The Princess and the Templar

by Hebby Roman

  He pulled her down, and they lay spooned in each other’s arms. His lips explored the hollow of her neck, tasting her. She smoothed her hands over his chest. The warmth of his flesh burned through the thin fabric of his shirt. How would his naked flesh feel next to hers?

  As if could read her thoughts, he opened the buttons of her gown and spread the soft linen. His lips brushed the top of her breasts, and the breath snagged in her throat.

  Lifting his head, he murmured, “I won’t hurt you. Nor will I take what is most precious from you. But there are other ways to love you.” He grasped her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Will you trust me?”

  Had he said love? The word she so longed to hear? Anticipation flooded her heart, hope following hotly upon its heels. Then reality crowded in, crushing her hope. For she knew ’twas not romantic love that he spoke of. What he’d meant was physical love.

  And if that was all they were meant to share, she would take what she could get.

  Anything to be as close to him as two humans could be. For in truth, her breasts yearned for his touch. And at the juncture of her thighs, her woman’s muscles tightened, a torment so sweet she thought she would go mad with desire.

  “I trust you, Raul.” Burying her face in his chest, she whispered, “And I want you. So badly, I feel I shall die with the longing.”

  “Oh, Cahira, my Cahira.” His voice sounded rusty. “I never thought I would hear you say such.” He took her mouth again, and the heat from his body flowed into hers. She was aflame, his kisses turning her insides to molten fire.

  More buttons opened beneath his insistent onslaught. He pulled down her gown, leaving only her thin chemise. The cool air touched her feverish skin. She shivered. He gathered her in his arms and covered her with his body, holding her close, allowing his male heat to seep into her. Stoking the fire within, he caressed her breasts and belly, circling and retreating, the trailing touch of his fingertips branding her forever.

  Emboldened by her growing need, she ventured, “What of your tunic? I want to touch you as you touch me.”

  “I would not slake my desires, only please you.”

  She didn’t understand, but then she only knew of the animal act of coupling. He’d spoken of pleasing her. Perchance the two were very different. “Please, Raul, let me feel your warmth.”

  “As you wish.” He groaned the words.

  When he lay beside her again, she tentatively touched his naked flesh. His skin was smooth and supple under the tracing of her fingertips. Her mouth went dry, and her own skin tingled from their intimate touching. She explored the bulges and ripples of his muscles and ran her fingers through the soft mat of curls covering his chest. Her fingertips found his flat male paps and lingered there.

  His male nipples amazed her, so soft and satiny were they, much like her own. Tentatively, she lowered her head and circled her tongue around one, wanting to taste him.

  That made him growl again. “Vixen,” he whispered. “Amorcita, mi corazón.”

  She shivered, registering the soft lilt of his native tongue. The black cave enveloped her, downy as velvet and strangely comforting. Because it was too dark to see, her other senses heightened, and she reveled in each nuance of their togetherness, the quiet pant of his breathing, the musky smell of him, and the smooth slide of his flesh against hers. Every caress in the dark was magnified a hundredfold.

  Trailing her mouth and tongue down the muscular expanse of his chest, she reveled in their newfound intimacy. Desire besotted her senses, blocking all rational thought, leaving her with a heavy need, an unfulfilled craving.

  He gasped. “Who is pleasuring whom? Do you know you’re driving me mad?”

  But she hadn’t planned to drive him crazy, only to do what she’d wanted for many weeks past—to taste and touch him without restraint.

  Rising above her, he gently pushed her down on the blanket. His voice was gruff. “My turn.”

  At his command her body quivered, straining in anticipation. She shuddered with thoughts of sinful, dark pleasures. Pleasures only the two of them could share. For if she went to her grave an old maid, she would never desire another man.

  With gentle hands he pulled her chemise down, freeing her breasts. And then she was doubly glad for the darkness. For no man, since she’d begun her menses had glimpsed her naked form. But what if she wasn’t pleasing to look upon?

  His hand circled her breasts, caressing and stroking each in turn. His fingers lingered over her nipples, teasing them into taut buds. She gasped with the raw sensuality of his touch, thinking she’d not known so much pleasure in all her life. And then he lowered his head. Took her nipple into his mouth. Laved her with his tongue. Suckled her like a babe.

  Crying out, she shuddered. Her mind cartwheeled into oblivion, beyond all thought. She became a creature of the night, of pulsing flesh and tingling sensation. Curling her fingers into the muscles of his back, Cahira relished the rock-hard feel of him. The heady musk of their arousal surrounded her, mixing with the scent of the earth.

  She rocked against him, arching into him, wanting more, craving more. A blind need arose within her, centering at her core, burning her with a too-bright fire, consuming her with heat and a passion that became a demand. She caught the lobe of his ear and nipped his sweet flesh playfully, hoping to urge him on.

  He lifted his head. “Bruja, mi corazón.”

  Sweet Jesú. How she loved it when he spoke Spanish, the soft roll of his vowels plucking her heart strings.

  He bunched the cloth of her chemise around her waist. Except for that band of fragile fabric, she lay completely naked beneath him. She was his for the taking, just as she’d dreamed since he’d first awakened her desire. Feathering his hand down her thigh, his fingertips trailed across her skin. She buried her hands in the flesh of his shoulders, straining against him, silently begging for more.

  As if he heard her silent plea, he became bolder, pushing apart her thighs and seeking the center of her womanhood. With gentle hands, he sought her nether lips. And when he caressed her there, her heart thundered, and the breath left her body. She instinctively shifted, opening her legs wider. Her whole body curved into him, begging for his caress, inviting him to touch that most secret and private part of her.

  Aye, she was a wanton. Of that she had no doubt.

  With his fingers, he explored her, finding the center of her delight. At his stroking touch, shock reverberated through her, so wondrous was the sensation. The pressure in her body grew, expanding and then contracting, like a fist, tightening and tightening. Her woman’s channel throbbed, hungry and empty, the pleasure becoming a pulsing kind of pain.

  Moisture slicked her thighs, and she shivered at this unexpected discovery. She’d not known before, not known her body would prepare itself for a man’s entry. There had been no one to tell her. If her mother had lived, would she have shared such female secrets?

  Alas, Cahira would never know. And if she lived to be a hundred and one, there was no one else she would want to initiate her…no one but Raul.

  He cradled her woman’s mound, and his fingers tenderly sought her secret core, softly stroking her as a musician strums a melody. At his gentle touch, her pleasure spiraled outward, like a pebble dropped in a pond, in ever-widening circles. Moaning, she buried her fingers in his hair and thrust herself against his hand.

  Wanting...Nay, needing more.

  Of what, she could not say. She was a mindless thing; all thought centered between her thighs, relishing the sensations his touch evoked. Then he lowered his head. His breath was warm against her thigh.

  What was he doing?

  His mouth closed over her, hot and sweet. His tongue lapped at her juices. His lips found her aching bud, and he drew it into his mouth, devouring her. Lurching up, she babbled incoherently, telling him to stop whilst every fiber of her being begged for him to continue.

  He lifted his head. “Please, Cahira, let me love you.”

  He cupped one breast, his f
ingertips drawing her nipple taut. His mouth found her again, his tongue parting her nether lips. He kissed her long and deep, his tongue working its magic. White-hot, star bright ecstasy exploded in her veins.

  “Raul, Raul,” she sobbed, burying her fingers in his hair.

  Then she spun out of control, flying free, soaring and falling at the same time. The sun burst, raining golden rays upon her skin. The stars fell from the sky and the world stilled.

  Raul tightened his arms around Cahira and feathered a kiss across her cheekbone. She sighed, mewling softly and settling against him. He felt her muscles slacken, and he knew she slept.

  She’d died the little death and found a woman’s pleasure. His heart expanded and a thickness lodged in his chest. She’d bestowed the finest honor anyone had ever given him, trusting him with her body, trusting him with her virginity. And he’d returned that honor, teaching her the only earthly piece of heaven he knew.

  But giving her pleasure had left him hard as an oak staff and twice as thick. His swollen cock strained against his chausses, fit to burst. Gritting his teeth, he willed the painful throbbing to subside. More fool was he. Clasping her soft female flesh whilst surrounded by her piquant feminine scent was an invitation to madness.

  How long had it been since he’d had a woman? He couldn’t say. And Cahira wasn’t just any woman. She was his love and his life. He would never desire another. He had no right to take that which she’d been willing to give, but he couldn’t stop himself from loving her.

  He traced lazy circles on her belly, his fingers brushing her petal-soft skin. She shifted, curling closer. Holding her in the crook of his arm, his heart pounded with love. If he could have what he desired above all else, they would stay in this cave forever, shun society and live alone, like two hermits, besotted with each other, drunk on their shared kisses.

  But that wasn’t meant to be. Cruel reality sank its talons into his heart. Cahira was not his. She was a princess of the realm. And he’d vowed to help her find happiness. He must keep his vow, gain support from de Molay and restore her castle and lands.

  And then what?

  After knowing her, how could he leave her? Though she was virgin still, he’d stolen her innocence, tutored her in the ways of seduction. Could he forget all they’d shared and turn his back on her, letting her take a stranger as her husband? Take a stranger to her bed?

  What choice did he have? As a poor Templar, he had nothing to offer—no lands, no titles, and not even a surname of his own.

  Only his heart.

  He couldn’t expect a princess to wed a penniless knight, no matter how well he might pleasure her in bed.

  She stirred and yawned, her breath warm and silky against his naked chest. His manhood swelled again, raising its head in anticipation.

  She rubbed her eyes. “I slept. You let me sleep.” Her tone was almost accusing.

  He kissed her forehead. “You needed to rest, and I enjoyed holding you.”

  Pushing herself to a sitting position, she demanded, “What of the coupling?”

  Her blunt question surprised him. He’d not expected her to say the words out loud, but he shouldn’t be surprised. His brave Cahira was a lioness, meeting challenges head on.

  “I wanted to please you as well,” she said, “though ’tis true I know little of coupling. But I know a man needs to spill his seed—”

  “And make a bastard, as my father did?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted them back.

  “Oh,” she breathed. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Her voice sounded small and hurt. She moved a space away, and he could hear the whisper of cloth. He guessed she was pulling down her chemise to cover herself.

  He hadn’t meant to sound stern or to hurt her feelings. But she must accept the limitations of their lovemaking. Madre de Dios, it was difficult enough as it was. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to—”

  She stopped him, covering his mouth with her fingertips. “It’s your vow, isn’t it? The vow of chastity you made when you became a Templar.”

  Sucking in his breath, he considered. Should he tell her the truth? His vow had naught to do with it. His honor could be damned. For the truth be known, he was already damned to perdition for lusting after and touching her and…

  No, what he protected was far more precious. For he protected her honor and future. But if he told her thus, would she accept it? If she thought he did this only for her, would she throw away her honor and urge him to take her? For that was what she’d wanted tonight, he doubted not. And it was better she think his duty forbade him. Better he shoulder the burden for them both.

  “You have the right of it. My vow forbids our joining.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Clinging to the bunk, Cahira stared at the rough-planked walls of her cabin. The ship rolled to the side, timbers groaning. Her stomach heaved, the porridge she’d eaten for breakfast threatening to crawl up her throat. On the other ocean voyage, she’d been so busy taking care of Mildread she hadn’t had time to be sick.

  Mildread. She closed her eyes against the gruesome vision of that day. Clutching her silver crucifix, she bowed her head and said a prayer for her maidservant’s soul.

  The ship plowed into a swell, and her trunks slid the few feet from one side of the cabin to the other. Those trunks…she wished she hadn’t brought them. For what good had gowns and trinkets done her?

  The lamp swayed overhead, painting dingy splotches of yellow on the walls. She turned her face to the rough timbers, wanting to avoid watching the lamp’s jerky movements. She hated ships and their constant rolling. She had not one good memory of the sea, and yet here she was again—headed farther from home, south by east, down the English Channel.

  Arnaud’s Templars had accompanied them to the harbor at Dornoch. Once there, Arnaud had taken their vow to not reveal what had happened in the Highlands, and then he’d sent them back to the Sinclair. Raul had found them a ship bound for the port town of Harfleur on the Normandy coast. They would land in France and journey to Paris. She shook her head, still agog at how far she’d come. Would she ever see Kinsale again?

  She heard the low rumble of men’s voices and half-rose in her bunk, thinking someone was at her door. But she soon sank down again. The sound came from the cabin next to hers. Only a thin wall of rotting planks separated her from Raul and Arnaud, who shared that space.

  This time, she had a cabin to herself. And she hated it. She missed Mildread so; she could scarcely believe she’d complained before. Poor Mildread, she’d not wanted to leave Eire and now she lay in an unshriven grave in Scotland. Biting her lip, Cahira squeezed her eyes shut. She reached for her crucifix again, praying her selfishness would be forgiven. Aye, she’d been selfish and headstrong and arrogant.

  But now worse sins besmirched her soul.

  For she’d desired a man and lain with him. Though she was virgin still, ’twasn’t because she’d withstood temptation. Nay, she’d wanted Raul with every breath of her body and every beat of her heart.

  Raul had been the strong one, adhering to the letter of his vows, if not the spirit. With his sensual expertise, he’d transported her to a place she’d not known existed, awakening her body’s responses and rendering her a mindless wanton.

  And then he’d abandoned her there.

  At the thought of that night in the cave, heat flooded her, making her face burn. Clenching her fist, she brought it to her mouth and gnawed on her knuckles. How she longed to talk to Mildread—for surely another woman would understand her confusion and pain.

  Cahira had never known a man to forego the pleasures of coupling. ’Twas the woman’s place to say nay, but she’d been malleable clay in Raul’s experienced hands. Why had he spurned her? And how could he be so strong when he drove her wild with lust?

  Because he doesn’t care enough. Because his Templar vows are more important.

  Aye, that was the truth of it, for he’d told her so. After that night, she couldn’t look
him in the face. She’d stumbled blindly from the cave, blessing the darkness that had hidden her shame.

  On their return journey to Dornoch, he’d tried to approach her several times, but she’d ignored him. There was nothing to say, no middle ground betwixt them. He’d explored every inch of her naked flesh, touching her in forbidden places, and still he’d turned her away. ’Twas her ultimate shame. For he’d wanted her, of that she was certain, remembering the rock-hard feel of his shaft, lying hot and heavy against her naked belly.

  He simply hadn’t wanted her enough.

  If he’d taken her and they’d made a child, what would she have done? The thought of holding Raul’s child in her arms brought a lump to her throat and tears to her eyes. She imagined the sweetness of cuddling their babe. The child would be a dark-haired boy like Raul with eyes the color of rich sable.

  She closed her eyes, savoring the dream. If her fondest wishes could come true, they would rule Kinsale together, growing old whilst their grandchildren played at their feet. Then she would die, stooped with age but happy, in his arms. ’Twas the romantic dream she’d cherished all her life—to love a man—not for his rank but for himself. And there was no better man than Raul. No one stronger or braver, kinder or more gentle. She didn’t care one whit about his lack of title or name.

  Gasping at the audacity of her thoughts, she covered her mouth with her hand. For she was truly ensnared in her own net, a slave to romantic notions. Despite all the odds against it, she’d fallen in love with her Templar.

  ****

  Raul tossed on his narrow bunk. Across the tiny space, Arnaud lay on his back with one arm flung over his face, softly snoring. Turning again, Raul tried to find his ease, but his wounded shoulder throbbed. Sleep eluded him.