by Hebby Roman
Loghan rescued him by bowing low and taking her hand to kiss it. “If I can serve you, milady, please send for me.” Then he glanced at Raul, the challenge implicit in his blue eyes.
The lad had the makings of a seasoned courtier, and his loyalty was commendable, Raul thought. Bowing to the boy, Raul said, “Master Loghan, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The youth’s face turned as red as a winter sunset. Obviously flustered by the unexpected courtesy, he bobbed his head and quit the room.
Raul stared at the door after Loghan pulled it shut, dreading what must come next. “I’ll take the message you meant for Loghan to deliver.”
“What message?” In mock innocence, she widened her eyes.
She possessed the most remarkable eyes, green as the hills of her homeland, flecked with tiny specks of gold dust. And they loomed large in her face and were tilted slightly at the corners.
“Loghan came to tell me of my mare. You heard him.”
So, she would force him to prove she was a liar. Her spirit had obviously returned. She had her nose tilted so high it almost grazed the ceiling. And the tears he had glimpsed were, like as not, brought on by frustration, not desperation.
“We both know you were sending Loghan on a journey, thus the boots and knapsack. I suspect you were dispatching him to bring help.” He sighed and stretched out his hand. “I must have the missive.”
“But I did not—”
“Please, milady, don’t abuse my patience.”
Her gaze drilled him, her eyes sparkling like the finest emeralds. He locked his eyes with hers.
Shaking her head, she was the one who broke eye contact. “God’s teeth,” she muttered, “I’ll get the letter.” Moving to one of her trunks, she opened the lid and rummaged through the contents, retrieving a packet of velum sealed with a wax stamp.
He held out his hand again, but she ignored him. Rushing to the hearth, she threw the packet into the flickering flames.
His first thought was to snatch the pages from the fire. His next inclination was to shake her. Neither impulse would do. The parchment caught quickly, rendering the missive a burning mass of curling fragments. Deep in his heart, he cheered her bravery, though her action made his mission more difficult. He could guess the contents of the message, what he didn’t know was to whom she would send for aid.
“Who was the missive for?”
“You don’t know?”
He turned from the fireplace and drank in her beauty, relishing the jade green flash of her eyes against the milky purity of her skin. She canted her head at him, and her burnished red-gold hair cascaded down her back in long waves, framing her heart-shaped face.
Her fierce determination moved him, and his arms ached with longing to embrace her. His fingers twitched with yearning, craving to stroke through the golden wealth of her hair. If he could, he would trace each fine line of her countenance with his fingertips, trailing over her cheeks and feathering the line of her jaw. He imagined lifting her face to meet his, her strawberry-ripe lips sweet to the taste...
Starting, he stopped himself again, awakening as if from a trance. He mustn’t think thus, for such rash desire would betray his lord and debase his Order. He stared at the flickering flames. “Tell me who the missive was meant for.”
“Nay, I will not.”
Raul nodded, understanding the desperation that drove her. With her family gone, who would aid her? Some distant relation, perhaps? Or a suitor he didn’t know about? She might refuse him, but there were other ways to uncover the truth.
Malcolm would know.
****
Cahira opened her eyes. She must have slept for the shadows lay long upon the wall. After facing down Raul, she’d felt tired and dizzy. She’d lain on the couch for a few moments and fallen asleep.
Turning over, she found Mildread sitting by the hearth with her head bent over her mending. Her maidservant must have heard her move, for she glanced up. Their eyes met, and Mildread dropped the frayed tunic and rose to her feet.
“May I fetch your supper, milady?”
“Aye, Mildread, please.” She paused, gathering her wits. “And send Malcolm to me.”
Mildread bobbed her head, pity in her eyes. “I’m sorry Loghan dinna work for ye. I’ll try to find ’nother lad.”
So her maidservant didn’t know. Cahira had thought Loghan would have told her, but mayhap the lad was as discreet as Mildread believed.
“Nay, Mildread, another lad is no use. The Templar discovered our plan. He’s the one who sent Loghan to the stables, not me.”
Mildread shook her head, her brown eyes soft as a doe’s. “Aw, milady, I’m sorry for ye. We’ve got to find a way to send to yer kin.”
One thing she couldn’t bear was her maidservant’s pity. Sympathy she’d accept, but not pity.
“I’ll find a way, Mildread.” She drew herself up and leaned against the plump pillows. “I’ll ride to my great-uncle’s keep.”
“Oh, milady, but ’tis dangerous—that. Riding out by yerself.”
“No more dangerous than being wed to a strange Scot.”
“Aye, milady,” Mildread agreed while slowly shaking her head.
“Go then, fetch my supper and Malcolm.”
After Mildread had quit the room, Cahira rose and crossed to the hearth. The fire burned low. She poked at the smoldering logs. At her insistence, the flames flickered to life. Placing one hand on the mantelpiece, she leaned against the carved stone and thought what she must do.
Her attempt to send a message had failed. And now Raul was alerted. She’d be hard pressed to get a message out. That left her only one option; she must go herself. But she would need help. She knew of only one person who might aid her and that was Malcolm.
He’d betrayed her, true enough, but she refused to believe he was beyond appeal. The hardships and battles they’d shared should mean something. She had to believe he would help her—if he understood what she proposed—no more fighting without protection. She’d marry to secure her lands, and her royal relations would stand ready to protect her legacy. Of certain, Malcolm wouldn’t turn his back on their people.
But if he approved of her plan, he would want to go in her stead. That would be best because he could leave without suspicion. Even though Raul claimed she wasn’t a prisoner, she knew his words were false. If she tried to leave, she would be stopped.
A knock sounded on the door, and she turned from the fireplace. “Enter.”
Malcolm walked into the room and bowed. “Mildread said you sent for me, milady.”
“Good eventide, to you, Sir Malcolm.”
“And to you, milady. Sir Raul told me you were distressed over Dwyer’s departure.”
Sir Raul. How quickly one man gave his respect to another. But a woman, even a princess, had to labor mightily for each crumb of a man’s esteem.
“Aye, I wondered where Dwyer went and who gave him permission.”
“I thought the Templar explained.”
“He did, but I would like to hear the tale from you.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t give Dwyer permission to leave, milady. He lied to the seneschal and pushed his way past the guard.”
“Once you knew he’d gone, why didn’t you tell me?”
“The deed was done. I thought—”
“You thought because I’m a captive and no longer your liege lord, I need not be informed.”
He clenched his jaw and fisted his hands. “Nay, milady, not true.”
“Which part is false?”
“Your Highness?”
“The part about my being a captive? Or that I need not be informed?”
“Neither, milady. You’re still my princess.” He dropped to one knee. “You know I would protect you with my life.”
“And if I wanted to be rescued from the Templar, would you aid me?”
Rising slowly, he scowled. “Nay, I cannot.”
“Why not?”
“I beli
eve you need a strong marriage alliance.”
“True,” she agreed. “But there are others I might marry.”
The frown on his face deepened. “If you mean your cousins, I cannot help you. I told Sir Raul, like as not, you tried to send to the King of Ulster, promising to wed one of your kin.”
So her suspicion had been accurate, but she wouldn’t let him off that easily. “You told the Templar?” She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to keep her voice soft and low.
“Aye, I did.” He stood straighter and faced her.
“So, I am your captive, not your princess—to be spied upon and reported to the Templar.”
He opened his mouth and his lips moved, but no sound came.
“What say you of my great-uncle?” she demanded. “He is my rightful protector and would guard my legacy. Why didn’t you turn to him?”
Malcolm dropped his gaze. “The King of Ulster is your rightful kin, I cannot deny that.” He looked up, and his face was contorted with pain. “But when your father asked for his aid, he didn’t help. The siege dragged on, and our provisions dwindled. Then the fever came.” His voice shaded into a whisper. “I lost my Meghan to the fever.”
Meghan... Cahira searched her memory, and then she remembered. Meghan McCormack, the tiny brunette gentlewoman, who had sheltered at Kinsale en route to her home and been caught by the siege.
Cahira hadn’t known Malcolm cared for Meghan. In truth the last siege was but a blur of pain and the blackest grief. For that was when she’d lost Da and her remaining brother.
“We were betrothed,” he said. “She had agreed. I had only to ask her father for her…h-hand.” His voice caught.
“You blame my great-uncle for her death?”
He stared at her, not flinching.
“Malcolm, you must know...” She stopped. ’Twas obvious he believed if help had come and the siege had been broken sooner, his Meghan would have lived.
She’d oft wondered what would have happened if her great-uncle had sent knights. Would her father and brother still be alive? But she’d forced herself to put away such thoughts for dwelling on the past was a fool’s exercise.
Now she understood why Malcolm hadn’t sent to her kin and why he’d turned to the Templar. She must pray for Malcolm to let his bitterness go, to find a way to put his pain aside. A deep well of sadness opened within her.
“M-milady, I wish—”
“I understand, Malcolm.” She turned her back and gazed at the fire. “Please go and leave me in peace.”
The door shut softly, and she stood at the fireplace for a long time, watching the dancing flames and remembering her life before.
The door clicked open, and she glanced up to find Mildread, her arms laden with a tray of food. “’Ere is your supper. Please, milady, sit an’ eat.”
But Cahira didn’t want to sit and eat. In truth the terrible sadness she’d tried to banish had invaded her soul, leaving her empty and forlorn. All hope was lost, too, for Malcolm would warn Raul of her plan.
“Come, milady,” her serving woman beckoned. “’Tis braised chicken an’ lentil soup. Ye must eat to stay strong.”
Strong. ’Twas a word her father and brothers revered. She must stay strong. Mustn’t allow her grief to overwhelm what she had to do.
Biting down on her lip, she pushed all the gloomy memories aside and made a brash decision. “Mildread, I should leave tonight. Can Loghan have my mare ready?” She paced to the window and glanced down. “Who guards the drawbridge?”
“I will send to Loghan, milady, and ’e will ’ave your mare at the ready. As for the guard on the drawbridge…”
Cahira turned. “I must know. Will he aid my escape?”
“Mayhap, I will go and see.”
“Do you need coins?”
“Nay, milady, your people wouldna want ye to buy their loyalty.”
“Go then and return quickly.”
Mildread curtsied. “I will do all that I can.”
****
Raul stood outside the princess’ solar door. Like a pilgrim drawn to the Holy Land, he found himself lured to her side. But he had no ready excuse, for she’d recovered quickly and had no need of his physician’s skills.
She wouldn’t welcome him, for he’d foiled her plan, conspiring with Malcolm to keep her from her kin. No, he’d not find a warm welcome within, but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking of her and wanting to help her. But that was a fool’s wish, a sop for his guilty conscience, no doubt. Pivoting on his heel, he started down the hallway to his room.
Then he heard it—the soaring notes of a harp. The golden sound surrounded him, holding him captive in its shimmering wake. Hesitantly, he turned and approached her door, drawn by the glorious music.
Standing with his head down, he concentrated on the harp’s song, savoring each note and the lilting sound of her voice, blending in perfect harmony with the instrument. The ballad she’d chosen was a plaintive one, and he detected the sadness in her tone. Knowing he’d brought that sadness upon her, his gut twisted. With each strum of the strings, she plucked at his heart.
How he wished his coming to Kinsale had been different—if only they’d met under better circumstances.
Better circumstances.
His mouth twisted into a sour smile. When would he learn? She was a high-born lady, and he was a penniless bastard. They inhabited two separate worlds. Even more, he was her captor and jailer. And she despised him for that. Her closed door might as well be the highest mountain or the deepest sea for all that separated them.
“I’ve come for the watch, Sir Raul.” Evan, one of his Scottish knights, roused him from his pathetic thoughts. “There’s no need for you to stay.”
Raul nodded and patted Evan’s shoulder. With slow steps, he made his way back to his room. Once there, he thrust her from his mind and busied himself with caring for his injured knights.
After he tended their wounds, Dall and Morogh fell asleep. Raul put away his medicines and lifted the basin of water. He went to the window and threw the tainted liquid into the yard below. A dog barked, shattering the quiet night.
He crossed to the table and took up a boiled rag, tearing it into a bandage. As he tugged at the cloth, his thoughts returned to the princess. He knew how determined she was to escape, so he’d set Evan and two other Scottish knights to take turns watching her.
It was a makeshift solution at best, for the sooner they departed Kinsale, the better. The longer they tarried, the harder it would be to keep her from securing aid or escaping.
He needed to make plans.
He would leave Clach, whom he’d trained in the healing arts, to care for Dall and Morogh. Malcolm could finish restocking the castle and giving foodstuffs to the outlying crofters.
Her Highness would want her serving woman on the journey. Raul would need to take two of his best knights as escort, leaving Barclay in command and his other knights behind to secure Kinsale. They could take ship from Cork and journey to the Sinclair’s harbor at Castletown in less than a fortnight if the winds were favorable.
Satisfied with his plan, he snuffed out the guttering candle and removed his hose and tunic. He stretched out on the lumpy pallet and folded his hands beneath his head, drifting off to sleep, only to be awakened by a loud, banging noise.
Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and tried to clear his sleep-fogged mind. Who would be hammering at his door and why? It wasn’t morning yet, for the room was still dark except for a silver wedge of moonlight gilding the flagstone floor.
Morogh and Dall groaned and tossed on their pallets, as if in protest. Raul threw off his covers and stumbled to the door, using the wan moonlight to guide him.
When he opened the door, he found Evan. And then Raul knew. “Where is she?”
“Gone to the stables. I would have stopped her, but you said—”
“To fetch me.” Raul glanced down at his naked body and realized he must dress. The groan of metal gears smote his ears, and he kne
w there was no time.
¡Sangre de Cristo!
She was getting away. “Stop her,” he commanded. “I’ll dress and come down.”
“Aye, Sir Raul.” Evan spun around and trotted down the hallway.
Moments later, Raul crossed the yard and glanced inside the portcullis, wondering who had been on duty and allowed her Highness to pass against his orders.
The room stood empty. Not too surprising. The man must have known he’d have to answer for his action. But hiding would do him no good. Raul would deal with the gatekeeper later.
Rounding the guard tower, he found Evan standing in the middle of the drawbridge with his sword pointed at a rider and horse. A bulky cape and hood covered the rider, but one slender ankle peeked from beneath the heavy outer garment.
“Evan, sheath your sword,” Raul said.
“But milord, she would have run me down.”
He stepped in front of her mount and grabbed the bridle. “She won’t run now.”
Shaking his head, Evan put his sword away. Raul moved alongside the princess and held out his hand. “Please, milady, dismount.”
Something flashed bright against the dark night, and he glimpsed the swift descent of a knife. Throwing up his arm to deflect the blade, he was surprised when she cried out, “Nay, I cannot.” The blade clattered on the cobblestones.
Why would the lioness he’d met on the battlefield stay her hand? Glancing up, he met her anguished stare. By the pale light of the moon, her green eyes appeared as dark as the deepest recesses of the forest. But they flashed fire, too.
He bent to pick up the dagger and threw it to Evan. “Return to the castle and wait there.” The knight sketched a bow and left them alone.
With a toss of her head, the hood fell back. Her hair tumbled to her waist, a red-gold skein that trapped the silver moonlight in its web and reflected the light in a thousand dancing moonbeams.
“How did you know?” she asked.
Shrugging, he admitted, “Evan was watching your room.”
“But I’m not a captive, so say you.”
“After finding the message and—”