunther. Why else would she have kept the ring he had put on her finger, even at considerably discomfort to herself? Nay, it was a sentimental choice, and one that said much of the lady’s affections.

  There was little point in wishing that his own prospects were different, and that he might have more to offer Christina, if her heart was claimed by another. It was for the best that they would part at the Saint Bernard pass, likely to never see each other again.

  Wulfe told himself this repeatedly but could not believe it. The fact was that he would have liked to have had Christina in his life in some capacity, even if he could not be with her in that most intimate way. He would like to see her husband avenged, to give her peace, even if the deed did not win her affection for himself.

  He loved her, and her happiness was of greatest import. Perhaps it was best that she loved Gunther still, for she would not feel their parting as keenly as he did. She would not pine for him, as Wulfe knew he would always yearn for her.

  It was dawn when he realized that he might be able to ensure that the lady at least recalled him with fondness. Soon, they would leave this city, and he doubted that Christina would ever return here. Venice had to be a city of bad memories for her.

  But he might be able to contribute a good one.

  Wulfe dressed in haste, rousing Stephen to accompany him on this errand. They slipped into the quiet streets and Wulfe set a brisk pace.

  “Do we fetch a present for Christina?” Stephen asked.

  Wulfe spared the boy a glance. “Why would you ask as much?”

  “Because I think you like her.”

  “Do you?”

  “You never brought another woman home with us,” Stephen continued, despite Wulfe’s discouraging manner. “And she makes you smile.�
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  Wulfe wondered how many others had discerned the lady’s effect upon him.

  “I like her very much,” Stephen confided.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because she tells us stories in the afternoon. Two days ago, she told us of Saint Christina, and how she was trapped in a tower by her father. She would not worship false idols, though, and no matter what they did to her, her faith sustained her.” The boy dropped his voice in confidence. “It was awful what they did to her.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “And yesterday, she told us about Saint Mark and how he came to be the patron of Venice.” Stephen wrinkled his nose. “They stole his bones from the Saracens by hiding them beneath pig carcasses, then put them in that big church and Saint Mark has blessed the city ever since.”

  Wulfe refrained from commenting that not all in this city had been blessed, and that Christina knew the truth of it, but he let the boy chatter on. It was good to see Stephen so animated and cheerful, particularly since Wulfe knew that the boy had told Christina his own tale.

  “What do you think of the others in the party?” he invited when Stephen fell silent.

  “I like Bartholomew, for he protects Laurent.”

  Wulfe was intrigued by this morsel. “Does he?”

  “Aye, they have been friends for years, Laurent says. Bartholomew ensures that he has a fair share when the food is brought to the stables. Bartholomew says that Laurent knows much about horses, though truly, I see him only sleeping with Fergus’ baggage.” Stephen wrinkled his nose. “Perhaps he is still tired, for he was very ill on the ship.”

  So Bartholomew likely knew Laurent’s secret.

  “He was indeed,” Wulfe acknowledged. “Such illness can weaken even the strongest warrior.”

  “Do you know that he took that saddlebag with him, even when Fergus asked him to aid in choosing a new palfrey?”

  “Did he?”

  “He can scarce carry it, for it is so heavy, but he does not wish to disappoint Fergus. He even insists that it must carry naught of value, but Fergus entrusting it to him is a test he refuses to fail.”