by Hebby Roman
’Twas no real choice.
Jerking from his self-pitying reverie, he tried to rise from his pallet, suddenly worrying about how Cahira fared? He lurched up, calling out, “Arnaud?”
“Raul, I’m here.” A figure loomed over him, blocking the light from the fire.
“The princess?” he asked.
“She’s well, and we’ve tended her wounds. She sleeps.”
Relief washed over Raul. “That’s good.” Hopelessness choked him again, but he had to know. “And the others, Sean and Evan and the maidservant?”
Arnaud shook his head. “All dead.”
He lay back on the makeshift pallet, allowing the awful anguish to seep into his bones. He hated fighting, despised the waste. But this time, he’d had no choice. And Cahira had fought beside him at the bitter end. Like a lioness she’d been, so brave and true.
“Raul?” Hearing her voice, he raised himself from the pallet, sitting up.
“Cahira?” Then he realized he’d used her given name. He’d never done that before. Could she forgive him?
The answer was swift. “Aye, Raul, I’m here.”
She stepped between him and the fire’s glow. They gazed at each other for one brief moment, and then she knelt beside him. Without a word, her arms went around his neck.
At her unexpected touch, his heart swelled and his pulse quickened. He’d gladly face a thousand brigands and suffer a hundred wounds to win her sweet reward. Lifting his good arm, he encircled her waist, pulling her closer.
With a trembling hope in his heart, he brushed her forehead with his lips. She didn’t pull away; instead, she buried her face in the hollow of his neck and sighed. The feel of her warm body next to his was a kind of heaven. Despite the pain in his shoulder, he’d never felt so whole before.
Arnaud gazed at them, a knowing gleam in his eye. Raul started to release her, but then he stopped. Cahira was oblivious to Arnaud. If she didn’t care, why should he?
But she must have sensed his indecision, for she raised her head and gazed into his eyes, a long, lingering and silent caress. If Arnaud hadn’t been there, he would have kissed her, taken her lips and lost himself in the warmth of their embrace. Instead, he lifted his good arm and placed it around her shoulders. She leaned into him, one dainty hand splayed on his chest.
Her simple touch drove him wild with longing, turning his body turgid with need. Never before had he desired a woman as he did Cahira, not even in the first flush of his randy youth. Weak as a newborn calf, he wanted nothing more than to bury himself in the sweet promise of her body.
His vows be damned.
Arnaud cleared his throat, and Raul looked up, blinking, as if waking from a trance. Without preamble, his friend declared, “The brigands that set upon you were the Sinclair’s men.”
Shock ricocheted through Raul, and he tensed. Cahira raised her gaze to his. Her look was accusing, but on this point his conscience was clear. He’d anticipated the earl’s treachery and tried to save her.
“I knew they weren’t brigands,” he agreed. “They didn’t want our money.”
“At the Sinclair’s bidding, they dressed as such and staged a robbery, so no one would guess the earl’s involvement,” Arnaud explained.
“You sent me that missive to come at all haste because the earl was going to wed another,” Raul replied. “Now the deed is done, and the earl is already married.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his friend’s countenance. “How did you know?”
“We met with Robert the Bruce, and he told us the Sinclair had married a Norse chieftain’s daughter.”
“You have the truth of it.” Arnaud nodded. “The earl changed his mind when one of the princess’ men came to his stronghold.”
Cahira stirred beside Raul. Emboldened by their newfound intimacy, he stroked her hair, wanting to soothe her. But she shook him off, inquiring, “One of my men?”
“The man called himself Dwyer MacMalley,” Arnaud said.
“My master-at-arms,” she replied, “so he was the traitor.”
“He came to tell the Sinclair that Kinsale had been secured and to beg a position in the earl’s guards.”
“Did the Sinclair give him a position?” she asked.
“Oui, and this MacMalley also told the Sinclair you fought his knights as a man would and was wounded. The earl didn’t want a wife who would—”
“Take up a sword and fight,” she finished.
Arnaud nodded. “Knowing Raul had secured Kinsale, the Sinclair turned to more pressing matters—raiders from the north. The Norse chieftain offered peace and all of Orkney if the Sinclair would marry his daughter. The earl agreed.”
He turned his gaze to Raul and continued, “I sent the missive, hoping you would come before the Sinclair went through with the wedding.”
“I didn’t understand,” Raul said.
“I couldn’t tell you the whole of it for fear my letter would be intercepted,” Arnaud said.
“And so, the princess became a hindrance,” Raul said.
“I learned of the earl’s final treachery but two days past. I gathered the Templars most loyal to me.”
“I want to return to Eire and retake my castle,” Cahira interrupted.
“I know,” Raul said, “and you have every right. But we will still need money and knights.”
“What about Arnaud’s Knight Templars?” she asked.
“There are only six of us,” Arnaud interjected, “not enough to retake a castle, Your Highness.” Lowering his voice, he added, “They came to your aid, but they’re still pledged to the Sinclair.”
“And what of you, Sir Arnaud?” she asked.
“Non, I will not return to his service.” He took up a stick and savagely poked at the flickering fire. “For I will not serve a man who plots to murder a princess.” He shook his head.
She touched Arnaud’s shoulder. “Thank you for that.” Then she turned to Raul and lifted her chin. “What would you have me do?”
Raul clenched his one good fist and willed his breathing to slow. His heart pounded in his ears, and a pulsing throb echoed in his injured shoulder. If not for Arnaud, he’d be dead, and the brigands would have ravished her. He couldn’t begin to fathom the evilness that drove the earl.
He wanted nothing more than to encircle the Sinclair’s throat with his hands and slowly squeeze the life from him. But he was done with death and dying for now. More important—he must right the wrongs done to Cahira.
Gazing into her dark green eyes, the pulsing anger drained away, to be replaced by a slow, hungry ache. He yearned to take her in his arms and lose himself in her embrace. To forget all that had happened and all they’d faced.
And how he wished he could do what she wanted, to retake her castle. But alas, he’d done his duty too well, securing her keep against siege. They would need a great force to bring Kinsale down.
With trembling hands, he smoothed the curls from her face. “Cahira, we wouldn’t succeed. To go there and be defeated would be—”
Pulling free, she rose. The look in her storm-tossed eyes reproached him. Her voice, when she spoke, was barely a whisper, “After all that we’ve been through, how can you deny me?”
“Your Highness, might I say a word?” Arnaud cut in.
With a heavy sigh, she glanced at him. “Aye, Sir Knight, please, speak freely.”
“The Sinclair relies upon the support and knights of our Order. As such, he owes allegiance to the Grand Master of the Templars, Jacques de Molay. If we petition de Molay on your behalf, he might be persuaded to right the wrong done to you. The Sinclair would be forced to give way or lose our Order’s support.”
Hearing his friend’s words, Raul knew their wisdom. Staggering to his feet, he stood swaying. He’d lost so much blood he felt lightheaded, yet he couldn’t afford to rest. Not until he convinced Cahira of the rightness of Arnaud’s plan.
Taking her hand, he said, “Arnaud is right. De Molay will assist your cause. Our Orde
r believes in fairness and righting wrongs. And if ever there was a wrong done, it’s been done to you.”
“Where do we find this de Molay?” she asked.
“In Paris,” Arnaud replied. “We can take ship from the Scottish coast and land in Normandy. My sister, Giselle, will welcome us to her home.”
“I hear your words and understand the truth of them. But I fear your designs will take me farther from my home.”
She looked at Raul. “’Tis hard for me to believe the Master Templar would help, when I’ve been stripped of all I hold dear.”
Raul understood her fears. Wanting to reassure her, he reached for her with his one good arm. But she moved away and shook her head. And the look in her eyes mirrored her confusion and hurt.
She shook her head again and backed away. “I need to think.” Saying thus, she retreated from the circle of firelight until the dark night swallowed her up.
Chapter Thirteen
Cahira wandered down the road, not caring where she went. Stumbling over a stone, she paused, cursing her foolishness for going into the dark night without a torch. ’Twas done and she had no intention of going back. No intention of facing Raul again.
She covered her face with her hands and felt the slow slide of tears coursing down her cheeks. But how could this be? She seldom cried. She’d been raised by men who disliked a female show of weakness. And yet, today, she couldn’t seem to stop crying.
She’d cried enough tears in this one day to fill the Kenmare River that flowed into the harbor at Cork. Cork…Eire…Kinsale. Her homeland. Now that the Sinclair’s treachery had been uncovered, she wanted nothing more than to go home. Alas, it wasn’t that simple, or so Raul and Arnaud would have her believe. Her reason understood the wisdom of their words, but her heart balked at the thought of another day spent away from her people.
Raul and Arnaud wanted to go to France—to lay her suit before the Master Templar and win his support. But what if he, as the others had, desired her legacy for his own coffers? Nay, Raul would never allow such. Hadn’t he proven his loyalty? Trying to find a way to keep her free from the earl and fighting the brigands to the death. Though Raul might be her champion, what of the Master Templar? Would he right the wrongs perpetrated by his ally, the Sinclair?
The sound of a boot scraped against stone startled her. She whirled around and glimpsed a dark form. Her heart raced until she realized the brigands were dead and the danger past.
A cloud covering the half-moon lifted, and Raul stood there. He must have come directly from his sickbed, for he’d draped the blanket across his shoulders like a cloak.
“Milady, I didn’t wish to frighten you.”
“Nay,” she said, “don’t call me that. You’re to use my given name, as you did before.” Smoothing her skirts with one hand, she added, “And I shall call you Raul. After what we’ve faced together, ’tis unseemly to be so formal.”
“As you wish…Cahira.”
“And you should be abed, Raul. If you were the physician, you would say so.”
“Yes, I would.”
“Have you supped?” she asked. “You need to rebuild your strength.”
He sucked in his breath. “No, I’ve not eaten. Have you?”
“Nay, I’m not hungry, but you should—”
He closed the space between them and took her chin in his hand. Anon, his simple touch stopped the breath in her body and stilled the words on her tongue. She gazed into his eyes. He lowered his head and slanted a kiss across her mouth. Tentative but hungry, she felt his lips move over hers.
’Twas madness—this—for naught but ill could come of it. But after today she didn’t care. So much death and she wanted nothing more than to live and to taste the sweet promise of life upon his lips and rejoice.
Savoring his masculine body pressed against hers, she relished the firm yet soft touch of his lips. Moving closer, she opened herself to him, craving his nearness, needing to absorb his essence. Gone was the soapy-clean smell of him, to be replaced by the musky scent of exhausted male and the coppery stench of spent blood.
The smell of sweat and blood and metal filled her senses, striking a primeval chord within her. Her body tightened, drawing itself as a plucked harp string. His mouth crushed hers, his tongue questing, pushing past the seam of her lips and joining in a mating dance with her tongue.
Intimate flesh touching intimate flesh, hot and wet. Her nipples hardened, and her breasts flushed with need. Lower, she’d turned to molten honey, an aching, moist wanting. A building pressure pulsed at the juncture of her thighs, tethered by a gossamer thread running to her too-sensitive breasts.
Moaning in the back of her throat, she flung her arms around his neck and felt the length of his desire, hard and throbbing against her belly. She pressed herself into his arms, longing to rub herself against him like a cat in heat. For aye, the torment was sweet, too sweet, and too long in coming. She couldn’t get her fill of him, couldn’t get close enough, and couldn’t kiss him as fiercely as the pounding blood in her veins demanded.
Breaking their kiss, he raised his head. She searched his face but couldn’t see his eyes. They were set deep in the hollows of darkness. Lifting her hand, she traced the stern line of his jaw, brushed her fingertips across the coarse stubble of his beard. Touching him thus filled her with a kind of awe. He was a stranger to her, this man she so desired. And yet, he was her best friend, this Templar who’d protected her with his life.
“Come.” His voice sounded deeper, huskier. He took her hand and led her to the side of the road, picking his way carefully between boulders with only the half-moon to light their way.
At a crease in the mountainside, he led her inside a cave. Total darkness engulfed them. He released her hand, and she heard the soft fall of his blanket hitting the ground. The cave smelled musty and old, of earth and decaying vegetation. She sensed that Raul knelt in the dust to spread the blanket.
What was she doing here?
’Twas madness this, coming to him in desire. But why else would he have sought this secret and dark place. Because darkness would cover their sins. She would give him her virginity and honor, and he would betray his vows in this stone bedchamber.
Her brain told her to run, to flee to the camp and the safety of Arnaud and the others. For if she stayed and lost her honor, she would have nothing to give her husband. But she wanted no husband—not now or ever—no husband but Raul. But they couldn’t marry. And this dark night might be all they would ever have.
How could she deny him? How could she deny herself?
He took her hand again, pulling her down. On trembling legs, she lowered herself, half-expecting him to claim her lips with savage force. But he surprised her with a kiss as soft as duck’s down. A tantalizing kiss, so tender it stole her breath. Then he encircled her shoulder with his good arm and held her close. She sighed and rested her head against his chest.
The resonant throb of his heart filled her ear. ’Twas his life’s blood flowing steadily through his veins. The sound was oddly comforting, reassuring. How close had she been to losing him forever?
He stroked the length of her unbound hair, murmuring, “I’ve oft admired your hair and dreamed of its softness.” He touched her forehead with a kiss. “I hope I have your leave…Cahira.”
So this was the way of it. He’d brought her here so they could be together and hold each other without censure. Disappointment pooled in her stomach, leaving an odd sour taste in the back of her throat. “Of course you have my leave.” Frustration sharpened the sound of her voice, even to her own ears.
And he didn’t miss her voice’s edge. His hand stilled. “Mayhap we should go back.”
How she wanted to scream at him to take her. Lay her in the dirt and possess her body. Rut with her like an animal, for to be with him was all she desired.
All she ever wanted.
For this one forgotten moment, Kinsale receded and the faces of her people dimmed. She couldn’t think, not with Raul
this close. All she cared about was the strumming tension in her body. She tossed her head, astonished at her wantonness. For at this moment, she would travel the world with him and be his harlot. If only she knew he loved her.
Love. A word fraught with many meanings and an unspoken promise for the future. But they had no future together. A yawning chasm stretched between them. When had she first known she loved Raul? She’d lusted after him since that night in the stable. Nay, in truth before that, since the first time she’d laid eyes on his handsome face and been mesmerized by the lithe grace of his muscular body.
When had lust turned to love? On the ship when he helped care for Mildread? Or at the camp when he faced down Robert the Bruce? Or today when he stood ready to sacrifice his life to save hers? Love, ’twas a lofty ideal. Her most romantic and secret desire. But how did he feel about her? So much had been left unsaid between them. So much they dared not speak of.
Turning her face into his chest, she smoothed her hands down the hard, wide expanse of it. At her touch, he caught his breath and stiffened.
Why must he fight what was between them?
His arm tightened around her. Instinctively, she lifted her face. He lowered his head, and his mouth found hers. He kissed her tenderly at first, as if exploring their mutual need, as if testing the boundaries of their checked passion.
She returned his kiss with all the longing and pent-up desire burning within her. Taking his face between her hands, she thrust her tongue into his mouth, initiating the intimate contact he’d started before.
Growling low, he deepened their kiss. His lips moved over hers, going from tentative to demanding, devouring her. No longer hesitant, he thrust his tongue into her mouth. She responded, her body arching into his. Raising her hands, she combed her fingers through his hair, savoring the coarse texture and thick weight of it. She traced her fingers over his chin and relished the rough scratch of his two day stubble.
For her Templar was all male, despite his gentle ways. And she would have him no other way.
He lifted his mouth from hers, his breathing ragged. Moving aside the length of her hair, he nuzzled her neck and poured kisses on her exposed flesh. His breath was warm against her neck, raising gooseflesh on her arms. Hot and then cold, the sensations swept her. He touched her ear with his tongue and traced a burning path over her quivering flesh. She shuddered with wanting, stretched taut with needing. She rained kisses along his strong jawline.