by Hebby Roman
He removed the bandage and set it aside. His long, slender fingers brushed her forehead. She started and flushed, instinctively pulling away; embarrassed his slightest touch affected her so.
Raul rocked back on his heels and gazed at her, his eyes dark pools swirling with unanswered questions. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
How to explain? It didn’t seem fair to claim he’d hurt her when he hadn’t. What reason could she give? “I feared it might hurt.”
“But it didn’t?”
“Nay.” She turned her head away, not wanting him to look into her eyes.
“The cleansing and ointment might sting,” he said, concern shading his voice. “I’ll try to be gentle.”
He’d try to be gentle—thinking about that made her skin feel prickly and hot. Warmth spread through her, leaving her quaking with undefined longings. No one had been gentle with her except her family—especially no man.
When he’d come to check her injury last night, she’d feigned sleep, barely acknowledging his tender care. Why? Because just his nearness made her hum with unsettled stirrings, quiver uncontrollably like the strings of her harp.
Wanting to ease the tension of the moment, she retrieved their earlier conversation. “The pope wouldn’t allow Philip to banish the Templars, would he?”
“He will if Philip applies the right pressure.” Grasping her chin, he tilted her face up. Time stopped and the room faded. For one wild moment, she thought he would kiss her.
She’d never been kissed except by her kin. Her gaze fastened on his full lower lip. What would it feel like to have his mouth touch hers, to taste the flesh of his lips?
Sweet Jesú, she wanted a monk to kiss her!
She wrenched her head free and stood quickly, the top of her head clipping his chin with a loud pop. He grunted and stepped aside, rubbing his jaw and regarding her with an astonished look.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you, milady.” He laid a gentling hand on her arm. “I just wanted to position your face so I could cleanse the wound without getting soap in your eyes.”
She pressed her hands together and willed herself to stop shaking. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t vex yourself. I should have explained.”
The groaning creak of the drawbridge reverberated through the room. Grateful for the interruption, she rushed to the window. A Scottish knight rode from the castle. She started to turn and question Raul, but then she sensed his presence behind her and could feel the warmth of his body and smell the musky male scent of him.
“One of my men,” he said.
If she turned around, would she fall into his arms? “Where does he go? Or is it a secret?”
“No, no secret, milady. I hold no secrets from you.” He touched her shoulder, and she turned slowly to face him. “I sent him to the Sinclair with a message explaining our delay.”
The delay due to her injury. An injury he’d inflicted. That must have been a neat bit of diplomacy, explaining how he’d wounded his lord’s bride-to-be. Thinking of it, she smiled.
“You mock me.” He shook his head.
“Nay, but I would have paid a pretty penny to see how you phrased that missive.”
That they’d both spent last night, penning difficult messages struck her as comic. Her smile widened.
He shook his head again, and the corners of his mouth quirked up. He half-turned away, but it was no use, she realized he was smiling, too. And knowing that, her laughter finally escaped, bubbling to the surface.
She touched his shoulder. He turned and grasped her hand. Their gazes met and his smile grew broader. Suppressed merriment danced between them, barely held in check. And when he could stand it no longer, he threw back his head, surrendering to the moment, and his laughter boomed, mingling with hers. As uncontained mirth overtook them, they shook with laughter, doubling over with tears streaming from their eyes.
Laughing together, she warmed to the Templar, feeling almost as if she knew him and as if he understood her, too.
What was she thinking?
He was her jailor and she his prisoner. She shouldn’t feel anything for him except trepidation and a healthy caution.
Her laughter melted away. She raised her head and tried to free her hand from his grasp. But he tightened his hold and snagged her gaze. Blushing, she looked away. Their merriment had all seemed so natural at first. She’d often jested with her brothers, but this tall Spaniard with heavy-lidded eyes wasn’t her brother.
His gaze never left her face as he slowly lifted her captive hand and brushed the back of it with his mouth. His full lips were warm and soft. The touch of his mouth against her flesh traveled through her like a fiery arrow.
Raul dropped her hand and grasped her elbow, half supporting her and leading her back to the trestle table. Without being asked, she sank onto a stool.
Why had he kissed her hand and looked at her like that? Had he guessed her irreverent thoughts? Could he know she looked upon him not as a monk but as a man? Or was it mere courtesy on his part?
“Tilt your head back, milady.”
She followed his direction, mentally armoring herself against the tumultuous feelings he evoked. “I saw Dwyer leave last night.” She wanted to fill the uneasy silence.
He washed her wound with soap and water, careful not to drip the caustic liquid into her eyes. “Yes, Dwyer left.”
“Malcolm didn’t ask my permission. As a captive, I’ve no say.”
“You’re not a captive, milady.” He patted the gash dry and smoothed on an ointment that carried the distinctive scent of myrrh. At least, this particular medicine didn’t smell vile.
“Malcolm didn’t know until he’d gone. The gatekeeper let MacMalley pass,” Raul said. “And when he asked for supplies, Dwyer told the seneschal you’d released him, and he could go hire at another castle.”
“Dwyer took too much upon himself. I never released him.”
Raul wound a fresh bandage around her head. “Perhaps it’s better this way. Sir Malcolm mentioned MacMalley didn’t want to fight for you.”
He moved to the basin and washed his hands. She’d never known a man so concerned with soap and water. She liked this habit of his, though, secretly admiring his clean fingernails.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I thought the others were loyal but they…”
“Did what they thought was best for you.”
She turned her face aside and clenched her teeth to stop the sharp retort that formed, unbidden, in her mind. She refused to argue with him, not like yesterday for it would do no good. He believed she should be grateful the great Sinclair would wed her and protect her lands.
Protect, she snorted, steal was more like it.
“Did you say something, milady?”
She shook her head and then a thought struck her. “How did the Sinclair know of my plight, and how did he know to ask for my hand?”
Raul had been gathering his medicines together, but her questions stayed his hand. He leaned against the table and folded his arms across his chest. “The earl wants to put the English king on notice. The English may come to raid Erie, but the Sinclair backs the Bruce, Scotland’s rightful King. He hopes to unite the Gaelic people against the English.”
“But my country has kings enough already. My father and great-uncle…” She stopped herself.
Better to keep her tongue about her uncle. She didn’t want to alert Raul to her plan. And then another thought intruded. She’d forgotten about her secret messenger. When Raul had come, she’d thought he was the stable boy. What if the lad burst in and gave her away?
Suddenly anxious for the Templar to be gone, she rose. “Thank you, I feel better already.” She licked her lips. “I’m fasted, though, and I’d like to lie down.”
He nodded. “You should rest as much as possible. It will hasten your recovery.” His words were mild, but a moment ago, when his lips brushed her hand, he’d looked as if he might devour her. What did it mean—the way he l
ooked at her—the way he’d kissed her hand?
Confused and unsure of her feelings, she felt naked and vulnerable, like a newborn babe. Not liking the feeling, she forgot herself and lashed out, “And the sooner I recover, the sooner you can deliver me to your lord, like a prize mare. Isn’t that what you mean?”
He shook his head. “I know it’s difficult for you. I understand the pride you have in your country. But Erie is too weak and divided to withstand the English.”
He snagged her gaze, and the look in his eyes was sympathetic. “You’ve lost your family. How much longer could you have held on? The Sinclair believes if Erie and Scotland combine forces, they can—”
“Your lord only wants to steal my lands. He knows I’m weak from fighting, and he seized the opportunity. I don’t believe he wants to unite Scotland and Ireland. If he did, he would approach our rulers in council. Not send knights to enforce his will.”
Raul didn’t reply at first. He stood for a long time, studying her. Under his close scrutiny, she felt exposed, as if he could divine her very thoughts.
A noise outside the door caught her attention. What if it was the stable boy at last? Why had she argued with him again? It had only delayed his leave taking.
The footfalls died away, and she sagged against the table with relief. Spared for a moment more, she must urge him to go.
“Perhaps there is truth in what you say,” he said. “The Sinclair’s motives might well be mixed. It wouldn’t be the first time a powerful man took what he wanted under the guise of a noble cause.”
His harsh words surprised her, and she sensed he spoke from the heart. ’Twas obvious he harbored a secret bitterness against powerful men. But not so surprising. He was a noble bastard, after all, but at the beck and call of his master.
A surge of sympathy rose within her. She lifted her hand, thinking to reach out and comfort him. But she must not. Curling her fingers into a fist, she dropped her hand.
“It matters not what the Sinclair’s motives are,” he said. You couldn’t have held out. I’ve inspected your castle and provisions. Your curtain wall is in need of repair. Your foodstuffs wouldn’t have lasted a fortnight. And your armory contains less than three score arrows.”
She recoiled, wanting to tell him to mind his own affairs. But ’twas too late for that; the deed was done. Instead, she tilted her chin up. “If we possessed no arrows, we would have fought with sword and lance.”
“But not on empty stomachs. I’ve ordered the repairs to be made, and I’ll provision your castle.”
He would do that for her? Her heart warmed with gratitude. Then she remembered he wasn’t fortifying Kinsale for her sake but for his lord. “How?” she asked. “’Tis spring and the harvest is many months away. We slaughtered most of our livestock during the winter siege.”
“The Sinclair is very rich. He sent gold. We’ll buy what we need in Cork—livestock and grain and arrows.”
Let him provision the castle and repair the walls. When her great-uncle drove him out, she’d be more than able to withstand future raids. In truth she couldn’t believe her good fortune, how neatly he was playing into her hands. At the same time, the back of her neck grew warm, as a secret sense of shame stole over her. She shouldn’t be so eager to take advantage of his kindness.
But that was foolish. She pushed the sentimental thought away. This was her castle and lands, and she’d do anything to keep them. And if he wanted her to thank him, his hair would turn white ere she did so.
He stood waiting with his hands clasped behind his back, obviously expecting her to speak. She turned from him and looked out the window. After a moment, she heard him cross to the door.
“I’ll take my leave now,” he said, “with your permission.”
“You have it.” She released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Grateful he was going at last, she faced him again.
He bowed low, and his gaze fell upon her harp lying on the couch. “Do you play?”
“Aye.”
“Would you play for me, milady? I would consider it an honor.”
“Not now, Sir Raul. I’m tired and must rest. You said so yourself.”
“Of course, of course. Forgive me.” His black eyes flicked over her, and he inclined his head. “Perhaps another time.”
A light rapping sounded at the door. Her heart fell to her feet. As if in a bad dream, she watched Raul turn and open the door. She started forward and stopped beside the table, wringing her hands. She didn’t dare speak. Instead, she folded her hands together in an effort to hide their tell-tale shaking.
A tow-headed boy of about thirteen slipped through the door, holding a battered cap in his hands. Touching his forelock, he lowered his thin body in a disjointed bow.
“What’s this, lad?” Raul asked. “Did you come to see your lady or were you sent for me?”
The boy raised his head. A smudge of dirt marred his freckled cheek. “I come to see ’er ’ighness, milord.”
Cahira sucked in her breath, afraid of what he would say next.
“Mildread sent me,” the boy added.
Raul leaned over the boy. As luck would have it, the Templar had his back to Cahira while the boy faced her. She waved her hands to get his attention. The lad’s eyes widened, and his gaze fixed upon her. She placed one finger across her lips. A gleam lit his eyes, and he nodded.
“What’s your name, lad?” Raul asked.
“Loghan, milord.”
“And what business have you with the princess? You say her maidservant sent you?”
Cahira’s heart stopped beating as she waited for Loghan to answer. Was he as discreet as Mildread believed? And had he understood her gesture? Would he be willing to lie for her?
“Aye, Mildread sent me.” He clutched his hat tighter and stole a furtive glance at Cahira. “I work in the stable, an’ ’her ’ighness’ mare is ailing.”
Cahira’s heart started to beat again.
Raul glanced over his shoulder and raised one eyebrow. “That was thoughtful of you, Loghan, to keep your lady informed about her mare.”
He turned back to the boy and pointed to the full knapsack on Loghan’s back. “But what’s this?”
Cahira felt faint, as if her legs would give way. She grasped the edge of the table, clutching the solid wood for support.
Raul squatted beside Loghan and ran his hand over the boy’s footwear. “Such fine boots.” Straightening, he said, “I wonder where a stable lad would get such well-made boots.”
Loghan retreated, shaking his head. He sent her a pitiful look, begging for help. But her tongue had cleaved to the roof of her mouth, and her mind refused to form a plausible falsehood that would explain the boy’s knapsack and boots.
Sinking into a chair, she knew ’twas no use. The Templar had guessed her deception.
All her careful plans were laid to waste.
Chapter Four
One look at her face told Raul the story. The princess might be as brave as any man in battle, but her expressive face held no secrets. Her guilt was clearly written upon her aristocratic features.
Though he admired her natural honesty, he doubted that particular trait would aid her in her new home. In truth the Sinclair was known for his cunning and devious nature. Raul felt a twinge of regret, as if he was leading a lamb to the slaughter.
He shook his head, reminding himself of his mission. She would wed the powerful Sinclair, and the earl would be duty bound to protect his wife, the mother of his heirs. That thought should be comforting, but it disturbed Raul to think of her as the Sinclair’s wife.
A vision of the earl covering her in their marriage bed tore at him. Imagining her perfect body crushed under the Sinclair’s leathery form set his blood pounding, and an unfamiliar emotion flooded him, an emotion akin to possessiveness. The thought of another man touching her made him reach for his sword.
He clenched his fist against the impulse and swallowed past the painful lump in his throat. Loweri
ng his head, he gritted his teeth and chased the traitorous thoughts from his mind. Sensing the boy’s eyes on him, he stole a quick glance at the princess. But she hadn’t moved. She sat, straight-backed and proud, staring at her hands.
He was surprised to see her so quiescent, not fighting her fate. Was it because he’d guessed her plan, and she believed all hope was lost? No matter how she might feel, he must stop her from securing aid. And for that, he needed to know to whom she would send.
“Loghan, find Mildread and return the knapsack and boots,” he said. “Then you may resume your duties in the stable.”
The boy drew himself up, and his pugnacious face soured into a frown. He looked to the princess and asked, “Milady?”
Cahira raised her head and gazed at the lad. Moisture sparkled on her long eyelashes. Glimpsing her tears, something twisted inside of Raul. He started forward, his arms aching to hold her.
¡Madre de Dios!
She roused every protective instinct he possessed. Why was that? Because he was the one who had wounded her? Or because he was her jailer?
He drew back, knowing he didn’t dare offer her comfort. She was the betrothed of his sworn master. And no matter how much he despised the thought of the earl possessing her slender body and bending her spirit to his will, honor demanded obedience to his lord.
“Go to Mildread, Loghan,” she said. “And thank you for waiting on me.”
“Milady, may I keep the boots?” The boy thrust out one foot, admiring the well-polished leather. “Please, milady.”
A wan smile touched her lips. “Of certain, Loghan, you earned those boots.” Rising, she crossed to the boy and placed her hand on his shoulder. “They belonged to my brother Odran, but he has no use for them now. I know he would want you to have them.”
Raul knew she spoke of a beloved brother who had died fighting the English. And though her gesture made a terrible kind of sense, it must be wrenching to part with her family’s things.
His chest tightened and his body stiffened and an ache like the ague swept him. He held himself coiled tightly, willing the trembling to pass—commanding himself to not move to her side and cup her face in his hands and...