The Princess and the Templar (7 page)

Cahira sucked in her breath, afraid of what he would say next.

“Mildread sent me,” the boy added.

Raul leaned over the boy. As luck would have it, the Templar had his back to Cahira while the boy faced her. She waved her hands to get his attention. The lad’s eyes widened, and his gaze fixed upon her. She placed one finger across her lips. A gleam lit his eyes, and he nodded.

“What’s your name, lad?” Raul asked.

“Loghan, milord.”

“And what business have you with the princess? You say her maidservant sent you?”

Cahira’s heart stopped beating as she waited for Loghan to answer. Was he as discreet as Mildread believed? And had he understood her gesture? Would he be willing to lie for her?

“Aye, Mildread sent me.” He clutched his hat tighter and stole a furtive glance at Cahira. “I work in the stable, an’ ’her ’ighness’ mare is ailing.”

Cahira’s heart started to beat again.

Raul glanced over his shoulder and raised one eyebrow. “That was thoughtful of you, Loghan, to keep your lady informed about her mare.”

He turned back to the boy and pointed to the full knapsack on Loghan’s back. “But what’s this?”

Cahira felt faint, as if her legs would give way. She grasped the edge of the table, clutching the solid wood for support.

Raul squatted beside Loghan and ran his hand over the boy’s footwear. “Such fine boots.” Straightening, he said, “I wonder where a stable lad would get such well-made boots.”

Loghan retreated, shaking his head. He sent her a pitiful look, begging for help. But her tongue had cleaved to the roof of her mouth, and her mind refused to form a plausible falsehood that would explain the boy’s knapsack and boots.

Sinking into a chair, she knew ’twas no use. The Templar had guessed her deception.

All her careful plans were laid to waste.

Chapter Four

One look at her face told Raul the story. The princess might be as brave as any man in battle, but her expressive face held no secrets. Her guilt was clearly written upon her aristocratic features.

Though he admired her natural honesty, he doubted that particular trait would aid her in her new home. In truth the Sinclair was known for his cunning and devious nature. Raul felt a twinge of regret, as if he was leading a lamb to the slaughter.

He shook his head, reminding himself of his mission. She would wed the powerful Sinclair, and the earl would be duty bound to protect his wife, the mother of his heirs. That thought should be comforting, but it disturbed Raul to think of her as the Sinclair’s wife.

A vision of the earl covering her in their marriage bed tore at him. Imagining her perfect body crushed under the Sinclair’s leathery form set his blood pounding, and an unfamiliar emotion flooded him, an emotion akin to possessiveness. The thought of another man touching her made him reach for his sword.

He clenched his fist against the impulse and swallowed past the painful lump in his throat. Lowering his head, he gritted his teeth and chased the traitorous thoughts from his mind. Sensing the boy’s eyes on him, he stole a quick glance at the princess. But she hadn’t moved. She sat, straight-backed and proud, staring at her hands.

He was surprised to see her so quiescent, not fighting her fate. Was it because he’d guessed her plan, and she believed all hope was lost? No matter how she might feel, he must stop her from securing aid. And for that, he needed to know to whom she would send.

“Loghan, find Mildread and return the knapsack and boots,” he said. “Then you may resume your duties in the stable.”

The boy drew himself up, and his pugnacious face soured into a frown. He looked to the princess and asked, “Milady?”

Cahira raised her head and gazed at the lad. Moisture sparkled on her long eyelashes. Glimpsing her tears, something twisted inside of Raul. He started forward, his arms aching to hold her.

¡Madre de Dios!

She roused every protective instinct he possessed. Why was that? Because he was the one who had wounded her? Or because he was her jailer?

He drew back, knowing he didn’t dare offer her comfort. She was the betrothed of his sworn master. And no matter how much he despised the thought of the earl possessing her slender body and bending her spirit to his will, honor demanded obedience to his lord.

“Go to Mildread, Loghan,” she said. “And thank you for waiting on me.”

“Milady, may I keep the boots?” The boy thrust out one foot, admiring the well-polished leather. “Please, milady.”

A wan smile touched her lips. “Of certain, Loghan, you earned those boots.” Rising, she crossed to the boy and placed her hand on his shoulder. “They belonged to my brother Odran, but he has no use for them now. I know he would want you to have them.”

Raul knew she spoke of a beloved brother who had died fighting the English. And though her gesture made a terrible kind of sense, it must be wrenching to part with her family’s things.

His chest tightened and his body stiffened and an ache like the ague swept him. He held himself coiled tightly, willing the trembling to pass—commanding himself to not move to her side and cup her face in his hands and...

Loghan rescued him by bowing low and taking her hand to kiss it. “If I can serve you, milady, please send for me.” Then he glanced at Raul, the challenge implicit in his blue eyes.

The lad had the makings of a seasoned courtier, and his loyalty was commendable, Raul thought. Bowing to the boy, Raul said, “Master Loghan, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The youth’s face turned as red as a winter sunset. Obviously flustered by the unexpected courtesy, he bobbed his head and quit the room.

Raul stared at the door after Loghan pulled it shut, dreading what must come next. “I’ll take the message you meant for Loghan to deliver.”

“What message?” In mock innocence, she widened her eyes.

She possessed the most remarkable eyes, green as the hills of her homeland, flecked with tiny specks of gold dust. And they loomed large in her face and were tilted slightly at the corners.

“Loghan came to tell me of my mare. You heard him.”

So, she would force him to prove she was a liar. Her spirit had obviously returned. She had her nose tilted so high it almost grazed the ceiling. And the tears he had glimpsed were, like as not, brought on by frustration, not desperation.

“We both know you were sending Loghan on a journey, thus the boots and knapsack. I suspect you were dispatching him to bring help.” He sighed and stretched out his hand. “I must have the missive.”

“But I did not—”

“Please, milady, don’t abuse my patience.”

Her gaze drilled him, her eyes sparkling like the finest emeralds. He locked his eyes with hers.

Shaking her head, she was the one who broke eye contact. “God’s teeth,” she muttered, “I’ll get the letter.” Moving to one of her trunks, she opened the lid and rummaged through the contents, retrieving a packet of velum sealed with a wax stamp.

He held out his hand again, but she ignored him. Rushing to the hearth, she threw the packet into the flickering flames.

His first thought was to snatch the pages from the fire. His next inclination was to shake her. Neither impulse would do. The parchment caught quickly, rendering the missive a burning mass of curling fragments. Deep in his heart, he cheered her bravery, though her action made his mission more difficult. He could guess the contents of the message, what he didn’t know was to whom she would send for aid.

“Who was the missive for?”

“You don’t know?”

He turned from the fireplace and drank in her beauty, relishing the jade green flash of her eyes against the milky purity of her skin. She canted her head at him, and her burnished red-gold hair cascaded down her back in long waves, framing her heart-shaped face.

Her fierce determination moved him, and his arms ached with longing to embrace her. His fingers twitched with yearning, craving to stroke through the golden wealth of her hair. If he could, he would trace each fine line of her countenance with his fingertips, trailing over her cheeks and feathering the line of her jaw. He imagined lifting her face to meet his, her strawberry-ripe lips sweet to the taste...

Starting, he stopped himself again, awakening as if from a trance. He mustn’t think thus, for such rash desire would betray his lord and debase his Order. He stared at the flickering flames. “Tell me who the missive was meant for.”

“Nay, I will not.”

Raul nodded, understanding the desperation that drove her. With her family gone, who would aid her? Some distant relation, perhaps? Or a suitor he didn’t know about? She might refuse him, but there were other ways to uncover the truth.

Malcolm would know.

****

Cahira opened her eyes. She must have slept for the shadows lay long upon the wall. After facing down Raul, she’d felt tired and dizzy. She’d lain on the couch for a few moments and fallen asleep.

Turning over, she found Mildread sitting by the hearth with her head bent over her mending. Her maidservant must have heard her move, for she glanced up. Their eyes met, and Mildread dropped the frayed tunic and rose to her feet.

“May I fetch your supper, milady?”

“Aye, Mildread, please.” She paused, gathering her wits. “And send Malcolm to me.”

Mildread bobbed her head, pity in her eyes. “I’m sorry Loghan dinna work for ye. I’ll try to find ’nother lad.”

So her maidservant didn’t know. Cahira had thought Loghan would have told her, but mayhap the lad was as discreet as Mildread believed.

“Nay, Mildread, another lad is no use. The Templar discovered our plan. He’s the one who sent Loghan to the stables, not me.”

Mildread shook her head, her brown eyes soft as a doe’s. “Aw, milady, I’m sorry for ye. We’ve got to find a way to send to yer kin.”

One thing she couldn’t bear was her maidservant’s pity. Sympathy she’d accept, but not pity.

“I’ll find a way, Mildread.” She drew herself up and leaned against the plump pillows. “I’ll ride to my great-uncle’s keep.”

“Oh, milady, but ’tis dangerous—that. Riding out by yerself.”

“No more dangerous than being wed to a strange Scot.”

“Aye, milady,” Mildread agreed while slowly shaking her head.

“Go then, fetch my supper and Malcolm.”

After Mildread had quit the room, Cahira rose and crossed to the hearth. The fire burned low. She poked at the smoldering logs. At her insistence, the flames flickered to life. Placing one hand on the mantelpiece, she leaned against the carved stone and thought what she must do.

Her attempt to send a message had failed. And now Raul was alerted. She’d be hard pressed to get a message out. That left her only one option; she must go herself. But she would need help. She knew of only one person who might aid her and that was Malcolm.

He’d betrayed her, true enough, but she refused to believe he was beyond appeal. The hardships and battles they’d shared should mean something. She had to believe he would help her—if he understood what she proposed—no more fighting without protection. She’d marry to secure her lands, and her royal relations would stand ready to protect her legacy. Of certain, Malcolm wouldn’t turn his back on their people.

But if he approved of her plan, he would want to go in her stead. That would be best because he could leave without suspicion. Even though Raul claimed she wasn’t a prisoner, she knew his words were false. If she tried to leave, she would be stopped.

A knock sounded on the door, and she turned from the fireplace. “Enter.”

Malcolm walked into the room and bowed. “Mildread said you sent for me, milady.”

“Good eventide, to you, Sir Malcolm.”

“And to you, milady. Sir Raul told me you were distressed over Dwyer’s departure.”

Sir
Raul. How quickly one man gave his respect to another. But a woman, even a princess, had to labor mightily for each crumb of a man’s esteem.

“Aye, I wondered where Dwyer went and who gave him permission.”

“I thought the Templar explained.”

“He did, but I would like to hear the tale from you.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t give Dwyer permission to leave, milady. He lied to the seneschal and pushed his way past the guard.”

“Once you knew he’d gone, why didn’t you tell me?”

“The deed was done. I thought—”

“You thought because I’m a captive and no longer your liege lord, I need not be informed.”

He clenched his jaw and fisted his hands. “Nay, milady, not true.”

“Which part is false?”

“Your Highness?”

“The part about my being a captive? Or that I need not be informed?”

“Neither, milady. You’re still my princess.” He dropped to one knee. “You know I would protect you with my life.”

“And if I wanted to be rescued from the Templar, would you aid me?”

Rising slowly, he scowled. “Nay, I cannot.”

“Why not?”

“I believe you need a strong marriage alliance.”

“True,” she agreed. “But there are others I might marry.”

The frown on his face deepened. “If you mean your cousins, I cannot help you. I told Sir Raul, like as not, you tried to send to the King of Ulster, promising to wed one of your kin.”

So her suspicion had been accurate, but she wouldn’t let him off that easily. “You told the Templar?” She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to keep her voice soft and low.

“Aye, I did.” He stood straighter and faced her.

“So, I
am
your captive, not your princess—to be spied upon and reported to the Templar.”

He opened his mouth and his lips moved, but no sound came.

“What say you of my great-uncle?” she demanded. “He is my rightful protector and would guard my legacy. Why didn’t you turn to him?”

Malcolm dropped his gaze. “The King of Ulster is your rightful kin, I cannot deny that.” He looked up, and his face was contorted with pain. “But when your father asked for his aid, he didn’t help. The siege dragged on, and our provisions dwindled. Then the fever came.” His voice shaded into a whisper. “I lost my Meghan to the fever.”

Meghan... Cahira searched her memory, and then she remembered. Meghan McCormack, the tiny brunette gentlewoman, who had sheltered at Kinsale en route to her home and been caught by the siege.