The Princess and the Templar (19 page)

How dare he?

A flash of heat warmed her cheeks, and the tips of her ears burned. But he could bleed from the eyes for all she cared. Though if the truth be told, she felt a pang of remorse for being so thoughtless as to withhold the water and so vain as to see to her appearance before they supped. Still, all her frustrations boiled to the surface, and she turned on him.

“Sweet Jesú! How dare you challenge me?” Her voice slid up the scale, and her angry words sounded little better than a mouse’s squeak. “And how dare you grab the water skin from my hands? If it wasn’t for your unseemly haste to find the Bruce, we’d all be clean and well fed at Dunrobin.”

She planted her fists on her hips and tilted her chin up. Glaring at him, she noted with satisfaction the astonished look on his face. If he’d thought to jest with her, he should have known she was far past mummery, tired and dirty and ill-fed as she was, being dragged across a wilderness to be wed to a man she’d never met and could only despise.

“You have only yourself to thank for my wretched state, Sir Raul. And ’tis no laughing matter, either.” Wrenching the water bag from his grasp, she said, “I don’t believe your excuse about taking a message to the Bruce. If the message is so important, then why didn’t you stop him in Dornoch and deliver it?”

Her words wiped the mocking grin from his face, and his dark eyes glittered. She could sense his unease, but she didn't care. She was right and she knew it.

Pivoting on her heel, she turned back to the shield with the much-disputed water bag in her hands. Then she glimpsed her wavy form in the shield’s reflection and felt like a child, fighting over a sweetmeat. How silly and foolish she was. And what a mindless oaf Raul could be.

Men! Just like Da and her brothers.

All her frustration from the weeks past coalesced and formed an angry knot in her stomach. Why she yearned for his touch and craved his regard, she knew not. More fool was she. Pathetic, pitiful fool, ensnared by his handsome looks and passionate kiss. Beguiled because she’d never experienced a man’s desire before.

But he was naught to her. Aye, less than that.

Changing her mind, she whirled around and threw the water bag at his feet. “Here’s your precious water.” She glimpsed Mildread’s distraught expression. “Not that we would have starved. I’m certain there’s water aplenty in the Bruce’s camp. Which, as you pointed out, is less than a mile away.” She dropped the kerchief and stalked from the makeshift camp.

Raul called after her, but she didn’t stop. Nothing he could say would call her back. Fury bubbled hot and fierce in her veins. She clenched her fists and quickened her stride, taking solace in the physical movement and the sudden rush of freedom.

Freedom
—how sweet a word. Should she keep walking? She knew the way back to Dunrobin, had carefully noted how the meandering stream flowed from the Torridon Mountains into the firth. She could follow it to the farmer’s cottage. The kind yeoman and his family would shelter her whilst she waited for a ship embarking from Dornoch Firth.

’Twas a wild plan. Raul would follow, and she’d left her mount and Mildread behind. How foolish was it for her to believe she could get away on foot? Then she saw it, the stream, looping through a small valley below. The valley was lush with underbrush and willows. Mayhap she wasn’t so crazed. If she could hide in the brush, Raul would be hard pressed to ride into that tangled mess and find her.

Her hopes took wing, and she stopped at the top of the hillock, glancing over her shoulder. Just as she’d expected, Raul had remounted and would be coming for her in less than a heartbeat.

’
Twas now or never.

Lifting her skirts, she plunged down the hill, half skidding and almost falling as the loose shale crumbled beneath her thin slippers. Somehow, she maintained a shaky balance until she reached the bottom of the hill. Panting, she paused for a moment, scanning the leafy glen. She thought she heard the pounding hoof beats of Raul’s great black steed, but it could just as easily be the pounding of her heart.

The dreaded noise increased in volume, and she knew the sound for what it was—Raul was almost upon her. She bent at the waist and plunged into the thicket.

This time, her balance failed and her feet flew out. She landed with a heavy thud and slid the rest of the way until she came to a stop beside the stream’s muddy bank. Dragging air into her starving lungs, she ran her hands over her torso and legs, searching for injuries. She soon discovered only her pride and posterior were bruised.

Scrambling to her feet, she swayed unsteadily. When she looked back, she was relieved to find she couldn’t see the top of the hill. The tangled trees and brush hid her. Satisfied, she lifted her skirts and ran down the stream, following its winding path. Feeling more and more confident she’d gotten away, she dodged a huge oak tree overhanging the water and clambered up the bank into an open clearing.

A man in torn and much-mended clothing, stood at the edge of the clearing. His longbow was cocked and an arrow pointed straight at her heart.

A ragged scream tore from her throat.

Chapter Eleven

Raul stared at the water skin at his feet, dumbfounded by Cahira’s angry response to his jesting. Of certain, he’d misjudged her mood. In truth, he’d never seen her so angry, not even when he’d ruined one of her escape attempts.

Escape attempt. He looked up and found that Cahira had fled—on foot and without a backward glance.

¡Madre de Dios!
What was she doing?

He grabbed his destrier’s reins and vaulted into the saddle. He touched spurs to his horse’s flanks and ignored the babble of confused voices raised behind him. Like as not Mildread and his knights were just as surprised.

At his urging, the destrier lunged forward and settled into a ground-eating lope. Within a matter of seconds, he topped the hill and was favored with a glimpse of Cahira’s blue gown as she crashed through the wall of undergrowth at the bottom.

He pulled up his mount and made a hasty survey of the rough terrain, noting the thick growth of trees and bushes. She’d
headed for the stream. The thick brush would stop him from following on horseback. Letting his horse have his head, he plunged after her until he reached the bottom of the gully. Once there he leapt from the saddle.

Confronted with the thicket of heather, he hesitated, not knowing which way she’d gone. The brush had completely swallowed her. With a low curse, he flung himself into a stand of stunted junipers and fought his way through the prickly branches. At the edge of the muddy stream, he stopped and surveyed the ground, looking for Cahira’s footprints.

A woman’s scream pierced the still air—Cahira.

His gut twisted and his heart pounded. Turning toward the sound, he raced along the streambed. Each step took its toll, his lungs bursting with the effort, burdened as he was by chain mail. At a bend in the stream, a huge oak tree loomed, its branches trailing in the water. Avoiding the tree, he regained the bank and came into a small clearing.

And then he saw her—with an archer’s arrow pointed at her heart!

Raul’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, but there was no time. He reacted on instinct, throwing himself between the two of them, before he realized the archer wore the Bruce’s colors. Holding up both hands in submission, he called out, “We come in peace to see the Bruce.”

The archer didn’t lower his weapon. He merely spat on the ground and tightened his grip on the longbow.

What was wrong with the man?

Raul hoped he wasn’t a renegade who’d deserted from the Bruce’s army. But if he was, Raul doubted he would stay so close to camp or accost strangers.

“I’m Raul de Porcelos, Knight Templar, and I’ve a message from William the Sinclair for the Bruce.” Inwardly, he grimaced because the lie fell so easily from his lips. Still, he’d do or say anything to protect Cahira. “And this is the Princess Cahira O’Donnell of Eire.”

At the recitation of their titles, the taciturn archer looked them up and down and then slowly lowered his bow. “Ye say ye’re from the Sinclair? And a Knight Templar? I keen yer red cross. But she donna,” he inclined his head, “look like no princess I’ve ever seen.”

Behind him, Cahira gasped at the man’s effrontery, but Raul paid her no heed, so fixed was he on gaining the archer’s trust. Grateful the man had finally spoken, Raul flexed his neck, allowing the tension in his shoulders to dissipate a fraction. Slowly, he lowered his hands.

“We’ve traveled hard and fast to meet your lord,” he explained. “The princess has had no time to refresh herself.”

Cahira mumbled something, which carried the equivalent meaning of, “I told you so.”

The archer grunted and unloosed his arrow. “Me name is Roy, and I be one o’ the camp guards.” He motioned for them to follow. “I’ll take ye to Himself.”

“There’s more to our party. We need to fetch my two knights and the princess’ serving woman.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Where be they?”

Raul pointed to the top of the hill. “Yonder.”

“Bring the others and say I give ye pass.”

Raul bowed. “Thank you, Roy.”

Roy waved them off and disappeared behind a thick pine tree, obviously eager to return to guard duty.

Taking a deep breath, Raul turned to Cahira. Her head came up and their gazes snagged and held. If he’d been a second later, would Roy have shot her? With the danger past, he felt light-headed and weak, as if he’d fought a battle. It had been so close—and hadn’t he warned her? At least she’d had the presence of mind to keep quiet while he’d soothed the guard’s fears.

Grasping her elbow, he said, “What did I say about running away in Scotland?” He pulled her along back the way they’d come, more than ready to find his horse and return to the others.

“Especially if I look like a scullery maid.” She tossed her head, and her forest green eyes glittered. “Did you hear what that man said? And whose fault is that?”

He shook his head. “Not so, Your Highness. I was fully prepared for you to spend hours making yourself presentable.” Stepping over a huge tree root, he dragged her along. “But you couldn’t take a little jesting, so you flew into a rage and used that for an excuse to run.”

Halting, he turned to her and grabbed her by the shoulders. He was thankful no harm had come to her, but he wished he could shake her until her teeth rattled. Shake some sense into her and impress her with the dangerous game she played. His gaze swept her, searching for any hint of fear or trepidation, but he found none. Sometimes, bravery was an overrated trait, especially in a woman.

“It was only an excuse,” he said. “Wasn’t it? You’ve been plotting to escape all along.”

“So I have.” She tilted her chin up, and the look in her eyes shouted her defiance. “I never made a secret of it.”

Devil take the woman, but she could be maddening and so lovely she made his teeth ache. Even with her smudged face and her golden-red hair a wild riot about her shoulders, she was beautiful.

She pursed her pink lips, and the look in her eyes dared him to conquer. With an inward groan, he leaned forward, unable to stop himself, desperate to take her in his arms and kiss her until she melted into him, until she surrendered her wild courage and stubborn willfulness. But she twisted free and picked up her skirts, moving off at a half-run.

What a fool he was! Fearful for her safety and sorely vexed by her escape, he’d allowed his emotions free rein.

Would it never end?

Despite all the vows he’d made and the harsh penance, he couldn’t stop wanting her. She was like mulled wine, drugging his senses and making him forget everything. With a shake of his head, he started after her, lengthening his stride to catch up. “I trust this has changed your mind about fleeing.” He tried to sound stern.

“On the contrary,” she tossed back, “it has given me fresh hope.”

****

For the second time this day, Raul bowed to the Scottish monarch, Robert the Bruce. Beside him, Cahira inclined her head slightly, as was the proper protocol. Holding her hand high as custom dictated, Raul couldn’t help but notice how cold her flesh felt. And her hand trembled in his. Did she fear this meeting as much as he?

He turned his head slightly and caught her glance, wanting to give her silent encouragement. But she looked away and forced a stiff smile to her lips. She obviously didn’t want any comfort he could offer.

In truth, she should have little to fear, for tonight she shone as bright as the evening star in a shimmering saffron gown. The golden circlet, symbol of her royal birth, nestled in the cascade of her coppery curls, and her green eyes gleamed like emeralds against her creamy-white complexion.

Still clasping her hand, he led Cahira to her appointed place and seated her beside the Bruce. He then moved to the crude wooden bench at the bottom of the long table and took his own seat, as dictated by rank. Sitting below the salt rankled, but the Bruce, despite his vagabond existence, obviously set great store in decorum. Even Sean and Evan sat above the salt with the Bruce’s knights, but Raul was relegated to his place by reason of his bastard birth.

The Scottish monarch had made his point.

Raul scanned the tent’s occupants, finding the Scottish king’s knights and administrators—but no nobles. He’d hoped a handful of nobles might be traveling with the king or—at least one passable lord who could offer for the princess’ hand. But his hope died as he realized none of the men at the banquet were of a rank worthy Cahira. None except the Bruce, and he already had a wife.

Nothing was proceeding according to plan. His earlier audience with the king had proven singularly frustrating. And now this mockery of a royal banquet to welcome a fellow noblewoman of royal birth.

With Cahira in tow, they’d entered the camp at mid-afternoon and been welcomed by the advance guard. Roy must have prepared the way. His fellow guards had provided a small, private tent for the ladies. Raul and his
men had been
quartered with the Bruce’s knights.

He’d been taken to the Bruce, and after the customary greetings, they’d discussed the princess’ welfare. Raul had been careful to hide her relationship to the earl, while emphasizing the necessity for a noble match.