Seducing the Knight (19 page)

The next thing she knew, she was jerked forward again. The conde signaled to two of his men to collect the ark while he dragged her toward a waiting wagon. She fought against him until he stopped and bound her hands.

She twisted back toward Alan as the conde dragged her forward. Would anyone help him? Could she? Her throat tightened. Perhaps not with a sword, but if she gave the conde what he wanted, then maybe…

She dug her heels into the dirt. She had to try. “Please,” she begged. “Spare him and I’ll go with you. I’ll marry you willingly if you’ll call your men off.” Two men held Alan by the arms now while he writhed and kicked against them. Another man approached with a sword aimed at his heart. She sucked in a breath. Even his mail might not protect him from such a strike. “Tell them to stop!”

“You won’t fight me any longer?” the conde asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Make them stop now!”

With a shrill whistle, the conde called his men to him. The soldier with the sword brought the flat of his blade down against the side of Alan’s head instead of striking his chest. The two men holding him released him, and Alan’s legs buckled and he slumped to the ground.

The conde’s lips curled back in a snarl. “I’ll hold you to your promise.”

She nodded. “You have my word.”

Jessamine dared not move, or breathe, or do anything that might change the conde’s mind. She shivered as she was tossed into the wagon. The vehicle lurched forward. Tears blurred her vision and ran in white-hot streaks down her cheeks.

She would have to give up what she wanted most in order to protect him. She only hoped Alan would understand.

Alan awoke with a start. A dull thudding pounded through his head. He wrenched himself upright and reached for his sword. It wasn’t there. At the sudden movement, his head spun. His heart pounded. His lungs labored to pull in a breath.

He swiped his hand over his eyes to clear them and felt stickiness on his fingers. Blood. His blood. His side burned, and sweat broke out on his brow. The thudding in his head intensified as he scanned the docks and the hillside above him. He was alone. The conde must have paid the townsfolk to vanish until he was gone.

And the conde
was
gone, along with Jessamine.

Jessamine.
He’d lost Jessamine and the ark. Cold terror, more debilitating than the pain pulsing through his head, clenched his chest. That shadow he’d seen on the English Channel—it must have been the conde.

He’d lost Jessamine.

He turned his face to the sky and released a growl, a groan, a howl of sheer frustration and pain. The conde had taken her, and Alan had no idea where.

He drew a rasping breath, then another, until his breathing slowed and his thoughts cleared. He searched the planking of the docks, then the ground beyond, for his weapon. He had to find his sword. On hands and knees he searched until he caught a glint of silver beneath
the afternoon sun and felt the reassurance of cold steel once again in his hand.

He had to think. He had to plan. He tried to get to his feet, only to collapse back against the soft earth. He tried again. This time he remained standing. But his head swam, and the world spun before his eyes. He sheathed his sword and took a step forward, then another. In order to save Jessamine, he had to find help. Templar help. Only his brothers could help him rescue the one thing more precious than anything else life held.

He had to stay in control. Instead of heading for Trophichen Preceptory, which he might find deserted, he would ride for Crosswick Priory instead. The monastery had at one time been his home. The Templars would still be in residence there no matter what changes a year had brought. The Templars could help him.

The words became a prayer as he shuffled toward the village of Dundee. To a horse that just seemed to be waiting there. Could this be the ark’s doing? Stranger things had happened since they’d been in the presence of the holy treasure. Alan searched up and down the abandoned street for the animal’s owner. Horse thieves were hanged in Scotland. Alan continued toward the animal as need drove him to take the risk.

The horse remained still as Alan tried to mount, but nausea hit him hard. He clutched his midsection, battling the urge to vomit, and concentrated on breathing. When the pain passed, he tried mounting the beast again. The animal whickered, then remained still, as though understanding Alan’s need. He grasped the saddle and climbed awkwardly upon the horse’s back.

When he set the horse in motion, he released a jagged breath as pain shot through him. He grasped the saddle with white-knuckled force and gritted his teeth
against the pain that pierced his body and stabbed behind his eyes. He would endure whatever pain he had to. Nothing would stop him from finding Jessamine. Nothing.

By the time he finally saw the walls of the old monastery, Alan’s body had gone numb, as had his mind. The late afternoon sun glinted off the stark gray stone, and if he hadn’t gone so numb, he would have smiled. He’d missed this place—a place he’d once called home. At the gate, he slid off the horse’s back and onto the ground. He pulled himself up with the help of the horse’s saddle band, then tried to stumble toward the iron gate and the door beyond.

He made it to the door and knocked. He couldn’t say who answered his summons, because at the very moment the door swung wide, the world before him went dark once more.

“Mother of God!” the Templar cursed as he caught the man collapsing in the doorway and hauled him inside. Alan Cathcart. They’d thought him dead. Alan’s friend Simon frowned. By the looks of it, the man would be exactly that if they didn’t get him inside and into the healing baths as soon as possible.

Simon slammed the door shut with his foot. “A little help, I beg thee,” he called to anyone nearby.

“What in Heaven’s name?” Brother Kenneth hurried forward. He gripped Alan by one shoulder, helping to support his weight.

“He’s been in some sort of recent battle, and now he’s out cold,” Simon said as the three of them progressed down the long hallway. “Please hurry, Abbot. He weighs as much as a horse!”

Brother Patrick and Brother Bernard rushed into the
hallway just as the burdened men reached the first doorway on the right. “Alan?” they asked in unison.

“Help us prepare a bed for him, if you would,” Brother Kenneth asked the younger brothers.

“Aye, Abbot.” They hurried into the chamber and pulled back the covers of the serviceable cot in the corner.

Simon laid Alan down carefully and quickly removed his sword and sheath before he pulled the bloodied linen shirt Alan wore back to reveal a coat of mail beneath.

“He’s injured very badly.” Simon frowned down at the blood seeping through the links, not to mention the several gashes in the metal where the enemy’s sword had penetrated. “We’ll have to sew him up before we can take him to the healing baths.”

“Aye,” Brother Kenneth agreed. He turned to Brother Patrick. “Go get ale and linens.” To Brother Bernard he said, “Go fetch a needle and thread and steel yourself for sewing him up.” The young man nodded and hurried after Patrick as he hastened from the chamber.

“He’ll not need any ale. He’s already out cold,” Simon said, frowning down at Alan’s battle-torn body.

“The ale’s for me,” Brother Kenneth admitted. “Alan’s presence here is good news and bad. He’s returned to us. We praise the saints for that. But his condition…”

While they waited for the brothers to return with the supplies they needed, Simon ripped what was left of Alan’s linen shirt into strips for a tourniquet here and a compress there, preventing any more blood from seeping out of his wounds.

When Brother Patrick and Brother Bernard returned, the abbot stepped back to let the young men work. But Simon hesitated, almost afraid to leave him now that Alan had finally returned to them. “We looked
everywhere for him after the battle.” Simon’s gut twisted.

“Simon.” Brother Kenneth placed a hand on his shoulder and encouraged him to step back. “Alan is with us now. That’s what matters. God will see him through this. He brought our Falcon back to us. Come, let the others work.”

Simon stepped back, but the knot in his stomach did not ease. “I should tell William Keith that Alan survived. He’ll be relieved to know.”

Again the abbot patted his shoulder. “In time, Simon. First we wait to see that he lives. Then we must hear what Alan has to tell us.”

“Agreed.”

Jessamine twisted the rope at her wrists, trying to work herself free. Not that it would do her much good even if she could manage to free her hands. Escape seemed impossible with so many soldiers nearby.

The conde rode at the front of their caravan on horseback, his men following on foot. He must have made port in Spain to gather more men and supplies.

Jessamine shifted so that her feet were under her as she searched for an opening, some way to throw herself over the edge of the cart and make her escape. A lump came to her throat. She had to do something to help Alan. They’d left him bleeding and battered, and quite possibly…

She couldn’t finish the thought.

Her body coiled, preparing to leap, when a small voice beside her said, “That wouldn’t be wise, my dear. There will be a better opportunity if you wait for it to present itself.”

“Will?”
Jessamine glanced sharply at the two men who strode nearby the cart. Neither of them looked at her.
She turned back toward the sound and lifted the edge of the linen that still partially covered the ark. Will was lying on the floorboards of the wagon. At the sight of the old man, her heart soared. Perhaps there was hope for escape.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

He smiled. “I couldn’t let them take you off alone.”

She flicked another gaze at the men. “What about Alan? He needs help.”

His smile faded. “He’s alive. He’s headed for Crosswick Priory, his old home. The monks there will help him.”

Jessamine drew her first easy breath since they’d been attacked by the conde. “I pray you are right.”

“Prayer would be useful here, my dear.”

One of the soldiers looked her way. “Whom are you talking to?” he asked in a gruff voice.

Jessamine pulled the linen back down over Will’s body. “I’m praying.” She straightened and met his gaze. “Or will the conde take prayer away from me too?”

A low, dangerous chuckle came from the conde in front of the wagon. “Pray all you want, Princess. It won’t help.”

His comment brought the sting of tears to her eyes. Yes, it would. She squeezed her eyes shut. Prayer always helped.

Please, God,
she prayed,
take care of Alan.
And for herself, she prayed for deliverance from a fate she’d thrust herself into.

Marriage to the conde…“Oh, God, please deliver me,” she whispered with all her heart. She searched the small patch of unclouded sky overhead, which was now streaked with pink. Odd for what had started out as a sunny afternoon. They hit a deep rut and she slammed against the side of the wagon, crushed on the other side by the ark. “Will?” Where had Will gone?

He lifted the linen on the opposite side of the ark. His head poked around the edge. “I thought it would be safer for me to remain over here. Less risk for you too.”

She lifted her gaze to the sky once more. The pink streaks had now turned red. She frowned. Had time passed so quickly? Usually a red sky suggested a time closer to eventide.

The hills she had found so beautiful upon her arrival now seemed eerily dark. The soft breeze died, the birds ceased their twittering, and the leaves of the rowan trees stilled.

Her skin prickled. Jessamine held her breath. An instant later rocks on the hillside opposite her started to tumble. A small rock zinged past her. Another hit her shoulder. She crouched down behind the ark.

A thunderous roar suddenly filled the air, followed by the shriek of a horse and the shouts of men. The wagon lurched to an abrupt stop. She flew forward and hit the front of the wagon. Pain radiated through her left shoulder at the impact. She peered around the ark. What was happening?

Large rocks tumbled down the hillside. Jessamine ducked. “Oh, please don’t let them hit us,” she whispered to herself. The wagon pitched to the right, then collapsed on the ground as a wheel snapped.

Jessamine’s heart pounded. Dust choked the air. She coughed and wished she could bring her hand up to cover her nose and mouth. She ducked her head instead as the crack and roar of the rocks ceased, leaving only a blanketing silence.

She peered up over the ark at the world around her. Just ahead, the conde struggled to regain control of his horse. The soldiers had abandoned the cart to assist him and to examine the road, which had been ripped apart as though a mighty hand had severed it. Rocks
littered the parts of the roadway that hadn’t been destroyed.

Jessamine’s gaze flew to the ark. She’d prayed only moments ago for deliverance. Was that what she’d been given? She wouldn’t waste this chance, no matter how it had come to her. Taking her fate in her hands, she leaped out of the wagon and ran around to the side Will had occupied. She flipped up the linen. He was gone. Her gaze shot to the hillside. She saw him there. How had he climbed the rocky hill so fast? She scrambled up the hillside where she’d glimpsed him at the edge of the trees.

She found him quickly.

“My hands,” she said, holding the bindings out to him.

“There’s no time. You must run for the trees while I head for Crosswick Priory. I will tell Alan and his men where to find you.”

She stretched her hands out farther. “Will, please.” But he turned and was gone.

Angry shouts came from below. She darted into the trees and ran with her hands held tightly against her chest. She could feel the pounding of her heart with each desperate step she took. The branches of the trees and brush snagged her skirt and tore at the flesh of her legs and arms, but she forced herself forward.

Footsteps sounded behind her, fast and many. Her breath came in harsh bursts. She stumbled, caught herself, and continued forward, managing only a few feet more before a hand grasped her arm, wrenching her backward against the solid chest of one of the Spanish soldiers.

“Let me go. I am your princess.”

“I follow the conde’s orders.”

Jessamine kicked and squirmed, but the soldier simply dragged her through the trees and brush back to the
wagon. A shiver of apprehension coursed through her body when they approached the conde. His grin was little more than a dark, evil slash.

“We might be stuck in this godforsaken land a while longer, thanks to this rockslide, but you’ll not escape your fate with me.”

“I’d rather die.”

“That can be arranged when I am done with you.” He gave a harsh laugh as he grabbed a fistful of her hair, then jerked her forward, twisting her head painfully to the side. Her cry of pain opened her lips to the revolting touch of his mouth on hers, sucking wetly. She gagged. She brought her bound fists up and tried to beat him away, but the conde reached down, caught them, and dragged her arms painfully over her head.

“God’s blood, you’re going to be a worthwhile little treat when I finally do bed you, Princess. Until then…” His words broke off as he slammed his lips onto hers once more.

This time, Jessamine twisted her head away. The soldiers nearby watched, laughed, and looked at her in a way that needed no verbal translation.

In that moment the fourth stanza of the prophecy flashed through her mind.
The fate of the parents will not be yours as a sacrifice heralds the start of a new war.
A cold chill moved through her. Again, the word
sacrifice
stood out in her mind, as did the word
war.
She tried to wiggle free as the conde lifted her up and tossed her into the wagon, which was being repaired.