Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride

by Lynna Banning

  He sucked in a full, deep breath of the scented night air and pulled Leonor’s body tight against his. Closing his eyes, he weighed his Templar vows against his love for the woman he now held in his arms.

  He had nothing to offer but himself, bastard-born and landless.

  So be it. If he had nothing else in this life—not father, nor lands, nor surname to call his own—one night with Leonor would be enough to last him all his days. He would ask for nothing more as long as he lived.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Montèguy fortress rose like a mirage before Leonor’s eyes. Clinging precariously to the side of a rocky mountain, the grey-black walls cascaded down the sheer granite cliff like a waterfall of stone.

  The horses clopped their way up and up the narrow, twisting path to the massive gate of age-blackened iron. No light shone. Nothing moved within or without the huge, silent structure. The place looked as if it were enchanted.

  Reynaud drew the destrier to a halt and sat motionless, listening. The moon had long since set, and in the darkness small night animals rustled under the pine trees that softened the bare face of the mountainside. He gave a low whistle. After a moment, a nightingale began to sing and she heard him exhale in relief. The castle was deserted.

  Laying the destrier’s reins in her hands, he dismounted, favouring his wounded shoulder. They had stopped some leagues back to bathe and dress his wounds, but even so the gash still throbbed.

  He fit the odd-shaped metal key into the gate lock and, using both hands, twisted it to the right. The gate creaked open on long-rusted hinges.

  Relief surged through Leonor’s tense body, followed by something else, a sweet, mysterious sense of extraordinary well-being. What could be wrong with her? She had watched a man die this very night, yet at this moment she felt naught but pure joy.

  It was not only their escape, and the safety it brought. It was being with Reynaud, feeling his hard man’s body pressed at her back these long hours on horseback, aware of his every move, his every breath.

  He reached up, encircled her waist, and lifted her down. With an odd sound in his throat, he set her before him; then for a long moment stood quite still, as if struggling with something.

  Leonor’s pulse quickened. In his eyes she saw heat and longing. He wanted her. A flame licked at her heart, her skin, and a hot, sweet thread of desire laced deep into her body. She held her breath.

  ‘Ah,’ he breathed at last. ‘Life is a joyless dance without love. Death comes to all in the end, but I do not wish to leave this life without knowing your love this one night.’

  ‘I think…’ She searched for the right words to speak what lay in her heart. ‘I think that love is not exclusive, my Reynaud. One can love both God and His church. And,’ she added softly, ‘a woman. Why else would God make you a man first, and a holy knight second?’

  ‘It is you I love, Lea. Not the Church or the Templars.’

  ‘Nay,’ she said, her voice gentle. ‘I believe it is all one—the turning earth, the sky that changes from dark to light, a man, a woman. It is all the same. God made it all in His image. And,’ she added, ‘He is guiding us when we follow our hearts.’

  ‘You speak like a Cathar,’ he said, a hint of laughter in his voice. He closed his arms around her.

  ‘I speak like a woman full-blown,’ she murmured. She looked up into his strained face. ‘One who loves you.’

  She felt his body tremble.

  ‘Though my vows forbid it, I would have you, Leonor.’

  She stirred in his arms, pressed the tips of her aching breasts against his chest. ‘Take me, then. We know not what the morrow may bring. Yet whatever it is to be, I will face it gladly if we can be together this night.’

  He sucked in his breath and without a word took her hand and pushed through the castle gate. ‘One night will scarce be long enough for what I want of you.’

  The bed dominated the tiny chamber. Covered in red damask, powdery with dried lavender, the huge curtained four-poster faced the narrow third-floor window and the small stone fireplace on the adjacent wall. How Reynaud found his way up that twisting staircase in the dark she could not fathom. He had been here before, she supposed. He seemed to know this fortress.

  A silvery light poured through the single paned window as Reynaud flipped the cover off the bed. Underneath were fresh linen sheets, neatly turned down. The scent of rosemary and dried lavender permeated the room.

  His hand touched her shoulder. ‘Do not move,’ he murmured. ‘I would unlace your gown.’

  Her heart leaped at the touch of his fingers at her neck. The day’s heat had ebbed to a velvety softness, leaving the late summer air thick and smelling of wild roses. She raised her arms, felt his hands move back and forth over her body as he loosened her outer robe and smoothed it down over her hips.

  Warm, scented air wafted over her bare shoulders. Reynaud laid one finger at the base of her throat and her body throbbed to life. He stroked upwards to her chin, then slowly drew his hand down to the neckline of her chemise.

  Her breath stopped. He leaned down, traced the path of his hand with his tongue, moving langorously up to her neck, along her jawbone to the shell of her ear. He circled his warm wet tongue around the sensitive edge, then gently dipped into the inner recess.

  A jolt of sensation pierced below her belly, and she gasped aloud with pleasure. His quick breath told her it pleasured him, as well.

  She told herself not to move, to let him proceed as he wished. His touch was like exquisite fire on her skin. She felt her skin swell and flush, felt her body fill with hot light. Please, God, let me remember every moment of this.

  He lifted his good arm to her shoulder, unknotted the ribbon at her bosom and slowly pushed the light muslin down. He smoothed his warm palms up her bare arms and over her shoulders. Deliberately he brought his mouth to her other ear, probing again with his tongue.

  Her belly contracted. Below, the sweet ache blossomed between her thighs, and she moaned.

  Breathing softly into her ear, Reynaud moved his hands to her breasts. Beneath his fingers her nipples hardened, ached. Ah, what ecstasy, to be touched so by a man.

  He circled his hands over her breasts, then slid them slowly down her ribcage to her waist, taking the loosened chemise down as well. He stroked her buttocks, caressing them, cupping them with his splayed fingers.

  In spite of herself, Leonor began to move. She raised first one arm, then the other, over her head, arching her back to thrust her breasts forwards, longing for him to touch them again.

  A low chuckle of satisfaction rumbled deep in his throat. Still gently kneading her bottom, he bent and circled his tongue about one swollen nipple, over it, around it, again and yet again.

  Her breathing grew shallow and ragged. She could die of pleasure at this very moment! Oh, she wanted so much of him.

  His hand moved to her inner thigh, stroking up and down, purposefully coming closer and closer to the soft triangle of dark hair between her legs. And then he took her other nipple in his mouth. His hot, wet tongue circled and sucked, and at the same time he gently parted her legs and slid one finger inside her swollen outer lips.

  ‘Reynaud,’ she murmured. ‘Reynaud.’ She wanted him to move his hand, touch her, stroke her.

  But he did not.

  Instead, he began to suck lightly on her nipple. And he began to talk to her, his voice low and urgent. Throaty, inarticulate phrases punctuated his uneven breathing. She could not follow his words, save for recognizing her name spoken over and over. Leonor. Leonor, ya jamiilah. He said it again, his voice hoarse, trembling.

  Joy lifted her, transported her spirit. Her mouth opened, her tongue emerged to slowly wet her lips. She felt real and unreal at the same time, more herself than she had ever been before, yet at the same time aware of new strengths and mysteries, depths she had not known she possessed.

  Holy Mary, look down on this woman, your servant, and bless her joy. For surely such pleasure is unlik
e any other on earth. And just as surely, God Himself intended it to be so.

  She twined her fingers into Reynaud’s dark hair, tipped her head towards the ceiling and smiled. No happiness would ever equal this.

  He lifted his head, sought her mouth. At the same time he began circling his finger slowly back and forth over the exquisitely sensitive spot above her opening.

  With his tongue, he grazed her mouth, teasing her lips until she groaned aloud with wanting. He laughed softly into her open mouth, then again uttered her name. Leonor. Ya jamiilah. He dipped his tongue past her teeth and again slid his finger inside her.

  She gasped. Panting for breath, she moved against him, instinctively seeking deeper penetration. His warm breath swirled into her mouth. She moaned, cried his name. She would die of ecstasy before this was done. Still, she knew he prolonged each movement, each touch to draw her pleasure out as long as possible. She wished it never to end.

  ‘Reynaud,’ she sighed under his hot mouth. ‘Reynaud.’

  Her hands found their way under his tunic to his bare chest. She pulled the torn silk garment up, skimmed her fingers over his hard, smooth torso, avoiding the sword cut near his breastbone. She caressed the taut muscles of his back, then swept two fingers lightly back and forth over his nipples.

  He groaned with pleasure. On impulse, she lowered her mouth and swirled the tip of her tongue around each brown nub. He stiffened for an instant, and she heard his breath hiss sharply in. The sound was intensely satisfying. His heartbeat hammered under her lips, his irregular breath rasped in and out.

  There was more to this than lips and tongues and hands. The physical touching was just the beginning. She drank in the feeling of power, of connection with another human spirit.

  Her heart sang as her body opened to him. Her fingers touched the lacings of his chausses, and with a quick tug she pulled the knot free.

  His undergarment fell away, and his engorged manhood pressed against her thighs. He slipped one hand under her bottom and lifted her. The tip of his erect shaft moved over her mound, slid slowly, inexorably forwards until it spread the outer flower of her woman’s centre and brushed delicately back and forth against the hot, moist tissue. He bent his head, seeking her mouth. She opened her lips under his, felt him tremble.

  Without a word he moved them to the bed, pressed her down on the sheet and spread her thighs wide. ‘It will not be easy,’ he murmured. ‘It is your first time.’

  ‘And the last time,’ she reminded in a soft whisper. ‘I do not want it to be easy. I want to remember it for ever.’

  His mouth moved over her skin like hot silk, over her breasts, down her belly. And then, very, very slowly he thrust his tongue through the fine dark hair curling between her thighs, parting her petalled lips, probing in lazy circles. When the warm tip of his tongue entered her, she cried out, ‘Yes, Rey. Yes!’

  He withdrew, washing a soft stream of cooling air over her as he exhaled against her slick, wet centre. She writhed and moaned as he spread her, tasted her. She felt something stretch within her spirit, stretch and break and mend itself, stronger than before.

  I am ready for him. She reached to him, raised him to face her.

  Reynaud moved his body over hers, straddling her, and looked down into her face. Holding her eyes, he lowered himself, thrust slowly in, then out, once, twice more, each time probing deeper.

  Leonor arched to take him, raised both arms over her head, moaning his name. She cried out once as he plunged deep inside her, then began to move with him. Breath for breath, thrust for thrust, she matched him. Bathed in perspiration, her breath coming now in quick, shallow gasps, she exulted in the sheer animal beauty of coupling. As if from a great distance she heard his voice calling her name, and she sobbed aloud.

  A shuddering spasm convulsed her body, and she screamed. Her inner muscles contracted, pulsing in slow waves of ecstasy as her mind soared into a black velvety space.

  Reynaud watched her face, watched her darkened eyes close, her mouth contort as she convulsed under him. He thrust hard once more and felt his seed begin to spurt. Ah, his body was breaking into flame.

  With a shout, he plunged deep and let the spasms wash over him until he was completely spent.

  God speaks slowly, he thought in wonder. But exceedingly clear. The threads of his life, so long unravelled, were at last weaving themselves into a pattern. With this one woman, this one act, he had found some part of himself he had searched for all his life.

  He buried himself in her, wrapped both arms around her naked body and wept.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Leonor awoke with a start. Something was amiss. The sheets beside her where Reynaud’s body had lain were still warm, but he was gone. Gone, too, were his tunic and chausses.

  His leather boots still lay in the corner where he had kicked them last night. Her thighs ached at the memory. How wanton she was! She could not get enough of him.

  The chamber door banged open, and Reynaud appeared, his dark curls tousled, a half-opened parcel of brown bread and cheese in one hand. ‘I found it in my saddlebag, wrapped in oiled paper, along with your riding trousers and a clean tunic. Count Roger’s wife must have seen to it.’

  Dear Lord, bless Jannet for thinking of practical matters amidst the turmoil. She bit into the cheese. ‘Oh, how delicious! I am so hungry this morning, and everything tastes so—’

  Reynaud’s laughter rang, and she broke off. Her face grew warm, then cold, then warm again. He knew! And he felt the same, she could see it in his eyes, heating to emerald fire as he watched her gobble the cheese.

  ‘Rey, could we…?’

  ‘Nay, we cannot. There is not time enough. We must reach Moyanne as soon as we can. I myself must tell Count Henri of his son’s death. Get you dressed, jamiilah. We have many leagues before us.’

  They rode hard for three days, a grueling journey except for the soft, heated nights when they clung to each other in desperate hunger and joy. Reynaud drove the horses as never before, whether to cover as much ground as possible or to make camp and bed down with her, she neither knew nor cared. They were drunk with each other. For two nights she tasted little that mattered save for the salty-sweet flavour of his skin.

  Now, they drew their weary horses up in the shade of the ancient spreading oak at the bend of the River Oloron. This would be their last night together. She sat motionless and a crippling sense of loss washed over her.

  It must end. She knew it, saw it in his face when he kissed her, held her close. He was a Templar, a warrior monk, with no name or rank save what he earned by his skill at arms and his missions for his Grand Master. And she was daughter to the Vizier of Granada.

  Tomorrow they would ride through the gate of Moyanne as cousins, not as lovers. And then he would ride away from her to take up the duties of his order. Her heart and soul would go with him.

  If this was what it meant to love a man, small wonder that women died of broken hearts.

  Reynaud’s hands closed about her waist, lifted her off her mare and set her before him. His lips brushed against her temple and she closed her eyes and forgot all else.

  Gently he pulled her tunic over her head, then tugged loose the knot of her trouser cord. The silky material dropped about her ankles and she stepped out of the garment, kicking off her worn leather slippers as she did so.

  Reynaud grasped her bare leg, lifting it until her knee brushed his upper thigh. Instantly his breath caught. His chausses bulged with his engorged manhood.

  He stepped quickly away from her, towards the river bank, shedding his garments as he walked. His sweat-covered torso glistened in the mauve-and-peach light of the dying sun. Without a backwards glance, he dove into the river.

  At his silent invitation, she moved to the river’s edge, waded into the cool, blue-green water and swam towards him with languid strokes. He stood up in the chest-deep water and her breasts brushed against his hard-muscled chest. He slid one hand beneath her bottom and pulled her
close.

  Incredibly, she felt him enter her. He moved inside her and her nipples swelled into hard, aching buds.

  Reynaud laughed with delight, his voice young and carefree. Dipping his head, he licked the base of her throat, then her breasts, with his warm tongue, all the while gently moving inside her. She grasped his head, twined her fingers into his dark hair and held him close.

  His lips moved over hers as he thrust inside her, lifting her hips with both hands to let his member probe deep. Slowly, deliberately, he worked her body back and forth, his hands at her back. She felt the hot tension coil and build, driving her towards release.

  Abruptly he scooped her up and waded out of the river. He laid her on a bed of matted thyme, then knelt beside her. The pungent scent of the herb filled her nostrils. Impulsively she reached out and broke off a tiny frond, crushed it against her body, between her breasts, over her belly. It seemed an odd gesture in a way, but when she felt Reynaud’s warm, wet tongue between her breasts, then at the small of her back, she knew it was not odd. Nothing was odd when it came to his loving; he was skilled beyond her understanding. She would remember the scent of thyme for the rest of her days.

  He waited, leaving her poised on the brink of entry but under her own control, and she smiled. He held himself back so she could follow her own needs, could learn about herself.

  And so she would. She lowered her mouth to his, traced his lips with the tip of her tongue, revelling in his quick intake of air. At the same time, she tipped her hips, caught his hard phallus against the delicate inner lips of her centre and eased the smooth tip just inside her. Very slowly, she rotated her hips. His hands convulsively kneaded her buttocks.

  She longed to tease him. At the same time, she wanted to possess him. Her body had a life of its own, as did her spirit. She understood now. The love act could meld these two separate parts into a whole.

  The thought fed her passion in a way she had not expected. A fierce need for penetration built in her, but at the same time she knew that the longer she withheld her own pleasure, the greater would be their mutual rapture, the sense of oneness, at the moment of culmination.