Brother Bernard patted Siobhan’s shoulder. “We will leave William in your care, my dear. Brother Patrick will be just outside the door should you need anything. Brother Simon, might I have a word?”
Brother Simon hesitated. “I think I should stay—”
“I’ll be fine,” William reassured his friend, his voice steady and calm as the effects of the ale set in.
Simon’s gaze lingered on Siobhan for a moment before he turned and left the room. A shiver coursed through her. Did the man not trust her with his friend? She pushed the thought away, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. Siobhan picked up the needle, wishing she had spent more time at her embroidery frame. The needle took only a moment to thread. She ran the metal through the hot flame before she set to work sewing the worst of his wounds.
The room suddenly seemed too warm, the air too thick, as she tugged from one side of his rent flesh to the other. Bent so close to him, she could perceive the tightening of his muscles, the increased rhythm of his breathing. As she sewed his shoulder, she turned toward him, realizing how close his face was. How close his lips were.
He looked at her intently through dark lashes, as if to read her thoughts by studying her features. She drew a sharp breath, suddenly aware that she was breathing too fast, as though she’d been running. It wasn’t fear that moved through her now, but something else.
Siobhan sat back, forcing her attention on the wound on his chest. Her stitches were even and steady. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the gentle duet of their breathing.
She stared at him, and her breath caught. In that moment she saw past the blood and grime still covering his face to the true handsomeness there. Golden hair framed his face, a face that held no brutality and menace, but determination.
It was the kind of face a woman couldn’t help but stare at in awe and with desire. Before she could think about what she did, she brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. Her hand strayed to the strong, straight line of his cheekbone and down to the cleft of his chin. “I’m so sorry to bring you pain,” she whispered.
A faint smile came to his lips and a curious light filled his eyes. He brought his hand up to cup her cheek. “I hardly felt a thing.” He let her go with a slight caress along her jawline.
Siobhan curled her fingers against the light flutter that took flight in her stomach. To be the focus of such a look was not something she was used to. She returned his smile with a nervous one of her own. “That’s stretching the truth, even for a monk.”
The light faded from his eyes. “Monks are not without sin. We have failings, just as everyone else. Besides, I am a lay monk.”
“What is that?”
“A monk who gives more of his time to manual labor, or in the case of the Templars, to battle. We spend our lives in the service of the Lord.”
“I see.” She hesitated, still a bit disconcerted by the rapid change in his mood. “If I offended you a moment ago, I am sorry.”
“I need out of this bed,” he said changing the subject. Slowly, he sat up. Siobhan moved to assist him, but he waved her away. He reached for his quilted aketon, then pulled his hand back at the sight of his own blood.
“Might I help?” Siobhan asked.
“The robe,” he said, a bit breathless, pointing to the brown homespun monk’s cassock hanging from a hook on the wall. Attempting to sit so soon was taking its toll.
Siobhan brought the robe to him.
With a grunt, he settled the fabric over his head and blocked his broad, well-muscled chest from her sight. “Where is the scroll?” he asked with a frown.
“Safely hidden. I assumed that in the monastery it would be less of a risk to leave it unguarded.”
His eyes hardened. “Assume no such thing.” His voice grew tight. “Trust no one with that scroll. No one.”
Siobhan took two steps back, toward the door. Her breath caught as his features chilled. He was tired, she reminded herself. Wounded. If he sounded a bit harsh, it was to be expected.
Yet now that he was tended to, she wanted to check on the scroll. She had hidden it well, hadn’t she? She twisted for the door and raced down the hall, startling Brother Patrick, who sat outside the doorway. She entered the tiny chamber she’d been taken to previously and dived for the bed. Only when her hands grasped the leather casing did she release her pent-up breath.
She sank onto the heather ticking. A shudder went through her. She’d always known the scroll was important. Why hadn’t she pushed her father for answers long ago about what it revealed?
She shook her head, clearing away her regrets. Such emotions served no purpose. She didn’t have her father to help her understand. But she had the scroll.
And William. The thought brought a flutter to her chest. She frowned and gripped the casing all the harder. This was not the time to worry about such strange reactions. Siobhan straightened. She would have to focus more diligently.
She had done harder things in her life than resist the temptation of Sir William Keith. She pursed her lips. Hadn’t she? How many years had she lived in absolute isolation with her father? That had been far more difficult than resisting the temptation of a chaste knight. With a sigh of frustration, she forced her attention back to the scroll. The man was a monk, for Heaven’s sake.
William left his sickroom and gingerly made his way to the chapel. A need to pray that he had not felt in a long while grew inside, fueling his unsteady steps. He pushed open the heavy wood door and entered the sanctuary. Empty. He was grateful to have the sacred place to himself.
He bent clumsily to his knee, crossed himself, then stood and proceeded to the altar, where he knelt once more. He drew a deep breath, letting the silence of the chamber sink into him. He willed the peace he usually felt in this room to sink inside him. It did not.
Perhaps nothing could help him. Or perhaps the new feelings he’d had since meeting Siobhan were tearing him away from the path he had once followed.
William closed his eyes and bowed his head, again willing that peace to find him as it had four years ago, when he’d taken his vows. At the time he knew he was making the right choice—to dedicate himself to the Templars, to God.
Upon his return from Teba, filled with pain, sorrow, remorse, he’d come back to the chapel desperate for understanding. He’d been spared in that horrible battle. To this day he wondered why. Why had God protected him when he’d allowed so many others to die? His life was no more important than those of the others. Probably less.
He had no blood relatives, at least no one who cared whether he lived or died. He had only his Templar brothers. All the others had mothers, fathers, siblings who’d mourned their loss when William had returned their bodies for burial. That fact had made the pain of his failure to keep his brothers safe that much worse. Not one soul would have missed him, yet he’d survived.
For what purpose?
He opened his eyes and sought out the crucifix that hung suspended above the altar. “Why?” he whispered. “And why tempt me now with desires I know are at odds with the vows I’ve given you? My vows are all I have left to cling to. My service to you is all I have left.”
He let his words die away into silence, and he prayed once again for that peace to fill him. The only thoughts that filled his mind were of Siobhan, the woman who needed his protection.
A calm came over him. Was that why he’d been saved? Had he been spared—not just from the battle at Teba, but from his uncle’s slaughter as well—for some greater purpose?
William paused, let the thought circle inside him. No great awareness came over him, no dawning moment. He frowned. Why did holy guidance have to be so obscure? At this moment he would prefer booming voices or raining fire—even a burning bush.
With a sigh, he staggered to his feet. He’d have to trust that God would show him the way.
After a final prayer for insight, William turned and left the chapel. He found himself drifting down the corridor of the monk’s dormitory to th
e room where light spilled from the doorway. Brother Kenneth had given Siobhan William’s old chamber. Leaning against the stone wall for support, he stood in the doorway.
Siobhan sat atop the bed, an oil lamp burning brightly at her side. Deep in thought, she stared down at her father’s scroll. Emotion stirred inside him at the sight of the scroll and—if he was honest with himself—the woman who held it.
Lost to her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed him. He studied her, curious about the woman who had so easily changed her father’s dreams. Her father had abandoned everything he’d worked so hard to achieve once he’d learned his daughter was headed for the orphan home. Was there something special about this particular girl?
William pressed his lips together. Was she different from other women? The lamplight turned her red hair a burnished gold as it cascaded over her shoulders. Something inside him stirred to life. He tamped the emotion down with an acknowledgment that her pale skin, red-gold hair and delicate frame gave her an ethereal presence.
And regardless of her slight stature, she had challenged him with the swing of a branch. The corner of his mouth rose in a half smile. Perhaps she was a bit unusual, he’d give her that, but unusual enough to change the course of one’s life purpose? He doubted it.
The room itself brought back dark memories of his past. As a young boy, he’d once had a warm and loving home with his mother and father at Stonehyve Castle. Then his uncle Alasdair had murdered his parents in their bed. William had only escaped with the help of his aging nurse, who’d smuggled him out of the keep and into the courtyard and had hidden him in a pile of hay.
Too terrified to fight his uncle’s warriors, he’d stayed huddled inside the dank and musty hay as the sounds of battle raged around him. Men and women of his clan had lain dead, warriors undone by deceit, women who had tried to defend their homes, their families, slain by another bearing the same clan name. When William had climbed free of his prison of hay, even his nurse lay dead for trying to keep him safe.
William shivered, remembering the metallic scent of blood, the spatters of flesh, of bone, of sweat that had covered the ground. He had crept out of hiding, almost praying for a blade to strike him down so that he could join his clansmen in the afterlife instead of slinking away to carry on without them.
On unsteady legs, he had stumbled to the gate and slipped into the night. Every breath had set his lungs afire as his world collapsed in upon itself. He would die apart from his people.
He didn’t know how far he’d walked or how many days had passed when he collapsed at the edge of a tree grove. He’d lain there, praying for death to claim him, when Brother Kenneth had come along and taken him back to the monastery.
“I’m here with you,” the man he’d named the Reaper had said. “You’ll not be alone in this, I promise, on my honor as a Scot, and as a Templar.”
The Reaper had nursed him back to life and filled his spirit with hope. At the monastery he’d learned writing, reading, mathematics and how to fight with a sword. The monks had become his family. But they could never replace everything he’d lost.
William had accompanied Brother Kenneth on the sacred mission to the Holy Land. Then it had been William’s turn to be the rescuer, pulling the half-dead Reaper from the battlefield and helping him get home safely.
William forced his thoughts back to the present, back to the woman who studied her father’s scroll. Determination shone in her finely sculpted face. Compassion pulsed through him. She knew what it was like to lose everything, just as he had.
He cleared his throat, signaling his presence.
Startled, Siobhan looked up.
“What are you searching for?” he asked, stepping into the room.
“Trying to make some sense of all this,” she said with a touch of frustration.
William gingerly sat down beside her on the bed.
“Are you well enough to walk about?” she asked with a slight frown.
“A few cuts can’t keep us from our goal.”
“Cuts?” Her eyes widened. “Our goal?”
“Nothing has changed.” He reached over, his fingers lingering atop her soft skin. Their eyes met and held. There was something in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. It sent an icy shiver through him. He might say nothing had changed, but something subtle had shifted between them. “We will find the Holy Lance before de la Roche. Your father will be rescued. Fear not.”
“I believe you,” she whispered, her gaze never leaving his.
The reflection of the lamplight shimmered in her eyes. The warmth of the light and the beauty of her face mixed to extraordinary effect. William drew a breath and released it slowly, feeling every one of the new wounds in his flesh.
“Look at this.” She settled the open scroll in his hands. “Do you recognize this symbol?” She pointed to a small sketch at the far-left-hand corner of the papyrus.
He turned his attention to the symbol. “It’s the head of the Spear.”
She nodded. “And this? Do you know what this is?” She pointed to a drawing of two craggy peaks rising above three others.
“The Cairngorm Mountains,” he replied. “The highest peaks in Britain. Stark, bleak, and dangerous territory.”
“The kind of place that might naturally protect a treasure of this significance?” she asked.
“Only one way to find out.” He stood.
She blinked. “Right now? Shouldn’t we let your body heal some before we—”
He put a finger to her lips, then drew her by the hands to a standing position. This close he could smell a hint of heather coming from her hair. He swallowed and took a small step back. “We are going to see Brother Kenneth. He understands the Templar coding system, and if we are lucky, he’ll be able to tell us all that we’ll need to know before we set off for parts unknown.”
He turned back to the cot and lifted the finely woven tartan that served as a covering. Grasping the fabric between his hands, he ripped off a long piece. He took the scroll from her, returned it to its protective casing, then concealed it within the folds of the wool. “’Tis best to keep the scroll hidden. Besides you and me, only Simon and Brother Kenneth should know it exists.”
Siobhan nibbled nervously at her lower lip. “You think the treasure is there, in the Cairngorms?”
He grinned. “Let’s find out.”
She gave him a bemused smile. “You’re excited about this?”
“For the first time in a long while I feel…alive and ready for something new.”
Her smile broadened. “Is that what I’m feeling in the pit of my stomach?”
Her face was alight with laughter, and he found himself caught and held by the sight. He wanted to reach out and touch her cheek, to share that joy, to immerse himself in it.
To do so would be playing with fire. He needed to keep his distance, to stay objective. His life had one purpose now, and that had nothing to do with personal ful-fillment. He couldn’t take the loss of one more person he cared about. He’d had more than enough loss in his life already. Anything more would devour him whole.
He wouldn’t dwell on that. He couldn’t. He clenched his fist and turned away without touching her face. “Come. Brother Kenneth will be in the refectory about now. He’ll have the answers we need.”
Chapter Seven
At the door of the refectory, Siobhan paused, forcing William to do the same. “What if Brother Kenneth cannot decipher the code?” Siobhan asked, suddenly filled with doubts.
William’s face was pale, but determination shone in his eyes. “Let the man attempt to read the symbols before you start worrying about the future.” He opened the door, then stood back for her to enter.
Siobhan frowned into the semidarkness. He was right. She need not borrow trouble. They already had enough with de la Roche and his troops at their heels.
With a nod, she stepped into the chamber. The savory scents of roasted mutton and onions filled her senses. A bright, cheerful fire illuminated the r
oom, revealing several long tables with benches neatly tucked beneath them. Clean, fresh rushes covered the floor. At the far end of the chamber, Brother Kenneth sat with another man dressed in a monk’s robes. The two were bent over a sheaf of papers. At their approach, both men straightened. Brother Kenneth shuffled the papers to the side, then pressed them into the younger monk’s hands. With a quick bow to Kenneth and to Simon, who was on the opposite side of the room, the monk excused himself and brushed past them without a word in his haste for the door.
William tensed beside her as he watched the man leave. Brother Kenneth’s voice boomed. “Good evening, milady.” The older monk turned to William with a frown. “Are you well enough to be walking about?”
“I’m quite recovered.” After another swift glance at the door, William guided Siobhan to sit beside Brother Kenneth.
At his touch, her stomach tensed. She found a place on the bench and clutched the tartan-covered scroll in her lap in an effort to settle whatever suddenly ailed her. William sat across the table from her.
Simon came to join them. “You look improved,” he said, seating himself next to Siobhan.
“Brother Kenneth, we need your help,” William said.
The old monk studied the three of them, his face unreadable. “If it takes three of you to ask me, then it must be serious.”
“Deadly serious.” William cast a glance about the room, as though ensuring that only the four of them remained. He nodded to Siobhan. She placed the tartan cloth upon the wooden table, then unwrapped the leather casing. An unnatural stillness fell between them as she removed the scroll and spread it upon the table.
Brother Kenneth sat back, his gaze moving between the scroll and William. “What are you all involved in?” He shook his head. “This is Brother John’s handwriting, his code…”
His words trailed off as his gaze came to rest on Siobhan. He searched her face, his expression dark. “You are his daughter.”
A chill chased up her arms at the mention of her father as Brother John. “I am.”
To Tempt a Knight Page 6