The Princess and the Templar

by Hebby Roman

  She brushed her lips with her fingertips. They were swollen and bruised from his kiss. And the smell of him, his musky male scent still lingered on her gown and in her hair. Nay, no wizard’s spell that. The Templar had been real enough. He’d kissed her, and she’d felt the hard evidence of his desire. He’d lusted after her like a man, not a monk.

  But he’d broken the kiss and put her away. His willpower had triumphed over passion’s brief flare. What had she expected? That he would relinquish his life’s work and sworn vows to, to…do what?

  She’d never been kissed before, except by her kin. She hadn’t known what to expect. Hadn’t known about the heat and liquid desire. Hadn’t anticipated the need that would claw at her insides, turning her molten and aching. In truth she’d never thought much about kissing. She’d believed she would marry for love and her rightful husband would teach her the ways of desire.

  She knew about the rutting of animals and had glimpsed her servants coupling in dark corners. But when she’d yearned for a love match, she’d envisioned her lovemaking as something purer, nobler. She sighed. Raul couldn’t give her that kind of love. He was bound to his Order.

  What had possessed her to return his kiss? To clutch at his broad shoulders and press herself against his hard maleness? For he was her captor, and he'd robbed her of all she held dear. And yet, he was dark as sin and twice as handsome. She admired his wide shoulders and muscular chest. Liked to watch him walk, marveling at the corded strength of his thighs.

  Fool that she was; she’d lusted after him. Desired him with a burning intensity that would frighten the saints from heaven. Sweet Jesú, she was doomed, a wanton. How could she have fallen to such depths?

  Lifting her hands, she cradled her flushed cheeks, thinking to hide her shame. That was when she heard the unmistakable groan of wood shifting. Startled, she retreated into the shadows and stared at the place from whence the sound had come.

  A pile of hay on a cart shifted, and a boy stuck his head out. A tow-headed lad, Loghan. How long had he been there? How much had he seen? And what had he heard? Backing into the corner, she prayed he wouldn’t see her.

  But he rubbed his eyes and stared straight at her. “Milady?”

  Curse his sharp eyes. She considered fleeing without speaking but ’twould only serve to make her appear guiltier. And she couldn’t turn her back on him. Twice now, he’d aided her escape, and she cherished his simple loyalty.

  “Good eventide to you, Loghan.” She tried to control the trembling falsetto of her voice. “What are you doing here, lad?”

  “I sleep ’ere, milady.” He jumped down from the cart and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “An’ I dinna want no part o’ that pledgin’ in the great hall.”

  A surge of tenderness welled in Cahira’s heart. The boy was loyal; mayhap her only loyal subject other than Mildread. She wanted to hug him, but she didn’t know how he would react.

  Instead, she shook her head slowly. “Nor did I. That’s why I came here.”

  He cocked his head and considered, as if pondering what she meant. Of certain he must know she wouldn’t be pleased, hearing her people swear their allegiance to another. Or was his questioning glance because of something else? Had he seen the Templar kiss her? Shuddering, she hoped not.

  The silence grew long between them. She should take her leave. Smoothing her hair, she knew she must look a fright with her tear-stained cheeks and swollen lips.

  But she was thinking of only herself, what of the boy? Pieces of straw protruded haphazardly from his mop of wheat-colored hair, and his thin cloak and leggings were covered with dust and chaff. “Why were you sleeping in the cart, Loghan? Don’t you have a bed?”

  “Aye, milady, I ’ave a bed.” He hitched one shoulder in the general direction of the tack room. “In there. But ’tis warmer in the cart with the ’ay.”

  Spring had come while she convalesced. The air was warm in the stable, close with the bodies of horses. Why was the boy cold? “Where’s your blanket?” she asked.

  He dropped his head and drew a line in the dust with the toe of his boot. His prize boots. She could see he’d taken care of them, the leather shone with polishing. And he’d been sleeping in them, she thought with a smile.

  “I gave it away,” he said.

  “To who?”

  Lifting his gaze to hers, she glimpsed the same fierce conviction he’d shown when he’d proclaimed his loyalty.

  “A crofter’s lass. She was but five an’ ’ad to share ’er blanket with ’er sister.” He shrugged as if to say ’twas nothing special, what he’d done. “The lass was shiverin’.”

  His simple, self-effacing words were like a dagger in her heart. Always had the O’Donnells taken special care of their people. But with the sieges and battles, there had been little enough time to see to the crofters’ needs. That Raul was restocking the castle was true. But what about her tenants?

  She’d been remiss in her duty. Pledge or no pledge, they were still her people.

  “Won’t you be cold without a blanket?” she asked.

  He shrugged again. “Summer’s comin’.”

  How brave of him, to give his only blanket to someone in need. Loghan would bear watching. ’Twould seem he had the makings of something more than a castle servant. She should assign him to a knight to be trained as a squire. Then she remembered she had no say in the matter; that right had been taken from her.

  “Go see Mildread on the morn, and she’ll give you another blanket.” She smiled and couldn’t help but tease. “Unless you’d rather sleep in the hay.”

  He colored and brushed at his clothes, suddenly aware of how he must look. “Nay, the ’ay will be goin’ to a crofter on the morrow.”

  His statement surprised her. She’d thought the hay was for the castle. Was Raul seeing to her tenants, after all? If he was, she owed him a debt of gratitude. She’d expected him to restock the castle for the Sinclair, but he was under no such compulsion to take care of her crofters.

  Another thought struck her. If what Loghan said was true, the cart would leave the keep soon. The lad had been curled inside, asleep under the hay, and she hadn’t known he was there.

  By the Blessed Virgin Mary, finally an answer to her prayers! Excitement bubbled in her veins. She wanted to grab Loghan and dance a jig. She wanted to shout for joy. But she did none of those things; instead, she concentrated on the plan forming in her mind.

  Raul must have banished her guard when he followed her to the stable and kissed her. And no new guard had come. In truth the Templar was probably as shamed as she. If she returned to the solar, her guard would be waiting.

  So she wouldn’t return. She’d stay in the stable and hide in the cart. When she was outside the walls, she’d take the horse and race to her great-uncle. But the driver would need to be a part of the plan.

  “Loghan, go you with the cart on the morrow?”

  “Aye, I’ve been ’elpin’ Fallon with the ’ay. Takin’ it to the crofters.”

  Fallon, her chief groom, she knew him well. He was a large, taciturn man who had always served her faithfully. Was he still loyal? She didn’t remember seeing him at the pledge ceremony.

  “Loghan, you’ve aided me in the past. Will you help me again?”

  He tugged on his forelock. “’Twould be my pleasure. What would you ’ave me do?”

  “Hide me in the cart so I can get outside the castle.”

  His blue eyes widened. “’Tis a good plan—that.”

  “Aye, but Fallon would need to agree.” She took a deep breath, knowing she had to ask but fearing the answer. “Is he still loyal?”

  Loghan started forward, one fist clenched. “Of certain, milady. ’E despises the Scots.”

  She released her breath. “Did he go to the pledge ceremony?”

  “Nay.” The boy scowled and shook his head. “’E wouldna desert his princess.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “Slipped over the wall to visit ’is lady l
ove.” Loghan blushed, making his freckles stand out. “’E will return afore the sun.”

  “Good then.” She smiled and held out her hand. “Will you help me into the cart? And show me how to hide under the straw?”

  Chapter Six

  Raul folded his arms on the table and rested his aching head. Through narrowed eyes he watched the dying embers in the hearth. A loud snore reverberated in the great hall, followed by sleepy mutterings and the sound of crackling straw.

  Many a man had found his bed after a river of ale to wash away the bitter aftertaste of betrayal. The oaths had taken a long time. Knights and then yeomen and last, servants. Too many men and too many toasts.

  He wasn’t a drinking man, but tonight the ale had flowed down his gullet like the richest mulled wine. Deep in his cups, he relished the lamb’s wool that filled his head. Given enough stuffing, he’d crowd out the tortured twists of his mind. Ale was the remedy, the cure. He was the physician and so said he.

  He lifted his head and reached for his half-full tankard, but he couldn’t feel his fingers. Fancy that. He gripped the handle, but the cool pewter almost slipped through his hands. Awkwardly, he pulled the mug to his chest and steadied it there. Then he lifted the tankard and downed its contents, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and eagerly awaiting the oblivion it would bring.

  Not that he’d sleep tonight. Of that he was certain. For the drink was but a coward’s ploy—to make him forget he’d kissed her.

  Madre de Dios, he’d kissed Cahira as if she belonged to him and not his lord. Kissed her as if his duty wasn’t bound to the Order. Kissed her as if he was a man and she was a maid and naught else mattered.

  And he'd thought of her as Cahira, not the princess. For he'd kissed her, and now and forever, she would be his Cahira. Madre de Dios, what was happening to him?

  The room tilted and he shook his head, not knowing what he thought or how he felt. The ale was a blessing, though, blunting the edges of truth and chasing away the remnants of his conscience. But he couldn’t stay drunk for the remainder of his life. Could he? Some men did, even his fellow Templars. And they took maids, too, in spite of their vows. Took them to bed and got them with child.

  Por Dios, his own father had forgotten his vows. As the second son of the powerful Count of Burgos, his father had been destined for the church. He’d entered their sacred ranks, but his vows had meant nothing.

  Liar. Hypocrite.

  His father had no true calling, no vocation. He’d not cared how he sowed his seed or whom he hurt. He’d taken his pleasure with a serving wench and begot a son. And Raul was that bastard child, born with no place in the world and no birthright.

  Unlike his father, once upon a time, he’d been certain he possessed a calling within the noble aims of the Templar Order. Now he wasn’t so certain, not if it meant he must steal and shame and degrade in the name of yet another powerful man, the Earl of Orkney.

  Fisting his hand, he pounded the table, reveling in the sharp bite of the wood against his skin. He wished he could make sense of what he’d done, lusting after Cahira when he had no right.

  Liar. Hypocrite.

  He was his father’s son, after all.

  His head lolled, and he slumped over the table. The fire had died to a flicker, and the room had chilled. He should haul himself to his feet and find his bed. But he didn’t move, didn’t care.

  “Sir Raul, Sir Raul, are you awake?”

  Someone had called his name. The voice sounded like Sean’s, his faithful knight of the second watch. The second watch? But it must be long past that time. Long past. He tried to lift his head, but it was heavy and lumpish. Mulishly stubborn, resisting. Fumbling with his hands, he thought to grasp it and raise the thing. But that was a fool’s effort, for he was a physician, and all physicians knew that was what necks were fashioned for. Weren’t they?

  Think, concentrate. He gritted his teeth and managed to look up, expecting to see Sean standing before him. But what he saw were two knights, not one, wavering and shifting, merging into each other and then floating apart. Not the same man, though, for one was fair and the other dark. Sean was flaxen-haired, and Evan had dark brown hair. Now he understood. The watches were changing.

  “Evan, you’re on watch now.” He waved his hand. “Sean, you may go.”

  “But Sir Raul, where is the princess?” Sean asked.

  What a stupid question, especially at this time of night. Raul straightened with an effort, feeling his lumpish head float from his shoulders. Heavy and now light. He would need to ponder this on the morrow.

  “She must be in her bed,” he replied.

  “Nay, she didn’t come to the solar,” Sean said.

  “What? What say you?” Raul demanded, feeling suddenly strange, as if his stomach had crawled into his throat.

  “Nay, she didn’t return from the stable.” Sean spread his hands. “I thought she was with you, Sir Raul.”

  “With me?” His stomach rolled over, and a sick feeling of dread gripped him. But dread of what? He didn’t know. His thoughts were too muddled.

  “Sir Raul, I came for the third watch, and Sean said he hadn’t seen the princess since Malcolm took the oath,” Evan explained.

  Bless Evan, now they were getting somewhere. Raul tried to think…

  ¡Perdición!

  The thick stuffing melted away, and sobriety returned with a rush. Cahira was missing. She’d escaped again!

  Leaping to his feet brought on waves of dizziness. His temples pounded and his stomach churned. Catching his breath, he straightened and tried to ignore the swaying room. “She isn’t in her solar?” It was more a statement than a question, as he could guess the answer from the two knights’ scowls.

  “Nay, milord, her room is empty.” Evan answered.

  “What of Mildread, her serving wench?”

  “I’ve not seen her since afore supper,” Sean replied.

  That didn’t surprise Raul. Like as not, Mildread had aided Cahira's escape again and then disappeared.

  “Why didn’t you come for me sooner, Sean?” Raul asked. “Didn’t you wonder why she hadn’t returned?”

  Sean stepped back. Trepidation and something else clouded his blue eyes. Then he went down on one knee, blubbering, “Please, milord, I’m sorry. I deserted my duty and—”

  “You did what?” Raul asked.

  “I-I f-fell asleep.” He clasped his hands together and glanced at the other knight. “Evan awakened me.”

  Disappointed and angry at Sean, Raul looked to Evan. Evan stood with his hands behind his back, staring at a point above Raul’s head. At his glance, Evan nodded to confirm what Sean had said.

  Taking a deep breath, Raul struggled to keep his fury in check. “What’s done is done. Rise, Sean.”

  “Aye, milord.” Sean got to his feet, but he kept his head down and his eyes averted.

  He should probably punish Sean for falling asleep. But what good would that do? And the truth be told, Raul felt partially to blame. Cahira was his responsibility, and if he hadn’t kissed her and then spent half the night drowning his guilty conscience, he would have verified her safe return hours past.

  He stiffened in his chair and warned, “When you’re on guard duty, Sean, you must not fall asleep. This time, no real harm has been done. We’ll find her, I doubt not.” He wanted to be fair, but he also needed to emphasize the gravity of the knight’s error. “Let this be a lesson to you. What if you’d slept and let the enemy pass and your fellow knights had been ambushed?”

  Sean raised his head, the look in his eyes bleak. His throat worked, but no sound came.

  “Do you understand me?” Raul asked.

  “Aye, sir.” He pulled back his shoulders and thrust out his chest. “I’m ready to take my flogging.”

  “Your flogging? What say you?”

  Sean didn’t answer; just stared straight ahead. Raul swung his attention to Evan. “What’s this about a flogging?”

  “He failed
in his duty, milord.” Evan finally met his gaze. “The earl would order twenty lashes as punishment.”

  Sangre de Cristo, the Sinclair beat his knights? He’d known the earl was a hard man, but he’d never heard of a lord who punished his knights as if they were common thieves. Raul shook his head, wondering what manner of a man he served. When he returned to Scotland, he would make inquiries. Perhaps he would ask to be moved to Spain, in spite of his father’s wishes.

  But what of Cahira?

  With that thought, he returned to the problem at hand. “I’m not the Sinclair, and I don’t hold with flogging.” He paused, wanting his words to carry weight. “But see that you don’t neglect your duty again. And one more thing, Sean, you’ll not rest tonight. You’ll help with the search.”

  Sean bowed. “Aye, milord.”

  “What would you have me do?” Evan asked. “I want to help as well.”

  Raul regarded him for a moment, pondering how best to use his men. “No, Evan, I want you to rest. I might have need of you on the morrow.”

  Evan bowed and quit the room. Sean stood at the ready. Raul turned and gazed at the snoring men who littered the great hall. They’d taken the oath last night. Would they remain loyal? Or would they see this as an opportunity to aid their lady?

  ****

  Raul sat astride his horse in the courtyard, ready to ride out. Once again, Cahira had slipped from their grasp. But what he couldn’t understand was how she’d escaped the castle keep.

  His men were at the gate, and the drawbridge hadn’t been lowered that night. He’d thought of the sea and speculated she might have fled by boat. Malcolm had dismissed that theory, explaining no one launched a craft from Kinsale castle as the undertow flung all boats against the rocks.

  Raul had looked for her in the stables, thinking she might have fallen asleep there. But the building was empty, except for a drowsy Loghan, lying on a pallet in the tack room. Raul had questioned the boy but gotten nowhere. Not that he’d expected to, the stable lad was one of Cahira's staunchest supporters.