by Hebby Roman
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.
She watched as he strode to the table, which held his healing potions. Oh, he was handsome enough, far too handsome for a monk.
He turned from the table and bowed low. “Princess Cahira, have you need of aught? Perhaps a bath?”
A bath. Aye, she had need of a bath. Someone had removed her brother’s armor and sponged off her limbs, but she could smell herself. And the odor wasn’t sweet like posies.
Should she speak? Of royal blood, she need not. She could speak through her servants, but that was cumbersome. In truth she would die of boredom if she didn’t say something.
She glanced at the wounded knights lying on pallets across the solar. “You expect me to bathe with men in my room?”
“A thousand pardons, milady. I didn’t think.”
Milady. She wasn’t his lady. She wasn’t his anything. Her loyal subjects called her “milady.” Alas, this man was an interloper, an unwanted enemy who’d fought her and won, forcing his way into her castle and life.
Should she allow him the familiarity of the less formal title, or should she impress him with her bloodline and demand that he address her as Her Highness? She was tempted to humble him, but she despised arrogance in all its forms.
“Do you wish to retire to your bedchamber?” he asked.
She considered the offer. Did she crave the relative privacy of her room? Located on the northern wall of the keep, her bedchamber was cold and dank, and she’d never been overly fond of the room. She spent most of her time here, where the sun banished the chill from the sea.
“I’d prefer to stay in my solar,” she replied. “But I want my things. I want my trunks, my bath, and looking glass.”
“As you wish, milady. I’m certain Malcolm can arrange another room for my men. I apologize for their presence, but I wanted them close so I could care for them while I tended your wound.”
“You’ve done aplenty, Sir Knig
ht.” She waved her hand. “Don’t vex yourself for me. Go and tend to your knights.”
“No trouble, milady, and please call me Raul.” He bowed again, and a wavy lock of hair fell over his forehead, lending him that boyish air. “Raul de Porcelos, Knight Templar, at your service.”
“Sir Raul then.”
Biting her lip, she worried the tender flesh between her teeth. She had so many questions. Forsooth, he intrigued her, despite that she wished he was someplace far away, like in Outremer. But she refused to give voice to her curiosity. It was enough she was in his power.
“You still need watching.” He touched his own brow, smoothing back the errant lock with long-boned fingers. “It was a nasty blow to your head.”
“Aye, and one that you delivered.”
He colored, his bronze-tinted skin darkening. “Yes, I regret that. I would do anything to make amends.”
“Anything?”
His black brows, as dark as the depths of the Irish Sea drew together. “Of course, within reason.”
She lifted her hand and pointed at the door. “Then take your knights and leave my castle. Return to the Sinclair and tell him I have no need of protection or his offer to wed.”
At her vehement words, his full lips curved into a smile. His ill-disguised levity stung her. How dare he laugh at her? She stiffened, drawing herself up and plucking at the thick woolen blanket covering her limbs.
“I see no cause for mirth.”
“No cause.” He shook his head. “I was thinking about the Sinclair protecting you.” Lifting his arm, he revealed a bandage there. “I’ve felt the wrath of your blade and can vouch you’ve no need of protection.”
Her face warmed at his compliment, and a frisson of pleasure lanced through her. So she had been a worthy adversary. For a Knight Templar to admit her skill was an honor, as the bards sang of their exploits.
She wanted to chortle with glee and clap her hands. But to do so would sacrifice her dignity—and dignity was all she still possessed.
She lifted her chin a notch. “I thank you for your kind words, Sir Raul. In truth it was an accident that you felled me.”
“Yes, milady, an accident.” One of his black brows inched up, and he folded his arms. “In another fight you would have easily bested me.”
She drew back, uncertain of his assessment. Was he mocking her? She took in the brawny strength of his folded arms. Heat flooded her, warm and sweet, gazing at his strongly-molded masculine face and muscular body. Why did he have to be so handsome and possess a tongue that could beguile the nightingales from the trees?
“If I don’t need protection, why must you press me?” she asked.
“I’m sworn to William the Sinclair, and he bid me here. I thought it would be a simple task. Fetch a blushing bride to wed a rich and powerful earl.” This time he smiled outright, his white teeth dazzling in his dark countenance. But his easy smile stabbed her like the blade of a dagger.
How dare he? He was mocking her.
“Perchance you thought wrong,” she tossed back, her voice shrill in her ears. “I have no wish to wed a man I don’t even know.”
She paused and took a deep breath, forcing herself to project a calmness she didn't feel. Female hysterics wouldn’t impress him. On the contrary, they’d justify her need for a man’s strong hand.
“Isn’t that the way of royal marriages?” he asked. “They’re not love matches. An alliance with the Sinclair would offer you—”
“What do you know of royal marriages?”
“Little enough, it’s true,” he conceded, his smile fading.
“And the healing arts? Why would a knight turn physician? ’Tisn’t seemly.”
“It isn’t for show. I feel the need to save lives and ease suffering.”
“But you still fight.”
Sighing, he turned his head, making her feel as if she were an unruly child who didn’t know when to hush. “I only fight in self-defense.”
“Then you’re a coward.”
His head swiveled around, and his dark gaze met hers. For one unguarded moment, she felt as if she could peer into his soul. And swimming in the depths of his inky eyes, she saw the pain shimmering there.
What had happened to him? His pain called to her, echoing the hurt she tried to keep buried, the loss that burned like a live coal in her chest.
“Call me anything you like, milady. Whatever pleases you?” The tone of his voice was mild, though she glimpsed the bunched muscle in his jaw. “I will move my men and have your bath fetched. Take care and don’t get chilled. Before you retire, if it pleases you, I would examine your injury.”
She sat silent for a long moment, considering the aura of vulnerability that shadowed him. Why had she lashed out; what ugly part of her strove to humiliate him? Da would have called her a poor loser. Sir Raul had bested her, and her men had given up the fight. ’Twasn’t the Templar’s fault; he’d only done his duty.
“It pleases me,” she said.
“You’re certain, milady?”
“Quite sure.”
He nodded. “I’ll go and make preparations.”
But she didn’t want him to go—not yet. Not until she asked the question troubling her. This time, she didn’t want to humble him, only to satisfy her curiosity.
“Sir Raul?”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t like to fight, why did you become a Knight Templar?”
“Better than a mercenary.”
“Aye, but I don’t understand.”
His mouth thinned to a grim line. “Milady, it’s a long tale and not a pretty one.”
“I’m in no hurry for my bath.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and paced to the hearth. He stared into the flames, and she wondered if he would grant her an answer.
He didn’t turn from the fire to look at her. “I was born in the province of Castillo y Leon in Spain. My mother was a servant who died when I was but a babe. My uncle was the Count of Burgos, and he raised me as his own, but I have no birthright.” He turned and faced her, his gaze oblique and shuttered.
She nodded, wanting him to continue while she pondered what he’d said. So he was a noble bastard, a common enough occurrence. Many bastard sons turned to war, relying on their sword to make their place in the world.
“My uncle trained me as a warrior,” he continued, “and when I reached the age of ten and seven, I joined a mercenary force to Constantinople. Like so many young men, I wanted to make my fortune.”
“And your father?”
“He’s an Archbishop in Toledo.”
She choked back a gasp and then covered her mouth with her hand. But she couldn’t help her reaction—that a man of the cloth should beget a bastard even though ’twasn’t right. But on further reflection, she remembered stumbling upon a visiting monk who had been tupping Mildread in the storeroom. If a monk could break his vow of celibacy, why not an Archbishop?
Or a Knight Templar?
With this new awareness, she looked him up and down, from his wide forehead and hawkish nose to his full lips. Her gaze skimmed his broad shoulders and muscular chest, down to his corded thighs.
He was a magnificent man, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he took his vows as lightly as his father had. The thought of catching him with one of her servants filled her stomach with heat and plucked a chord deep within her core.
“An Archbishop,” she said, “is that why you chose your vocation?”
He stroked his beardless chin. “Perhaps.” He shook his head. “No. It was what I faced in Constantinople that changed my mind. I found I had no stomach for killing.”
His confession surprised her, and she wanted to ask what had happened, but ’twould be unseemly to press.
“I hoped for the tamer chore of escorting pilgrims to the Holy Land,” he explained. “But when the final Crusade Pope Boniface proclaimed to regain the Holy Land failed, many of my brethren departed Cyprus and returned to the Christian kingdo
ms. I, too, was sent home.”
“But not to Spain?”
“No, my father preferred I go to Scotland and serve the earl.” And as luck would have it, I’ve a way with languages.”
“Aye, so you do. Your Gaelic is quite good.”
“Thank you, milady.”
Not only did he speak well, his manners were impeccable, and he’d learned the skills of a physician. She wanted to ask him about that, too, but she’d already insulted his profession and abused his patience.
“I’ll fetch the servants now,” he offered, “you must be growing tired.”
“Aye, please do.” She touched the bandage. Fortunately, the pounding pain had dimmed to a dull ache. “I’m a trifle fasted, ’tis true.” She hesitated, not sure how to say what needed to be said. “And thank you again, for tending my wound and…and for your honesty.”
Something flickered in his dark eyes, and he stared boldly at her—his ebony gaze lingering on her face like a silent caress.
She shivered and laced her arms around her waist. Why did his gaze affect her so? Her face heated with embarrassment. First, cold and now hot, her feelings, like battling knights, warred within her. He was her enemy and a monk. Why did she feel these strange stirrings?
He pulled open the door. She watched him go, his wide shoulders filling the doorway. She couldn’t help but wonder again if he kept his vows.
In particular—one vow—the vow of celibacy.
Chapter Three
Raul climbed to the top of the curtain wall and watched the sea waves beat against the castle’s foundation. Gone was the bright spring sunshine as night encroached and spread its dark mantle over the land and water. He turned away from the sea and picked his way along the uneven surface, stopping to examine a place where the stones had tumbled into the churning waters, leaving a gaping hole.
Kinsale had appeared impregnable from the road, but upon closer inspection, parts of the keep were in sore need of repair. Roughly rectangular, the castle boasted two walls, the outer curtain and the inner bailey. The inner fortification was in excellent condition, but the curtain wall had been neglected.