The Princess and the Templar (26 page)

She circled her hand around him, tentatively stroking the length of him. The world spun away, all sensation narrowing to his loins. He gritted his teeth and tried to check the raging beast that was his lust. If she touched him for one moment more, he’d spend like a green boy.

Groaning deep in his throat, he tried to move away. But she held him tight, pulling him down beside her as she opened her thighs. He gazed at the pink perfection of her woman’s slit. Like a jeweled peach, wet and succulent, the sight of her most intimate femininity beckoned him. A throbbing heartbeat began in his cock, and all reason fled. He was naught but poor weak flesh.

Por Dios
, he couldn’t fight the blinding, driving force. He had to have her. Rising above her, he positioned himself between her thighs, wanting to take her with one swift thrust to lessen her pain.

Lessen the pain—because she was a virgin.

Checking himself, he stopped. Torn between heaven and hell, his body shook, trembling with the effort of pulling back.

“Raul,” she whispered. “What’s amiss?”

“I cannot,” he gasped, clenching his jaw. “Can’t take your virginity.”

“But I want you to.” She reached out and encircled his engorged manhood with her warm, soft hand, innocently trying to guide him.

Her simple touch spun him over the edge. All the pent-up passion in his body gathered itself, like a rushing, swollen river at springtime, overflowing and carrying him on a spiraling, whirling torrent to his own release. His body shuddered, riding the peak of the river's current, cresting again and again. And then he plunged over the side of the cliff, falling in a sheer ecstasy that blotted out his conscience, flinging him adrift, beyond rational thought.

Jerking free of her hand with one last great effort, he spent his seed on her thigh. The pulsing satisfaction of his release spread through his body. Warm, soft waves of bliss brought him a brief respite and a moment of perfect peace.

Then he was mortified.

He turned his face from her and grabbed the edge of the blanket, wiping her flawless skin, wanting to erase the evidence of his unseemly lust.

“Raul, ’tis naught. I wanted but to return the pleasure you’ve given me.”

Still he could not bring himself to look her in the face. What must she think of him? Rutting with her like an animal and soiling her with his seed?

She shifted and reached up, bringing the back of her hand to his face and caressing his cheek. “Please, Raul, don’t turn away from me.”

“It isn’t right,” he grated. “I shouldn’t have sullied you so.”

She rose to a sitting position and brought her face close to his—her emerald eyes shining like too-bright jewels. “You can’t sully me.” She shook her head. “Nay, don’t say that. For I can think of naught but all the miraculous ways you touch me.”

“But it isn’t right, Cahira. We can’t continue thus. What if I forget myself and can’t stop?” His gaze locked with hers. “You would be ruined.”

She pulled back a fraction, the look in her eyes a reflection of the wound he’d inflicted. “I’m already ruined, Raul. Ruined for anyone but you.”

What was she saying? Did she realize what she was saying?

“No!” He jumped to his feet. Fumbling, he covered himself, lacing his chausses with trembling fingers.

Her eyes swam with unshed tears. She reached out her hand to him. “Raul?”

“No, you mustn’t say that you’re ruined, Cahira.” He gnawed at his bottom lip. “And I shouldn’t call you Cahira. You’re a princess—Your Highness. I must never forget that.”

He paced the few steps to the opposite wall and stared at the rough planks, hoping to find wisdom in their weathered grain. But there was nothing etched on the creaking timbers, no hidden messages coded there. All his training and worldly experience hadn’t prepared him for the way she made him feel and for the terrible torment he was going through.

For his heart was breaking in twain. His body and soul were being pulled asunder.

Lifting his head, he gazed at her. She met his eyes and then looked away, confusion clouding her perfect features. How he longed to cover the short space between them and take her in his arms again. How he wanted to tell the world to go away and leave them alone.

How he wished everything was different.

But that was a foolish wish, for naught had changed. He’d known the feel of her sweet body and been enflamed by their mutual passion. None of that mattered. She was a princess, and he was but a penniless Templar.

“Oh, Raul, I want you to call me Cahira. I want—”

“No,” he cut her off and shook his head. “You must find a noble to wed. For you are a princess, far above me. I’m ashamed of my weakness. I’ve made vows and promised myself, but naught has helped. We must keep apart.” He shot her a quick look. “I leave to protect your virtue. I hope you understand and can forgive me.”

Pivoting, he placed his hand on the door latch. But then he hesitated, for duty was a cold bedfellow, and he wanted so much more. He’d desired a princess, and had learned to love the vulnerable woman beneath the glittering façade of her rank. And he would love her until they lowered him into his grave.

No, beyond even that.

“I will stay with you and reclaim your legacy, as I promised.” He spoke to the door because he couldn’t look at her. “But we cannot, must not…” His voice broke.

With those parting words, he pulled open the door and stepped into the night.

Chapter Fifteen

Cahira craned her head, gazing at the towering stone edifice of the first cathedral she’d ever seen. A bevy of workmen swarmed around the half-finished building, sawing wood, pouring mortar, and stacking limestone slabs.

In Eire there were monasteries and chapels aplenty but naught like this. The cathedral’s spires appeared to stretch to the very sky whilst anchored to the ground by a welter of arches attached to the walls. The cobbled street led past one of the cathedral’s doors, a huge, pointed archway, its gray stones alive with intricate carvings. Cahira’s gaze lingered on a depiction of the Virgin Mary surrounded by beatific saints and fawning knights.

Arnaud urged his mount next to hers and said, “That’s the Cathedral of Notre Dame.”

“What are those?” Her gaze rested on one of the arches.

“They’re called flying buttresses. They help support the weight of the building.”

“Oh.” How strange, a building so immense its walls need extra support. “And those?” She lifted her hand and pointed at the nasty-looking, stone creatures leering from the rooftops and drainpipes.

“Those are gargoyles.” He grinned. “They’re a kind of demon, warning the irreverent to turn from their sinful ways.”

She averted her gaze from their accusing, stony stares, knowing she was one of those unrepentant souls, holding fast to her sinful ways. But she didn’t feel sinful, though she still yearned for Raul’s touch. She wondered how much Arnaud knew and guessed he understood all. The walls in her ship’s cabin had been very thin.

Tossing her head, she told herself she didn’t care what Arnaud thought or how the world viewed her. She’d sworn to marry for love, and she loved Raul. That he possessed naught didn’t daunt her. She would gladly share her kingdom with him.

“The cathedral will be magnificent when it’s finished,” Arnaud said.

“Yes, ’tis one of the loveliest things I’ve ever seen. Except for those gargoyles.” She smiled. “And your Normandy is a marvel, Arnaud. I should wonder that you would despair to leave it.”

“
Oui
, I’m glad to be home.”

Home…
a word that tugged at her heartstrings and filled her with a nameless yearning.

Would she ever see her home again?

Her eyes brimmed with tears, thinking of it. With an angry swipe, she brushed the moisture away. She’d had enough of tears—more than enough. Since that hideous day on the Scottish Highlands, she’d done little else but weep. Though she told herself she cried because she feared she’d never set eyes on Kinsale again, that wasn’t the truth. For as much as she missed her castle and people, she yearned ten times over for Raul.

Lifting her head, she sought out his familiar form at the head of their party. She gazed at his broad muscular back and remembered the sheer male beauty of his naked body. At that thought she grew uncommonly hot. Her breasts tingled, and she squirmed in her saddle.

They’d shared intimacies only wedded couples shared. But ’twas as if they’d never been together. He acted like a stranger—neither speaking nor looking at her. All because he wanted to protect her? Protect her from her own awakened desires? Alas, it wasn’t so simple. They’d opened Pandora’s box and naught could put things back the way they were.

She’d thought ’twas his vows that separated them, but he’d admitted that was only an excuse. Nay, what kept them apart was his stubborn pride.

“Your Highness, don’t look so downcast. I’m certain the Grand Master will hear your petition and help you regain Kinsale,” Arnaud said.

Were her feelings that obvious? Did she wear them on her sleeve? Her pride was bruised, and she couldn’t help but long for Raul. ’Twas kind of Arnaud to notice. “I’m praying the Grand Master will aid me. I thank you for your encouragement.” She forced herself to smile.

In truth Arnaud deserved more than a smile, for he had been most kind. Without his soothing influence, she would have been hard pressed to withstand this accursed journey. When they’d docked at Harfleur, it had been Arnaud’s idea to take a flat-bottomed boat from the port town and pole up the winding Seine River to the gates of Paris.

Unlike the sea journeys, poling the river had proven restful and calm. No swaying and dipping and crashing waves, just the swift rush of water sliding by as the oarsmen drove the boat forward. From her perch in the boat, she’d watched the lush Normandy landscape glide by. The countryside was in the last throes of summer. Fruit trees bowed under the weight of their bounty. Crops stood high in the fields, ripe for the sickle. No breeze stirred the warm air, as if the very world waited, hushed and expectant for harvest time.

With autumn approaching apace, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d be home for Christmas. Though she looked forward to regaining her rightful place at Kinsale, the mid-winter festivities would seem cold and hollow without Raul.

How could she breach his carefully raised defenses? How could she explain she didn’t care what he did or didn’t possess? That she loved him for himself.

“We’re home,” Arnaud announced, startling Cahira from her reverie.

She glanced up and spied a three-story, half-timbered house looming over the street. The front door flew open and out rushed a petite blonde with elfin features. She grabbed Arnaud’s leg and babbled in rapid French.

With a wide smile, he leaned down and threw his arm around the woman, half-lifting her. “Giselle!
Mon petit
!” He laughed. “
Oui, oui
, I’m glad to see you, too.” Planting a kiss on the top of her head, he gently released her. Throwing one leg over his saddle, he jumped down.

Brother and sister fell into each other’s arms, hugging and kissing. Cahira looked on for a moment and then turned her face away. As happy as she was for their joyful reunion, ’twas painful to watch. It reminded her of the loving relationship she’d known with her own brothers.

She wondered what her brothers would have thought of Raul had they lived. But if they’d lived, everything would have been different. The Sinclair wouldn’t have sent an emissary to take her castle, and she wouldn’t have met the Templar. That realization gave her pause. How fragile was the twisting and turning of fate? Fate had brought them together, against all odds. It had to be for a purpose, didn’t it?

Arnaud, jubilant and laughing, helped Cahira down and drew both she and Raul into his happy homecoming. There were hugs all around and bussed cheeks. Servants appeared and unloaded her trunks from the cart, taking them inside.

In the confusion, she was jostled and thrust against Raul. He caught her elbow, and she leaned into him, wantonly pressing herself against the length of his body. His clean male smell filled her nostrils. The heat from his body enfolded her, invading her senses and stealing her reason.

He stiffened and pulled away. She caught his sleeve and lifted her head, gazing into the unfathomable depths of his midnight eyes. He avoided meeting her gaze by looking down at her hand. She sensed him gathering his will, distancing himself.

Clinging to his sleeve, she whispered, “I must speak with you after we sup.” She purposely brushed her breast against his arm again. “You
owe
me that much.”

As if an invisible puppeteer pulled his strings, his head jerked back and he met her gaze. He nodded once.

****

Cahira seated herself on the edge of a chair in the wood paneled study. Crossing her ankles and folding her hands in her lap, she tried to compose herself. Her attempt at serenity was but a poor pose whilst her heart slammed against her ribcage.

She looked around the cozy room lined with scroll filled shelves and crowded with well-polished furniture, realizing the de Fortier family lived well from their holdings in southern Normandy. None of her rooms at Kinsale could boast such a wealth of appointments, from the richly embroidered chairs to the shining brass fire screen guarding the hearth.

The small room reflected the political stability of France. ’Twas the Normans who’d first invaded England, conquering everything in their path. Then the Anglo-Normans, the English, had turned to Eire and brought destruction and death. If the truth be known, she should despise the de Fortiers for the blood that ran in their veins. But she couldn’t hate Arnaud or his sister, for she knew them as individuals, realized how kind and generous they were. Perchance there would be fewer quarrels and wars, if people would take the time to know one another. ’Twas something to think upon.

A knock sounded at the door, and she called out, “Enter.”

Raul stepped into the room. He left the door ajar, as if to afford himself a quick escape. He had dressed in a new blue tunic shot with gold threads. If she didn’t know better, she would think him a lord from a noble family, not a wandering Templar.