The Princess and the Templar (9 page)

He gritted his teeth and vowed not even the earl had
the right to spurn her. Raul would make certain his master treated her with respect and kindness. How he would accomplish this, he didn’t know. He would find a way. At least, he would be close by.

Though that would be an even greater torture, seeing her on the Sinclair’s arm. Watching them at table, feeding each other select morsels as was the custom between noble spouses. And gazing upon her graceful form when her belly rounded with the earl’s child.

Could he live thus? Did he have a choice?

When he’d taken his oath to the Order, he’d put aside the trappings of normal life, the everyday pleasures between a man and woman. For without the Order, he was nothing. A bastard knight without a legacy, another mercenary sword for hire.

He snorted. A mercenary who despised spilling blood. That would take him far. But what if he turned his back on his father’s expectations and chose to use his skills as a physician to make another life for himself? Could he disappoint his father and leave the Order, breaking his sacred vow?

In truth the princess put these mad thoughts in his head. And thinking thus, he was a fool. She wouldn’t want to wed a physician. She was noble, born and bred, and even if she would have him, he couldn’t live off her estate. Sipping his ale, he dropped his gaze. She was the devil’s own enticement, making him desire that which he could not possess.

And that was the right of it. He wanted her because she was beyond his reach—not because he cared for her. He must make pains to remember that, especially when he felt himself lost in the depths of her sea-foam-colored eyes. At his first opportunity, he would confess his sins and seek absolution. Perhaps the priest would give him a penance worthy of his transgression.

He glanced again at her, hoping he’d banished the demon that had dogged his footsteps since he’d arrived at Kinsale. But naught had changed, despite his resolve. She was still as lovely as a spring meadow, as graceful as a gazelle, as perfect as an angel from heaven. Something twisted inside of him, something dark and ugly and misshapen. He couldn’t have her, so he wanted no one else to possess her.

Turning his head, he glimpsed Malcolm, who was staring at the princess with a frown on his face. Raul understood his reaction. Malcolm didn’t want his lady to witness the ceremony, either. They’d both hoped to spare her.

She’d dashed their hopes, facing them down. But Raul couldn’t turn back now.

Malcolm clapped his hands, and the servants cleared the tables and set up a platform at one end of the great hall. The Kinsale knights and yeomen stood by the door, whispering and glancing at the O'Donnell heiress. She sat stony-faced, staring straight ahead.

Raul’s duty would be to perform the swearing in, acting as his lord’s agent. He knew full well his duty and wanted to get the oath taking done with. Rising, he strode to the platform. He drew his sword from its scabbard and faced the assembly. The men of Kinsale would kiss the sword’s hilt while swearing their allegiance, the blade acting as a stand-in for the earl.

A lad blew a trumpet, the blast reminding Raul of the call that had brought him to meet the princess on the battlefield. The men murmured and shifted, forming a line. Raul ascended the dais and held out his sword with the tip of the blade pointed down.

Malcolm stepped to the dais and announced the ceremony, along with offering a short prayer for guidance. Kinsale had no priest, and Raul refused to bless the proceedings in his capacity as a monk. In truth he didn’t feel he had the right to act as a man of God. His mission at Kinsale was a secular one, and too many sins weighed upon his soul.

After muttering amen, Malcolm knelt in front of the sword and touched his lips to the hilt. Raul placed his hand on the young knight’s shoulder.

“Stop!” The princess leapt to her feet and held up her right hand, palm out. “You have no right. No authority.”

All activity in the great hall stuttered to a halt. No voice was raised; no one moved or scuffed their feet or lifted their tankard. The unnatural quiet stretched out, thin as a spider’s web and just as fragile. Like the syncopated steps of a farandole, all heads turned toward her, paused and then swung to Raul, eagerly anticipating his reaction.

He swallowed hard. His throat felt as dry as an empty well. There was no help for it; he must assert the earl’s claim. “By the authority of William the Sinclair, Earl of Orkney, I command the subjects of Kinsale Castle swear allegiance. As the earl has offered for Princess Cahira’s hand in marriage, he will be her liege lord and thus, the master of her realm and sovereign of her people.”

“What if I refuse the earl’s troth?” she spoke out.

A low murmur dispelled the false calm, rippling through the great hall like a stone tossed into a pool of water.

She’d planned wisely, placing her censure before her people at the critical moment. Unfortunately, he had no answer or soothing words for her subjects.

“Your objections are duly noted, Your Highness. But for now I must insist upon your subjects’ oath of allegiance.” He bowed low.

“I deny your earl’s claim.”

This would not do. He couldn’t stand in front of her people and argue; it would only weaken his position. Raul caught Malcolm’s gaze and he nodded. The bailiff understood his unspoken meaning, and Malcolm knelt before the sword again. Raul placed his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder and recited the oath, stopping after each phrase so Malcolm could repeat the words. At the end, he rose and Raul declared him a subject of the Earl of Orkney, William the Sinclair, of the Kingdom of Scotland.

As the word “Scotland” passed Raul’s lips, he heard a muffled sob. The princess swayed on her feet, one hand covering her mouth and tears streaming down her face. Their gazes met, locked and held, and he felt the brunt of her humiliation. She lowered her head and fled the room.

Raul hesitated only a moment, feeling the gaze of her subjects upon him, agog at this turn of events. He ignored their stares and tossed his sword to Malcolm. “Keep everyone in the great hall. I’ll return to finish the oath.”

Malcolm caught the blade with ease, astonishment blanketing his features. With the briefest nod, he ascended the dais. Raul sketched a hasty bow to the assembly and rushed after the princess.

When he reached the outer hallway, Sean stepped in front of him. “Do you want me to go after her?”

“No, I will,” Raul
said. “Where did she go?”

Sean inclined his head at the outer door. “To the stables.”

“Take your place outside her solar. I will fetch her.”

The guard nodded and moved to the staircase.

Raul opened the outer door and paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The keep stood empty. All the people of Kinsale were massed in the great hall. Crossing the yard, he entered the stables. One torch lit the dusky interior. The smell of hay lay heavy in the air. Several horses neighed and stamped their feet. A dove startled from its nest in the loft, its wings thrumming the air.

A wisp of movement caught his attention, and he glimpsed her, huddled in an empty stall with her face turned to the wall. He started toward her and then stopped. She spun around and faced him.

“Get out,” she spat, lifting her arm and pointing at the door. “Leave me in peace.”

He couldn’t do that. Not that he feared she would flee—it wasn’t that. He couldn’t leave her like this, her face streaked with tears and fresh ones swimming in her storm-tossed eyes. “Milady, I wish that—”

“I’m not
your
lady.”

“Then Your Highness, I want to offer my—”

“Nay, don’t. For your sentiment is false, Templar, as you’ve stripped me of everything.”

He couldn’t dispute that. He had taken away all that mattered, her freedom, her subjects, and even her legacy. All in the name of
his
honor and duty. All because a powerful lord wanted what was hers, and she was a woman alone in the world.

What she’d said was true—he and his lord were no better than the marauding English. They might not make war, but the outcome was the same. They’d take everything.

Raul stared at the straw scattered on the stable floor, shaking his head. Words were no good. He couldn’t hide behind them any longer. He crossed to the stall where she hid, wanting to take her into his arms. He had no right to hold her, no right to comfort her. But the desire was so overwhelming he couldn’t stop himself.

When she saw him coming, she squared her shoulders and tilted her chin. As he advanced, she stood her ground. The seam of her scar glowed eerily in the murky light, as if reminding him of the harm he’d already done.

He wanted to comfort her—simple human contact. Words were no good; the refrain played in his head. Words had failed them, driven them asunder. And the final betrayal had been in the form of words—a pledge.

He gathered her into his arms. She hung in his embrace for one small piece of eternity. His arms tightened, and he grew drunk on the rose-scented perfume in her hair. His blood awakened from its long sleep of celibacy, kindling hot and fierce, running swiftly in his veins, responding to her slender form pressed against his.

And then she came alive. Kicking and spitting, curving her hands into talons, trying to drive her fingernails into his eyes. He reacted on instinct, catching her wrists and holding her hands away from his face.

Desperation and something else glittered in the depths of her jewel-green eyes. Her pale face looked bruised and beaten, flushed from hot tears. Her wine-red lips parted, forming words, but he didn’t want to hear her curses.

As if it was the most natural thing in the world, he lowered his head and took her mouth, swallowing her words, stopping the torment between them.

Her mouth felt hard and brittle, unyielding. She struggled, flaying against his superior strength, squirming to be free.

But he had a task to complete. Kiss her until all the words melted away, like snow in the hollows when the spring sunshine found their secret places. Kiss her until she grew as drunk as he. Kiss her until he absorbed her anger, her pain, and her grief.

Slowly, one heartbeat at a time, she softened. Her joints loosened, and her limbs ceased struggling. Her female form flowed into his, giving, so giving. Her arms came up and encircled his neck, and her lips parted. Her breath was hot and sweet on his cheek.

The soft mounds of her breasts pillowed against his chest. The warmth of her body surrounded him, enfolding him in a cocoon of heat. And the taste of her mouth was honeyed like the finest mead. He couldn’t get enough of her, couldn’t drink his fill. How long had it been since he’d kissed a woman? He couldn’t remember. In truth it mattered not because his mouth had been formed for this one woman. His body sculpted to fit the soft curves of her flesh.

A hot spurt of desire raced through his veins, turning his body turgid with need, rigid with wanting. The stinging torment of his arousal lay heavy and demanding between them. Mindless with passion’s promise, he ground his hips into her.

She moaned at the back of her throat and responded, rubbing her female softness against his male hardness until he thought he’d go mad with the wanting.

Mad with wanting?

¡Sangre de Cristo! Por Dios
, he was a monk, sworn to celibacy, and she was a princess, far above him. How dare he desire her? He hadn’t meant to desire her, only to comfort her.

Breaking their kiss, he pulled free. She opened her eyes and gazed at him, her smooth brow furrowed with an unspoken question. As if she expected...expected what? He should apologize, explain his inexcusable behavior. But humiliation sealed his lips.

Words had failed them before, and they failed him now.

And because she deserved more, so much more.

If he could, he’d pluck the sun and the stars and the moon from the sky and string them on a rainbow. But he had naught to give her, and he was no better than a cur trained to do his master’s bidding.

But knowing he could give her nothing, less than nothing, he pivoted on his heel and strode from the stable, allowing the door to bang shut behind him.

****

Cahira opened her eyes. They felt sticky, full of unshed tears. Not that she could cry anymore. Nay, she’d cried until she sank into the hay and slept. Rising, she wiped her eyes and tried to divine the time. The torch sputtered in its sconce; soon it would go out. The hour must be late. How long had she slept?

She stared at the stable door and shivered a little, remembering Raul’s hasty exit. Had she dreamed him? Had she imagined their kiss and the heat of their bodies pressed together? Had an evil wizard cast a spell, making her most secret wish come true?

She brushed her lips with her fingertips. They were swollen and bruised from his kiss. And the smell of him, his musky male scent still lingered on her gown and in her hair. Nay, no wizard’s spell that. The Templar had been real enough. He’d kissed her, and she’d felt the hard evidence of his desire. He’d lusted after her like a man, not a monk.

But he’d broken the kiss and put her away. His willpower had triumphed over passion’s brief flare. What had she expected? That he would relinquish his life’s work and sworn vows to, to…do what?

She’d never been kissed before, except by her kin. She hadn’t known what to expect. Hadn’t known about the heat and liquid desire. Hadn’t anticipated the need that would claw at her insides, turning her molten and aching. In truth she’d never thought much about kissing. She’d believed she would marry for love and her rightful husband would teach her the ways of desire.

She knew about the rutting of animals and had glimpsed her servants coupling in dark corners. But when she’d yearned for a love match, she’d envisioned her lovemaking as something purer, nobler. She sighed. Raul couldn’t give her that kind of love. He was bound to his Order.

What had possessed her to return his kiss? To clutch at his broad shoulders and press herself against his hard maleness? For he was her captor, and he'd robbed her of all she held dear. And yet, he was dark as sin and twice as handsome. She admired his wide shoulders and muscular chest.
Liked to watch him walk, marveling at the corded strength of his thighs.