Forbidden Realm

by Diana Cosby

  “Once Tighearnán learned the truth of our situation, he understood your action. Nor—” Favoring his leg, he walked toward the bed. “did I expect to sleep beside you. I will make a pallet on the floor, between you and the door.”

  Irritated, she shoved to her feet. “I think I have well demonstrated that if a need arises, I can fend for myself.”

  “Indeed, but until we have reached your home, I will ensure your safety to the best of my ability.”

  “Always the protector?”

  “I swore to my king that I would see to your safety. A vow I intend to keep.”

  And what if she wanted their relationship to be more? After the nights they’d slept together aboard the Aodh out of sheer survival, after the way he’d comforted her, and the moments when they’d become close, more so than either had planned, why was she caught off-balance by the thought?

  Nor should she be surprised to be wanting more after their passionate kiss earlier, one that’d ended all too soon. Though she’d been curious of what his kiss would be like, never had she expected it to sear her every inch, to leave her shaken and wanting more.

  Look at her, musing like a woman with naught but thoughts to keep her company when her father’s life, as their king, depended on them. She cleared her throat. “With your body healing, I think ’tis best if you take the bed.”

  “’Tisna a decision that is up for debate.” His eyes warning her that he wouldna tolerate further discussion, he began spreading a blanket on the floor.

  Nor did she miss the humor of the situation. His stubbornness matched hers.

  Tiredness swept Lathir. Stifling a yawn, she crossed to the bed she’d slept in the night before. The soft pop of the fire filled the silence as she slipped beneath the covers and closed her eyes.

  The haze of sleep sifted over her, a soft calm that seemed to absorb her every thought, to steal the tension sliding through her.

  The whisper of prayers filtered through the haze.

  Through her lashes, she peered out.

  A pace away, on his knees, Rónán was whispering the Our Father. As on the ship, once he completed the prayer, he started again. After several Paternosters, he made the sign of the cross, then turned.

  Surprise flickered in his gaze when he found her watching him; then his expression grew guarded. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I heard you praying.” She shifted to her side and pillowed her head on her hands. “When you pray, why do you repeat the Lord’s Prayer several times?”

  With a grimace, he glanced toward the door. “Tighearnán will be back any time.”

  “Which,” she pointed out, “doesna answer my question.”

  He lifted his blanket, settled on the floor near her, then tugged the cover atop him. “I am a devout man.”

  “Which explains why you pray often, but not the reason why you took a spiritual path.”

  Silence.

  “Did you want to become a monk?”

  He turned his back to her.

  An ache built in her heart as she surmised the reason was tied to his past. She shifted closer to the edge. “After your tragic childhood, it makes sense you found yourself wanting to join a monastery. You disclosed so much while we were stranded on the Aodh. Is it too much to share this?”

  The blanket rustled as Rónán gave an irritated sigh and pulled it higher.

  Though her life had been dramatically different, needing him to comprehend that to a degree she understood, her thoughts drifted back to her youth. “When my father was at battle, or on a journey that would take him away for months, I found solace in the chapel at Wynshire Castle.”

  Silence.

  “At times our priest would find me alone, praying in the pews,” she continued as she lay back on the bed, far from dissuaded, “with but a single candle lit in the middle of the night.”

  Rónán shifted noisily.

  Sensing he was looking at her, Lathir didn’t turn his way.

  “Why were you in the church at such a late hour?”

  Memories of wisps of frankincense and myrrh sifted through her mind, of sitting on the wooden pews, embraced by the waver of candlelight, the solitude, and Him.

  “I found a sense of peace there. Within the cast of the single flame spilling upon the cross before me, however afraid, however alone, He was near me.” A smile touched her face. “Whenever the priest would find me there, instead of chastening me to return to bed, he would sit beside me and listen to my worries, or share passages from the Bible. But…” Emotion swept her, and she stilled.

  “But what?”

  She looked over, found him indeed watching her, his gaze intense, as if her answer mattered.

  “But when he found me crying, he would hold me. And when I had finally calmed, he would kneel beside me, and we would pray.”

  “I am glad the priest was there for you, that in times of hardship you turned to Him.” Eyes dark with sincerity studied her, as if coming to a decision. “What I tell you isna to be shared.”

  The gravity of his voice had her pausing. “I swear it.”

  “As to your question, I never wanted to be a monk. The reason for my deep faith is that I became a Knight Templar.”

  Humbled he’d trusted her with such an admission, Lathir sat; then her brow furrowed with another thought. “Your time with the Templars may have intensified your faith, but I think it never brought you true peace.”

  Rónán tensed, stunned by her insight. “I loved being a Knight Templar.”

  “But you left. Why?”

  “Left? The demands of the Brotherhood, of those traveling to the Holy Land, gave me a sense of purpose,” he rasped. Painful memories of the way, beneath the cover of darkness, he and many of the Brotherhood escaped, ripped through his soul. “Never would I abandon my brothers or the service I loved.”

  Any color on her face fled. “Saint’s breath, you were in France when King Philip ordered the arrests of the Knights Templar on charges of heresy.”

  “Aye, I was there, and his claims were all lies,” he spat, unable to contain his fury. “Nor were his accusations frivolous, but chosen to enflame those envious of the Templars’ wealth and power.” His nostrils flared. “But unknown to King Philip, before the charges were publicly disclosed, word of the monarch’s despicable intent was secretly delivered to the grand master.”

  She lay on the side of the bed, resting her head on her folded hands, but her expression remained intent. “How did you escape?”

  “By the grand master’s orders, prior to the day of the arrests, beneath the cover of night, a significant portion of the Templars boarded our galleys at the port of La Rochelle and fled.”

  “But not all the Brotherhood left,” she said, a waver in her voice.

  A lump built in his throat. “Had the grand master warned the entire Templar force, ’twould have alerted King Philip that his plan had been exposed.”

  “But the Brotherhood’s ability to fight, their brilliance in strategy are well known. Instead of fleeing, why didna the grand master rally the Brotherhood and confront the king against his treachery?”

  “With the growing dissent of those jealous of the favor given to the Brotherhood over the years, even if we had wanted to, we wouldna have found enough support to confront France’s sovereign.” He shook his head. “Nor with Templars scattered in several countries did we have the luxury of time to contact everyone, and for them to sail to France, much less organize a formal denial.” Rónán clasped his hands into fists against the surge of despair. “So, until October, Friday the thirteenth, when the decree was revealed, many Templars remained ignorant of King Philip’s barbaric intent.”

  Tears slipped down her cheeks.

  “Though devastating to sail from port without all of the Templars aware of our plan,” he forced out, the grief still raw in his hear
t, “all within the Brotherhood understood our first priority was to ensure that the secrets beneath Templar guard were kept safe.”

  Hand trembling, Lathir wiped away her tears. “What secrets did you abscond with that outweighed the lives of the Brotherhood who were left behind?”

  He closed his eyes against the horrific thought, understanding that because of the French king’s greed, men he’d fought alongside had been imprisoned, tortured, or killed. Yet there was some consolation in knowing the crew he’d escaped with had captured Avalon Castle and hidden the Templar goods in the catacombs beneath, a fact known by few.

  He met her gaze. “I canna tell you. Know that their lives were not given in vain.”

  Somber gray eyes held his with steadfast sincerity. As she reached out to him; he took her hand, appreciating her touch, the bond that however much he tried to fight, grew stronger each day.

  “I am so sorry for you, for what all within the Brotherhood have suffered, have lost.”

  Breaths unsteady, he pressed her hand against his heart. “I–I thank you.”

  “Your being a Templar explains much. Your skill with weapons, your knowledge of sailing, and your confidence.” Gray eyes with a hint of lavender darkened in a thoughtful frown.

  “What?”

  “How is it that you are working for King Robert?”

  “Because Robert the Bruce is a Knight Templar.”

  Her mouth dropped open in the same way that his had upon learning of the Templar connection. “I never knew,” she murmured in wonder, “never heard a wisp of rumor.”

  “Nor would you. God help the Brotherhood if King Philip ever learned the fact, more so with France’s sovereign having recognized King Robert in a letter as the ‘king of Scots.’” He paused, the complexity of events since they’d sailed from La Rochelle amazing him still. “King Robert’s religious exclusion, and the Scottish clergy’s refusal to acknowledge his excommunication, allowed the Bruce to offer all Knights Templar entry into his realm with impunity. So, the night we sailed from France beneath the cover of darkness, five ships sailed to Scotland, the remainder headed to Portugal.”

  “’Tis much to take in.”

  He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, pressed a kiss upon her knuckles, then set it upon the bed. “’Tis.”

  The scuff of steps outside alerted them of Tighearnán’s return.

  Rónán held his finger to his lips in a request that they remain silent.

  She nodded.

  Go to sleep, he mouthed.

  Lathir lay down and closed her eyes.

  As the door began to scrape open, Rónán followed suit.

  Chapter Eight

  The first rays of light filtered through the clear skies with the promise of a cold but beautiful day as Lathir rode in the back of the cart with Órlaith. Tenderness filled her as she glanced at the sleeping child, bundled in several heavy blankets, beside her. To sleep so soundly without worries; the wonders of the innocence of youth.

  Another wash of tenderness swept her as she glanced at Rónán seated beside Tighearnán as he guided the horse through the thick weave of trees.

  Rónán’s revelation of being a Knight Templar the night before explained his deep faith. In addition to his vows, she believed that his abusive youth, one that had left the lad yearning for hope and belonging, played a part in his deep spirituality.

  The ramshackle wagon jolted as it lumbered over a mound on their snow-filled path. Faint tracks lingered in the newly fallen snow no doubt left yesterday by Tighearnán during his and Órlaith’s trek to the village.

  A gust of snow-laden wind hurled past as they broke from the woods. Sturdy huts with stone walls and thatched roofs similar in design came into view.

  The village stood situated along a cleared angle of ground backing up to a sharp rise of land. Clever. Whoever designed the settlement did so with intent. With the sheer rock behind them, no one could sneak into town without being seen.

  As they neared, several people waved or called out to Tighearnán as they rode past. Part of his former crew? If so, the secure design of the town made sense. No doubt ships raided by Tighearnán and his men were sought with a vengeance. A smile tugged at her mouth at his admission that, for the most part, his targets had been the English.

  “Whoa,” Tighearnán called, as he drew his horse to a halt. The wagon rolled to a stop. He glanced back. “The lass is still asleep?”

  Lathir brushed away a swath of brown hair that’d fallen across the girl’s cherubic cheek. “She is.”

  “Nay doubt from staying up too late with the excitement of having you both here.” He climbed down, walked to the back, and lifted his sleeping daughter into his arms. “Wait here while I take her to stay with a friend until we depart.” With an easy stride, he walked along the line of huts.

  The rich scent of peat fires filled the air as Lathir stood. Muscles stiff from travel, she moved to the back of the wagon.

  Rónán stepped before her as she reached the edge. Though his limp was gone, from the taut lines on his face when he moved, he was still in pain. Not that he would admit such.

  “How did you fare?” he asked.

  “Not as well as Órlaith.” She rubbed her back. “Mayhap I should have tried to sleep.”

  “Do you think you could have?” he teased.

  “With all the shifting and bumping during the journey, nay.” She started to step down, but he caught her by the waist and lifted her to the ground. “We are here now, and soon will be at sea.”

  “For which I will be thankful.”

  She waited for him to release her and step away, but the humor in his eyes faded, and her breath caught as his gaze darkened with desire and lowered to her mouth. Her heart pounded as an answering flash of need shot through her.

  His throat worked. “Lathir—”

  At the sound of distant voices, he released her.

  Suppressing a sigh of disappointment, she looked around. Near the edge of the village, Tighearnán was heading toward them with a tall, burly man garbed in a thick fur cloak at his side.

  She looked at Rónán; his gaze had shifted to the approaching men, the longing of moments before shielded. What had he been about to say? Blast it, why was she torturing herself? He’d made it clear that his life was dedicated to war, not to settling down with a wife or family.

  Despite what she may have wished, after their covert conversation the night before, she understood his reasoning. His account of what he and his fellow Templars had endured would leave anyone with a heart in despair.

  Although she believed that, like his profound faith, his life as a warrior had evolved out of self-preservation, and there was more to him than being a weapon at the king’s command.

  As for his being a good father, she recalled how he’d knelt before Órlaith so as not to intimidate her with his size. How many men would do something so thoughtful for a child? Aye, regardless of the doubts he held in regard to a family, he would make a fine father.

  With the passion that he applied to his life, he would make a wonderful lover as well. Heat crept through her, and for a moment she embraced the need Rónán inspired, confident his passionate kiss was but a wisp of how tender and fierce he would be in bed. Then she sighed and dismissed her wayward thoughts. It wasn’t meant to be.

  Two children carrying bundles glanced curiously at them before darting into a home at the end of the village.

  The crunch of steps on snow sounded as Tighearnán and his friend neared. Several paces away, they halted. “I would like to introduce you to Bran.”

  No surname, she noted. Nor, as no doubt he’d been part of Tighearnán’s illustrious crew, did she expect one.

  Thick brows salted with gray lifted and sharp eyes took her in. “Lady Lathir McConaghy.”

  She nodded. “Bran.”

  “And,” Tighearn
án continued, “Sir Rónán.”

  The burly man gave Rónán a nod, then crossed his arms over his chest. “The captain said you would be needing my help, and that of my crew.”

  His crew. ’Twould seem that the other man had stepped into Tighearnán’s shoes. “Aye,” she replied. “Sir Feradach O’Dowd has abducted my father, the Earl of Sionn. Sir Rónán and I must reach Wynshire Castle to raise a force to find and rescue my father.”

  Before they killed him. Lathir shuddered at the terrifying thought.

  Bran gestured toward the hut paces away. “Most of my men are inside, as we recently returned from a”—he cleared his throat—“from seeing to an important matter.”

  In other words, a raid. “I hope the ship was English.”

  Humor twinkled in his eyes, and Bran gave a hearty laugh. “Indeed. Their cog is limping toward England as we speak. They were none too pleased with our visit, but I assured them that my allowing their vessel to leave with them alive was a boon.”

  Tighearnán grunted. “You are a better man than I.”

  A combination of sympathy and anger flashed on his friend’s face. “Nay, had the Sassenach killed the woman I loved as I sailed away, the cog would have been naught but kindling in my wake.”

  Tension singed the air. Face taut, Tighearnán stepped back. “Let us go inside and speak to your men.”

  They started toward the hut, and Lathir shot Rónán a glance, caught the anger in his eyes, fury she empathized with. To tear a woman from her home, murder her, was despicable.

  A scrape sounded as Bran tugged the door open. Billows of grayish smoke belched from the entry. He stepped inside, and they followed.

  Welcoming the warmth, Lathir halted as Rónán pulled the door closed behind her. The tang of ale competed with smoke as her eyes slowly adjusted to the murky interior.

  A massive stone hearth stood against the back wall, two swords, one crossed upon the other hanging above. Inside, fire raged, bursts of yellow and orange flames consuming the large chunks of wood as smoke rolled into the chimney.