Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride Read online

  The sight of him half-clothed made her feel hot and cold all at once. His hands, large and purposeful, began to untie his breeches.

  Leonor fixed her gaze on her leather boots. You must not watch him. Yet she could not look away. He moved further downstream, towards a wide place in the river, loosening his breeches as he walked.

  He bent to pull off his drawers, and she sucked in her breath, opening her mouth to warn him of her presence.

  Nay, perhaps she should not. He was angry enough with her as it was. She would silently withdraw, move further upstream and dip her scorching face in the cooling river.

  Before she could move, Reynaud stripped off the last of his garments and, keeping his back to her, moved to the water’s edge. Her limbs froze. He arched his body and plunged into the blue-green pool where the current eddied, and she heard the water ripple as he swam back and forth. Ah, she wanted to peel off her tunic and trousers and curve her tingling body into the water beside his.

  She expelled a long, uneven breath. She felt something extraordinary inside, a fluttering in her belly, and she knew it was because of this tall, black-haired man arching his body in the water. In spite of everything—her grief at how he had changed, her annoyance at the pace he set for travel in the sweltering heat, his short temper and gruff manner—in spite of all that, she respected him. Trusted him. She liked him.

  In fact, she had never known a man she liked as well.

  He stroked to the bank and hauled himself out of the river, water streaming over his face and chest from his unruly dark curls. Half-turning his body towards the opposite bank, he raised both arms and smoothed his hair back with his hands.

  ‘You are beautiful.’

  She had spoken aloud without realising it.

  Reynaud stood stock still, his naked back to her. ‘Leonor. Cousin. Do not say such things to me.’

  She swallowed convulsively. ‘Why not? You are my cousin, as you say. More than that, Rey, you are a Templar. You are pledged to Christ. Likely you are not interested in women.’

  With a groan, Reynaud felt his body stir as he turned to her. ‘I am your cousin, it is true. And a Templar. But,’ he added, his voice hoarse, ‘I am also a man.’

  A sweet, drowsy liquor flowed like rich wine through her veins. The air between them crackled with awareness.

  In the quiet glade a cicada began a faint humming, as if the earth were moaning as it turned under her feet. A hot throbbing bloomed in the place between her thighs.

  An image floated into her mind of a waterwheel, rising, then plunging into a stream, seeding the barren earth with new life. Caught up in an undercurrent she only half-understood, her body responded to the rhythm of life that pulsed deep within her.

  She wanted to touch him.

  His eyes darkened into fathomless emerald pools. His desire for her was obvious, and he took a single step towards her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Leonor turned away from Reynaud, her body trembling, and he moved forwards to stand at her back. ‘Look at me,’ he commanded. ‘Turn and look at me.’

  She turned, her mouth suddenly dry. She had never before seen a naked man.

  ‘I am a Templar, who serves God,’ he said, his voice low. ‘But that makes me no less a man.’ He flicked his glance downwards, between his thighs. ‘The body knows what it is, even if the spirit wills it otherwise.’

  Her heart surged into her throat. Through the roaring in her ears she heard the distant rumble of thunder. Somewhere it was raining, bringing cooling water to the earth’s parched skin. Unconsciously she ran her tongue over her lips.

  But it was not raining here. Here, her breasts were swelling and her most private parts ached with desire. She yearned for him in the most carnal, sinful way!

  A net dropped over her heart and drew tight. All these years she had searched for a man unlike others, had longed to be united in spirit and in body with that one man. She had waited for him all her life.

  And, oh, sweet heaven, now she feared she had found him! It was this man she hungered for. A monk. One who, by his own choice, was pledged to God.

  And chastity.

  She wanted to weep, to laugh, to tear at her hair—anything to relieve the hunger of her flesh for the wrong man. A man whose inner scars threatened to crush her joy at being alive.

  She shut her eyes and raised her face towards the purpling sky. God, God help me! Surely I, your faithful servant, do not deserve this heavenly jest? What have I done that You reward me thus?

  ‘Leonor.’ Reynaud breathed her name. ‘Lea.’

  Her blood raced at the sound of his voice, throaty with need. A thrush began its song, then broke off as suddenly as it had started. Her chest tightened until she could scarcely draw breath. Sing, she willed the bird. Sing, so I will not have to speak.

  ‘Leonor.’

  ‘Say nothing, Reynaud.’

  ‘I must. Leonor, hear me.’

  ‘I cannot. Will not,’ she amended. Neither could she look at him. She squeezed her lids tight and clenched her hands at her sides. But underneath she knew it was no use. All at once she knew the truth. She loved him. She had always loved him.

  Like a soft breath, a mist of rain dropped a veil over them. Very slowly Reynaud turned her to face him. A mere arm’s length away from her trembling form, he was grateful for the cooling drops that pelted his bare skin. Only as reason returned could he risk looking into her eyes, acknowledging the longing he saw reflected in their grey depths. All his life he had wanted a woman to look at him in that way.

  He dared not touch her. If she made one gesture, one small movement towards him, he would be lost.

  The rain settled into a whispery rhythm. His flesh cooled, then heated anew as he watched her pupils widen and darken with passion. Her peaked nipples showed under her damp tunic.

  He willed his still tumescent body into stone, prayed that she would not reach out to him and shatter his last vestige of self-control. Ecstasy—madness, even—lay just a heartbeat away.

  His hands burned. He dug both thumbs into the flesh of his thighs. Lust was a rack of fire, the turning of the wheel that breaks the body into flame. He closed his eyes, ordered himself to turn his back to her.

  Rain stung his shoulders. If he looked at her again, saw the tears sheening her face, sparkling on the feathery sweep of dark lashes, his heart would burst.

  The moment stretched. His blood throbbed in his veins. To keep himself from touching her, he turned away.

  ‘Reynaud.’ She breathed his name.

  He jerked, but did not open his eyes.

  ‘Reynaud,’ she repeated.

  ‘Lea, step away from me. Now, while I still have my wits.’

  He sensed her withdrawal. The heat that licked at him when she was near faded until there was nothing left but an odd emptiness and the soft hiss of the rain.

  He opened his eyes. She had vanished. As if released from an enchantment, he jolted to life, grabbed his breeches and hurriedly drew them on. When he reached the horses he had tied to a tree, Leonor was draping the travel carpets over two low-branching oak limbs to form a shelter from the wet. Avoiding his gaze, she unrolled a third carpet and spread it underneath.

  He moved to his saddlebag for a clean tunic. When he pulled it over his head, the rustle of oiled parchment told him Leonor was unwrapping the food packet.

  ‘There is more bread and cheese here,’ she announced, her voice uneven. ‘And some grapes.’ Still she would not look at him. ‘Will you want—?’

  ‘Yes,’ Reynaud answered quickly. ‘Some wine. Behind your saddle, rolled in a canvas sack.’

  But even the wine could not quench the hunger burning inside him. When she unloaded her harp and propped it beside her on the carpet, his gut clenched. Idly she strummed her fingers across the strings and he groaned aloud.

  She began to sing an old gypsy ballad.

  In the next instant he strode to her side and pulled the instrument out of her hands. ‘Play if you must,’ h
e said, his voice raw. ‘But, please, do not sing.’

  She looked up with widened eyes. ‘But my song is not blasphemous. It is only a gypsy ballad.’

  ‘Just so,’ he said. ‘I—’ His voice choked off.

  ‘Rey, why are you so harsh with me? What is it that weighs on you? Is it what awaits you in Carcassonne?’

  ‘Nay,’ he lied. He knew not what to expect at Carcassonne save that whatever Grand Master de Blanquefort ordered, so would he undertake.

  Leonor weighed on him. What was he to do with her? How could he secure her safety and carry out his Templar orders at the same time? Worse, how could he stand being near her for one more hour, inhaling the spice-sweet scent of her hair, her skin, hearing her soft, low voice speak his name? He knew he could not. Unable to answer, he stalked off towards the river.

  When he returned he did not speak, and when she gestured at the food she had laid out, he found he could not eat. His body tense and aching, he lay down on the carpet, careful to put his back to her.

  He must have slept, because the next thing he knew it was dark and Leonor lay curled like a kitten up beside him.

  Leonor awoke to water dripping from leaves overhead to the sodden earth, making irregular soft plopping sounds. Much like her heartbeat, she thought. Beside her, Reynaud slept, his breathing deep and steady. She lay still, gazing out past the edge of the carpet tent she had fashioned.

  The round golden moon hung low in the sky, like a great ripe fruit floating behind a netting of dark clouds. When it broke through, warm light poured down through the trees and she smiled into the dark. The storm had blown over.

  And the storm in her heart? She lay motionless, savouring the warmth of Reynaud’s body next to hers. She wanted him.

  And he wanted her. She had seen it in his eyes, heard it in his voice. She drew in a lungful of the sweet-scented night air. Reynaud was the most intriguing mix of a man she had ever known. And the most lost. And the most handsome.

  Such a man was wasted as a Templar.

  The squire Galeran lifted Count Henri’s chainmail hauberk from the battered wooden barrel at his feet. Humming to himself, he smoothed his fingers over the burnished metal and nodded in satisfaction. The tumbling sand had scrubbed off most of the rust; the rest he would polish with oil and pumice until it gleamed like silver once again.

  He seated himself on the stool outside the stable door and bent to his task, singing under his breath. ‘My love is like a skylark, a nightingale so fair…’ He sang the words haltingly as he worked over the metal coils with a worn linen rag and a boar-bristle brush, trying to visualise the lute accompaniment he had learned the day before. ‘A woman is sweeter than honey…’ or…or was it lilies? That was it, lilies. He sighed. ‘A woman is…’

  In his mind’s eye, the lady Leonor materialised, seated at her harp, tossing her black hair over her shoulders. His polishing slowed, then stopped.

  Leonor. Such a beautiful name, like music on the tongue. When would she return from her journey with the Templar? They were travelling north, he remembered. Perhaps to Mont-de-Marsan? Or east, towards Tarbes and Toulouse? He knew only that her journey would end at his father’s castle at Carcassonne. And then, might she not tell his father the count about her faithful squire? How pleased she was by his service?

  Ah, Papa would be so proud of him.

  He applied himself once again to the metal garment spread over his knees. ‘She is both earthly paradise and joy,’ he sang as he worked. ‘And she is—’

  A shadow fell over him and he broke off.

  ‘You are the squire Galeran?’ a hard, rasping voice demanded.

  Galeran leaped up, knocking over the stool in his haste. ‘Yes, my lord. How may I serve you?’ He clutched the heavy mail shirt in both hands and stared at the bulky knight in Hospitaller dress.

  The knight dismounted and loomed over him. Suddenly his arm shot out and a hand seized the neck of Galeran’s tunic. ‘You may indeed serve me, boy.’ He gave a vicious upwards tug. ‘You know the Templar Reynaud?’

  Galeran struggled to keep his balance. ‘That I do, my lord.’

  ‘Then you also know that he is no longer here in Moyanne.’

  Galeran nodded, barely able to breathe.

  ‘There’s a good lad. And do you also know where he has gone?’

  Galeran shook his head so hard it ached.

  The knight’s bushy eyebrows drew downwards. ‘No? Must I then refresh your memory?’ He lifted one thick hand, closing it into a huge fist under Galeran’s nose.

  The squire’s mind raced. ‘It will do no good to cuff me, lord. I am…forgetful, you see. I forget everything—names, places. I even forgot to clean my uncle’s mail yestereven, and today—’

  His voice choked off as the knight’s fingers squeezed the neck of Galeran’s tunic tight about his throat.

  ‘This matter I think you have not forgotten,’ the knight said through gritted teeth. ‘You will tell me where they have gone.’

  Think! Galeran reminded himself. Stall. Perhaps some help will come. I will lie, if I must. God will forgive me.

  ‘They?’ he wheezed. His legs shook so violently he could scarcely stand.

  ‘You know very well who “they” are. Lady Leonor and the Templar.’

  ‘Well,’ Galeran managed, ‘let me think. And you are certain that they travel together? The Lady Leonor and—’

  The knight slapped the back of his free hand across Galeran’s face. ‘You have until I count to ten, boy.’ He hit him again, palm up. ‘And then…’

  Galeran blanched. And then? The blood drained from his upper body, leaving a cold lump where his heart should be. Oh, merciful God, help me. Or at least give me the courage to do what I must.

  ‘One.’

  ‘I—Well, you see, my lord—’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘It’s this way, my lord. The two of them—Lady Leonor, you say? And—’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Reynaud, the Templar. It is Reynaud you m-mean, is it n-not?’ Galeran’s tongue stumbled over the words he babbled in desperation.

  ‘Four.’ The knight’s eyes took on an unsettling, fixed look that turned Galeran’s blood to ice.

  ‘Five.’

  Galeran’s face ached. Fighting back tears, he tried to concentrate. ‘Wait.’

  ‘Six.’ The voice dropped to a menacing whisper. ‘Seven.’

  Sweat poured down Galeran’s neck. Should he call for help? Scream? Like as not if he did, the knight would throttle him then and there. Besides, no one could hear him over the shouts of men training on the jousting field. What could he do?

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Very well, then, I will tell you,’ Galeran lied. ‘Only release me so I can catch my breath.’

  ‘You have breath enough to beg, you brat. Use it to tell me where they have gone.’

  ‘My lord, I—’

  ‘Nine.’

  Galeran closed his eyes. He would not betray them, no matter what came. He could not, for Leonor’s sake. Ah, would that he did not love her and could save himself. How he wanted to live.

  A violent jerk on his tunic pulled him off balance, and the next thing he knew he was being dragged into a cool, musty smelling place. The stables.

  Oh, no. No. He didn’t want it to be in the stables. Not the stables.

  ‘Ten.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Reynaud awoke to see the moon riding high against a curtain of black velvet. Through the opening in the tent of carpets Leonor had fashioned, he watched wisps of cloud drift in lacy patterns across the silvery globe. He had seen moonglow such as this in Syria, but on the battlefield. Then he had cringed from the light because it revealed to the ever-vigilant Saracens the number of Templar knights and their position.

  Now, he welcomed the pale glow. At his leisure, he could watch Leonor’s face as she slept beside him. He raised himself on one elbow. Never would he have enough of looking at her. And lying next to her…it made his senses swim
.

  With a murmur, Leonor rolled to one side, away from him. Reynaud curved his body around hers, laying his arm across her waist and pulling her spine tight against his chest. Bending his legs, he cupped her bottom between his knees and his groin.

  She moaned in her sleep and snuggled into him, like a kitten seeking warmth. The movement was so enticing he groaned aloud. Here, nestled together in the quiet tent, holding Leonor in his arms, was the closest he would ever come to heaven on this earth. Part of him wished never to arrive at Carcassonne.

  But another part—the knight with obligations to his Grand Master—would rise when dawn broke and ride on to his destination, as he had been ordered.

  He did not want to think about what awaited him in Carcassone at this moment. He knew he would have to leave her, and then…A bruised feeling filled his chest.

  At first light, he rose quietly, pulled on his boots and made his way over the rain-dampened ground to the river. By the time Leonor poked her head out of the tent, he had his destrier and her cream mare saddled and ready.

  ‘We leave at once, I see.’ Her low voice showed no surprise, only resignation. Her eyes met his. ‘I had thought to break our fast.’

  ‘No,’ Reynaud said, more sharply than he intended.

  ‘No,’ she echoed. ‘It is always no.’ She scrambled out of the tent and stood before him, her eyes flashing. ‘You are still angry with me, that I know. But I am hungry!’

  ‘We will eat as we ride. Come.’ He stepped forwards. He heard her quick intake of breath and closed his eyes. How hard it was to keep from touching her, as he longed to…as a man touched a woman.

  He had to remind himself he was not his own man, but God’s. ‘I will pack up the shelter,’ he said, working to keep his voice light. ‘Go and wash.’

  She nodded shortly and spun away. He watched her stomp a careless path through the damp undergrowth. She had spirit, that one. And her mind was quick as a fox’s. Something told him they would need both in the days to come.