Seducing the Knight (2 page)

“Cease your writhing, woman! There’s a sea of blood beneath us.” His voice was harsh, but at his words she stilled.

“A sea of blood?” she responded in perfect English. Her eyes, if it were possible, grew even wider as her gaze dropped to the red cross of the Templars upon his chest. “Turbans and crosses,” she breathed in disbelief.

Alan slashed his way past two Moors that blocked his
way to the edge of the battlefield. The woman remained still until the danger passed.

“It’s as the prophecy predicted.” Her voice cut through the cries of men and horses. The tension in her face eased.

As his warhorse dodged the worst of the fighting, Alan studied the woman in his arms. Her features were finely drawn. A pair of ruby lips, full and tempting. Large almond-shaped eyes set above high, chiseled cheekbones. Lush, dark lashes, a straight nose, all set into an oval of perfect honey-colored skin.

A hesitant smile came to those full red lips, and relief entered her eyes.

“My thanks,” she murmured.

Her voice was low yet melodic, with the slightest hint of a rasp. She leaned closer, and the faint scent of jasmine teased his nose. He tore his gaze from her at the sound of hoofbeats behind him. “Save your thanks until we are safe.” As though in response to his words, a swarm of black-cloaked men raced toward them.

Alan forced himself to relax, to keep his muscles loose yet ready, as he searched for a way to escape. One horse with two riders would be less maneuverable than his enemies’ mounts.

Flashes of steel sparked in the sun. Alan drew a sharp breath. “Lean down against the horse’s mane and hold tight. Close your eyes,” he said next to the woman’s ear. “No matter what happens, don’t let go.”

She did as he asked without question. He put his heels to his horse’s sides. The beast shot forward. Tendrils of the woman’s silken black hair caught the wind, caressing the back of his hand as he held the reins. A soft tingle snaked up his arm. He forced the odd sensation away and fixed his attention on the men whose curved swords slashed at the two of them. He charged.

Death followed each swipe of his sword. There was no consolation in dying on the battlefield, save that a man would go to God with the knowledge that he’d died for his king. Pain tightened Alan’s chest at the memory of his brothers falling beneath the Moorish swords. Why had the Spanish held back? They hadn’t joined the Templars in that first charge. The Templars had entered the battle alone.

Without the support of the Spanish, they’d been doomed from the start. The Scottish Templars were undone. Defeated.

All he could do now was try to survive—to finish what his brothers could not. He gripped the reins a little too tight, sending his horse’s front hooves dancing in the heavy air. Alan forced himself to relax, to bring the horse under control. There was no option but to push past the fighting.

With a cry of anguish, Alan turned his horse toward the desert. The Moors would win this battle. All that remained was to save himself and the woman. Alan blocked one sword, then another and another. His breath rasped in his throat as he severed the Moors’ flesh, vessels, bone.

He wove his way through the conflict. Bodies, blood, and weapons littered the ground. The screaming of the enemy, the shouting of the remaining Templars, the ranting of the bagpipes filled the desert air.

He had to survive. If these men got their hands on the girl…He blocked the thought.

Alan distanced himself from the sounds, from the streaks of pain that shot through his thighs, from the relentless pounding of blows on his mail. He blocked out his horse’s shrieks of pain as the animal, too, took blows to his armored rear flanks, but Alan kept charging forward, into the rocky desert and toward the coast he knew lay in the distance.

Not one sound came from the girl’s lips as she clung to the horse. Alan frowned at the blood spatters on her peach-colored gown. Was she hurt? Or was the blood a result of the conflict? He couldn’t take the time to find out.

Behind him a banshee wail sounded. He turned to look back. A crossbow bolt struck his side. He felt it penetrate his mail, felt it pierce his flesh. That fleeting twist of his spine had saved him. Flame bloomed in his
side. The bolt hit his rib and stopped. As he pulled his sword arm back, blood seeped from the wound, pain seared him, but injury could not stop him. Not after everything he’d already sacrificed. He’d done the unthinkable and abandoned his men. Death would not turn him from his last honorable deed.

With a mighty tug, he pulled the bolt free. For a moment, his vision clouded as pain exploded in his side. Alan forced his brain to clear. He had to stay sharp. The Moor who’d shot him closed in on him, but Alan was prepared. He waited for the man to raise his scimitar. Then Alan brought his own sword up, into the man’s chest. The Moor fell back.

Alan spurred his horse into a reckless, zigzagging dash. He allowed himself one glance back. One last look at the slaughter of Teba. His body coiled with tension. Breath rasped in his throat and his heart pounded at the sight of his fallen brethren. Their army lay in ruin at the foot of the Andalusian hills. A sound erupted from him—a growl, a groan, an expression of sheer frustration and anger, of grief. So many men killed, yet their mission to reach the Holy Land had failed.

He’d been robbed of his brothers, of any connection he had to Scotland. All that remained was his oath to his king and his Templar’s spirit. He must not forget his true purpose.

A wholly unexpected loneliness washed up from the depths of his soul, painful, intense. The loss of his brothers would haunt him for the rest of his days.

He drew a sharp breath of the dry air.
My brothers,
his heart cried in anguish. But Alan pushed his grief away. Not yet. He couldn’t allow himself to feel yet. There would be time…His gaze shifted to the girl still hunched against his horse’s mane.

He frowned at her slender back. Why had she been anywhere near the battlefield? Only a fool would run into such mayhem.

Was she a fool, or was something else at play here? Did he truly care? Nothing could change the outcome of that battle. Nothing.

But he was in control of what happened next. He would take her to safety. Then he’d continue on his journey to the Holy Land, alone.

The task he’d been entrusted with was far too important to let anyone or anything stand in his way. Alan struck his heels against his horse’s sides. The animal responded with a surging bound, lifting his hooves and springing forward, away from the battlefield, heading deeper into the desert toward the unknown.

Conde Salazar Mendoza had watched Jessamine throw herself into the chaos of the battlefield, and he’d been tempted to follow her until she was plucked from the ground by one of the Templars who had come to help the king of Spain.

As the two rode out of sight, the conde released a throaty growl as raw anger surged through him. “Damn, stupid girl.” The Templars were foiling his plans to kill the king and wed his niece. Marriage to Princess Jessamine would bring him one step closer to the Spanish crown. It was a goal he and his mother had dreamed about for the past ten years.

His thoughts shifted from Jessamine to his mother, imagining her waiting for him in the ladies’ parlor of their mansion on the outskirts of town. Feelings of happiness flooded him as he pictured her sitting on their finest settee in her red satin gown, with her voluminous skirts spread wide about her legs. She’d always been a regal woman, as grand as any condesa should be.

Some of his pleasure faded as he pictured her there, gazing at him expectantly.

“Did you convince the king that you should marry one of his daughters?” he heard his mother’s sweet voice ask in the echoes of his mind.

The conde frowned. “No, not yet.”

“You’re not trying hard enough. Only naughty boys take no for an answer. And naughty boys deserve to be punished, my son.” Her voice cut through his thoughts as did the memory of her rage.

When he was little more than a boy she’d punished him by locking him in a cold, dark chest without any food or water for a week, until he’d promised to alter the situation.

“I deserve to be linked to the royal family,” she’d cooed to him adoringly when she’d set him free.

He’d promised her then that he’d marry into the royal family one way or another. A heartbeat later, his hands had snaked around her neck, and he’d strangled her.

Ever since that day, he’d been trying to live up to that promise. When his attempts to attach himself to the royal princesses had failed, he’d had to settle for second best. He’d set his sights on the king’s sister. But even she had refused him, saying she still loved her dead husband too much. After that, the conde had had only one choice, to poison her. With the king’s sister out of the way, it had been easy to home in on the newest object of his desire—Jessamine. She would ultimately bring him everything his mother had wanted.

A rush of pleasure shot through him. He could hardly wait to introduce Jessamine to his mother. Then her dull expression, he could imagine, would turn to joy. For once in his life he would have succeeded in pleasing his mother.

If only he could get his hands on the princess.

The conde stared coldly at the battle raging before him. He’d plotted and planned and incited the Moors for months, aggravating the foreign invaders in the hopes that they’d attack the king. Today his plans had borne fruit.

Today was the day the king would die. The conde clenched his fists at his sides. Or so it had seemed until the Templars intruded. With the knights bearing the brunt of the Moors’ attack, the Spanish could hold back. There was no chance for the king to die if he didn’t engage in battle.

The conde growled. Would nothing go as planned this day? Because it looked as though Jessamine had escaped her fate also, but only temporarily.

The conde had no intention of giving up his last hope for gaining the crown of Spain. He would see one last glimpse of pride in his mother’s partially decomposed eyes. The princess would be his, one way or another.

The Templar had ordered her to keep her eyes closed, banishing her to darkness. She knew only what she could hear or smell. The sorrowful cries of the dead and dying had stopped. Thankfully, the smell of death had vanished as well, replaced with the salty, musty scent of sea and earth. She squeezed her eyes shut as the knight had commanded.

Irritation mixed with understanding. She knew why he’d bidden her to block out the horrific sights of the battlefield. Yet another part of her prickled that once again she’d been told what she could and couldn’t do. She’d learned long ago that as a princess, she had to do what was commanded of her, whether that order was to close her eyes or marry a conde. Her choices were rarely her own.

But today she had changed all that by running away from the conde. Her first truly independent action. She drew a startled breath at the realization. Her uncle had not chosen the conde to be her bridegroom. The king had intended to use her marriage as a way to cement the alliance between the Spanish and the Moorish people. The bloodlines of the House of Castile and the House of Burundi mixed in her veins. And she had run away from it all. Perhaps she was braver than she’d imagined herself.

Jessamine tried to open her eyes—to continue her
streak of defiance. Instead, her fists tightened in the mane of the horse beneath her. She knew what she could expect from her uncle and the conde now that she’d defied them both. But the man behind her was still a mystery. Perhaps she’d tempted fate enough for one day.

With a soft sigh, she relaxed against the horse. The sounds around her were amplified by the darkness. The animal’s steady gait matched her own heartbeat. She could hear the rhythmic breathing of the man behind her, feel every shift of his body against her own. High overhead, a bird of prey circled. She heard the flap of wings, a whoosh of air, an occasional piercing call. She could smell the tangy sea air and could feel the warmth of the sun radiating off the rocky ground beneath them.

If she wanted release from the darkness, it appeared she’d have to challenge him. “May I open my eyes now?”

She heard a low muttered curse. He slowed the horse to a walk. “Of course you can open your eyes. Why the hell shouldn’t you?”

She opened her eyes. “Because you commanded me to close them.” Slowly she sat up, flexing the muscles of her back and giving a low, relieved sigh. She turned to look at the man behind her. He towered over her, a dark, austere presence. His eyes were the color of a summer night, deep dark blue that should have seemed warm, but they were cool and watchful as they rested on her. His hair was dark. His mouth…She swallowed roughly. His mouth was tender, sensuous, determined.

His mouth turned down as her gaze lingered there. “Have you no sense?” he snapped. “I didn’t mean for you to keep your eyes closed endlessly.”

Jessamine met his gaze. Anger flared in his eyes. Was it anger at the situation they’d just left, or anger directed at her? “You have every right to be angry—”

He laughed mirthlessly. “You have no idea.” His lips tightened. “Your escapade forced me to abandon my men back there.”

“I’m sorry,” Jessamine said simply.

“You can’t say ‘I’m sorry’ and make it all right.” He stopped speaking, straightened, and relaxed his clenched fists. “Shouting at you won’t bring them back either.” He drew a sharp breath. “It’s done. Where we go from here is what matters now.” He pulled the horse to a stop. “What’s your name?”

Jessamine tried to keep her lips from quivering. “I am sorry,” she repeated.

“Your name.”

She moistened her lips, hesitating. She didn’t want to tell him who she was. People always treated her differently when they knew she was a princess. More than ever, she simply wanted to be someone who’d lost her way. “Jessamine.” She hoped he would let the lack of a surname pass.

“Sir Alan Cathcart, a knight of the Scottish Templars.” He bowed his head, then met her gaze boldly. “Now that the pleasantries have been observed, tell me what you were doing on that battlefield. Are you really so foolish?”

Twice now he’d called her a fool. She gave the Templar a level look. “Don’t underestimate me, Sir Alan Cathcart. I’m no one’s fool.”

She slid off his horse, straightened, then stalked away. “I am no one’s fool,” she muttered to herself. She would keep walking; she would do anything and everything she could to escape the conde and his plans.

The knight brought his horse around in front of her, blocking her progress. “Where are you going?” He drew his sword and pressed the tip of his weapon against her chest.

She could feel the heat of the desert wash over her in waves. Perspiration beaded up on the back of her neck. She swallowed hard.
Dios
, was he as dangerous as the conde?

“You cannot walk your way out of this desert.”

Jessamine clenched her fists at her sides. “I’m tired of people telling me what to do.”

“Perhaps if you did what was expected, then they wouldn’t have to.”

She tried to walk around the horse, but his extended sword blocked her way. “What do you know about expectations?”

A sudden glint of humor appeared in his eyes. “You might be surprised.”

She narrowed her gaze. The man was beginning to annoy her. But he was right about one thing. She was acting unreasonably. She needed his help, whoever he was. Insulting him or angering him further might be unwise.

“The battlefield?” he asked again, his gaze moving to the gemstone necklace at her throat and the rings upon her fingers. “You’re not just some peasant out wandering the streets.”

Jessamine twisted the large gemstone ring on her finger with her thumb, turning it so that it faced the palm of her hand. Did she dare tell him the truth? About who she was? About what had happened? Would he force her to go back to the conde if she did? Men were hard to read sometimes when it came to their allegiances. Would returning her to the Spanish court benefit his own goals? She didn’t know enough about him to take that chance. “I had no other choice.”

“You couldn’t see the ten thousand Moors on the hillside, or the Spanish soldiers and Templars opposing them?”

“As I said, I had no other choice.” She dropped her
gaze to the bloody ruin that was her gown. She
did
sound like a fool. No wonder he’d called her as much. “Can we just leave it at that for now?”

Jessamine heard him sheathe his sword. “As you wish,” he said, suddenly sounding exhausted. He brought his horse closer to her and offered his hand. “I’ll see you as far as the next town; then you and I shall go our own ways. Agreed?” A Scottish brogue was evident in his speech, the soft rhythmic cadence taking some of the edge from his words.

“Agreed.” She accepted his hand. He drew her up onto his horse’s back. A groan escaped him as he settled her before him.

“How badly are you hurt?” She turned to look at his wounded side. A brownish red splash of color soaked his white tunic, mixing with the matted black coat of his horse. Which was hurt worse, man or beast?

“You’re bleeding.”

His frown deepened. “I’ll make it to the town, if that is your concern.”

Jessamine grasped the veil that had fallen to her shoulders. She drew the fabric into her hands, folded it, then tucked it against his side. “You were hit.”

He tensed at her touch.

“Am I hurting you?”

He shook his head.

“I can hold the compress to your side while we ride.”

He brought his hand down to cover hers. Warmth flared across her fingers at the contact. “The damage is not as serious as it looks.”

She met his gaze. “It will be serious if you continue to lose blood.”

He withdrew his hand and shifted his gaze to the distance as though considering her words. Finally he said, “If you are so determined, very well. But let’s make your
ride more comfortable. Release the wound for an instant.”

She lessened the pressure against his side, only to find herself picked up like a feather on the wind and repositioned facing him, with her legs off to one side. Her outer thigh pressed against that most intimate part of him. Despite the heat of the desert, a shiver snaked through her. “I’ll make certain you don’t die.”

His lips drew up in a half smile. “I’m so relieved,” he said before spurring the horse into motion.

Instead of glancing at him, at the big broad chest displayed before her eyes, Jessamine looked beyond him to the haze of dust and smoke that rose above the desert below the town of Teba. They’d managed to escape the battle, but she was sure the conde had as well.

Jessamine knew that the coastal village of Mijas lay just over the hills in the direction they rode. No doubt it would also be the first place the conde would search for her. It would take the better part of the day to reach that town on horseback. She had to keep the knight from bleeding to death until they could reach the town and find help. She also had to figure out a way to escape the conde when he pursued her. He would follow her to the village. Of that she had no doubt.

“Thank you,” Jessamine said, breaking the silence.

“For what?”

“Now that we know we’re safe, I’d like to thank you for saving my life.”

He inclined his head to acknowledge her words but didn’t speak. They rode on in silence, and as they did, Jessamine studied the flat, rocky desert that stretched before her, but eventually her gaze came back to the man who held her in his arms.

Sir Alan Cathcart’s arms rested around her securely. She’d never been held so intimately by any man before,
and an odd tingle of sensation passed between them where his arms rested against her.

She could tell by his torso, broad shoulders, and well-muscled arms that he was a warrior. Her gaze moved back to his face, to the blue of his eyes—eyes that spoke of some deep pain as well as kindness and intelligence. His hair was dark and cropped close to his head, setting off his high cheekbones and strong nose. His was a compelling face. It was the kind of face a woman couldn’t help staring at with interest and desire.

A fist tightened around her heart. Desire was the last thing she wanted in her life. Had her parents’ experiences not warned her of its dangers? They’d both been killed because of their desire: Her father, because his desire for her mother had threatened the Moors in Spain. Her mother, because even death had not dulled the desire she’d had for Jessamine’s father. When she’d refused to marry the conde, he’d had her poisoned.

And now the man was after her. Jessamine shivered. Nothing could ever convince her to marry that man, or any man for that matter.

The dream that filled her heart was to see the prophecy that had been made at her birth come true. The prophecy was the last link she had to her parents. Following its path would help her stay connected to them for just a while longer.

She brought her gaze up to meet the knight’s dark eyes. Somehow this man was a part of that path. “Where are you headed after we reach Mijas?” she asked, suddenly needing to know about him and his plans.

An awkward silence hung between them as his gaze became hard and assessing. “Why would you want to know that? Our association will end once we reach the first town along the coast.”

Jessamine shifted uncomfortably, uneasy with his
scrutiny. She was the one who usually studied people. It was disconcerting for him to look at her and see…what? What did he see? Because he didn’t look at her with the same cool calculation the Spanish courtiers did.

He leaned forward. Jessamine felt the soft intake of his breath against her cheek. It was warm and strangely reassuring. She looked up into his compelling blue gaze. Her throat went dry. There was something in his eyes. It was as though he could see right through her pretense at bravery into the frightened yet determined woman within.

She opened her mouth to speak but he shook his head, silencing her. She stared at him, stunned.

“You and I will part ways the moment we reach the coast. Is that understood?”

For the first time all day, Jessamine felt a glimmer of hope lighten her soul. The man was leaving Spain. She didn’t know why or how she knew that, but she did. She could see the red tile rooftops of Mijas in the distance. Mijas was a port town. Her heartbeat fluttered. He intended to board a ship—a ship she would be on.

A shiver of nervous excitement pulsed through her. Not only would she leave the conde far behind, but boarding the ship figured in the first of the four parts of the prophecy. The Moorish seeress had predicted this day would come. A day that had started with turbans and crosses.

The prophecy will rise when the turban and the cross come together in blood. Then shall a night of white and the holy waters of a deep blue sea reveal the things you cannot see.

Never had the second line of the prophecy made any sense until this very moment, nor why the seeress had
delivered the prophesy in English.
A night of white.
In English the words night and knight sounded the same, but held different meanings. Jessamine had always assumed the
night
sky would turn white for some unknown reason. She dropped her gaze to the blood-spattered tunic Sir Alan Cathcart wore. He was the
knight
predicted by the prophecy. He had to be.

Had the seeress meant to confuse her? Or were her own assumptions at fault here? It hardly mattered now. She’d learned the information she’d needed when the time was right. Her thoughts returned to the prophecy.

Holy waters of a deep blue sea.
The words could only indicate the journey the man would soon embark upon. He’d sail toward the Mediterranean, to where the sea was a startling blue somewhere near the Holy Land. Was there a holier place upon this earth?

Her thoughts returned to her knight in white and she smiled. The prophecy involved him as much as it did her. He’d never be able to leave her behind once she revealed the truth to him.

Jessamine gazed up into his stony face. For a moment her enthusiasm faltered. Her mouth went dry. The words she longed to say lodged in her throat. Perhaps she should wait to tell him of the prophecy until they were safely on their way across that deep blue sea.