The Princess and the Templar (8 page)

Cahira hadn’t known Malcolm cared for Meghan. In truth the last siege was but a blur of pain and the blackest grief. For that was when she’d lost Da and her remaining brother.

“We were betrothed,” he said. “She had agreed. I had only to ask her father for her…h-hand.” His voice caught.

“You blame my great-uncle for her death?”

He stared at her, not flinching.

“Malcolm, you must know...” She stopped. ’Twas obvious he believed if help had come and the siege had been broken sooner, his Meghan would have lived.

She’d oft wondered what would have happened if her great-uncle had sent knights. Would her father and brother still be alive? But she’d forced herself to put away such thoughts for dwelling on the past was a fool’s exercise.

Now she understood why Malcolm hadn’t sent to her kin and why he’d turned to the Templar. She must pray for Malcolm to let his bitterness go, to find a way to put his pain aside. A deep well of sadness opened within her.

“M-milady, I wish—”

“I understand, Malcolm.” She turned her back and gazed at the fire. “Please go and leave me in peace.”

The door shut softly, and she stood at the fireplace for a long time, watching the dancing flames and remembering her life before.

The door clicked open, and she glanced up to find Mildread, her arms laden with a tray of food. “’Ere is your supper. Please, milady, sit an’ eat.”

But Cahira didn’t want to sit and eat. In truth the terrible sadness she’d tried to banish had invaded her soul, leaving her empty and forlorn. All hope was lost, too, for Malcolm would warn Raul of her plan.

“Come, milady,” her serving woman beckoned. “’Tis braised chicken an’ lentil soup. Ye must eat to stay strong.”

Strong.
’Twas a word her father and brothers revered. She must stay strong. Mustn’t allow her grief to overwhelm what she had to do.

Biting down on her lip, she pushed all the gloomy memories aside and made a brash decision. “Mildread, I should leave tonight. Can Loghan have my mare ready?” She paced to the window and glanced down. “Who guards the drawbridge?”

“I will send to Loghan, milady, and ’e will ’ave your mare at the ready. As for the guard on the drawbridge…”

Cahira turned. “I must know. Will he aid my escape?”

“Mayhap, I will go and see.”

“Do you need coins?”

“Nay, milady, your people wouldna want ye to buy their loyalty.”

“Go then and return quickly.”

Mildread curtsied. “I will do all that I can.”

****

Raul stood outside the princess’ solar door. Like a pilgrim drawn to the
Holy Land
, he found himself lured to her side. But he had no ready excuse, for she’d recovered quickly and had no need of his physician’s skills.

She wouldn’t welcome him, for he’d foiled her plan, conspiring with Malcolm to keep her from her kin. No, he’d not find a warm welcome within, but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking of her and wanting to help her. But that was a fool’s wish, a sop for his guilty conscience, no doubt. Pivoting on his heel, he started down the hallway to his room.

Then he heard it—the soaring notes of a harp. The golden sound surrounded him, holding him captive in its shimmering wake. Hesitantly, he turned and approached her door, drawn by the glorious music.

Standing with his head down, he concentrated on the harp’s song, savoring each note and the lilting sound of her voice, blending in perfect harmony with the instrument. The ballad she’d chosen was a plaintive one, and he detected the sadness in her tone. Knowing he’d brought that sadness upon her, his gut twisted. With each strum of the strings, she plucked at his heart.

How he wished his coming to Kinsale had been different—if only they’d met under better circumstances.

Better circumstances.

His mouth twisted into a sour smile. When would he learn? She was a high-born lady, and he was a penniless bastard. They inhabited two separate worlds. Even more, he was her captor and jailer. And she despised him for that. Her closed door might as well be the highest mountain or the deepest sea for all that separated them.

“I’ve come for the watch, Sir Raul.” Evan, one of his Scottish knights, roused him from his pathetic thoughts. “There’s no need for you to stay.”

Raul nodded and patted Evan’s shoulder. With slow steps, he made his way back to his room. Once there, he thrust her from his mind and busied himself with caring for his injured knights.

After he tended their wounds, Dall and Morogh fell asleep. Raul put away his medicines and lifted the basin of water. He went to the window and threw the tainted liquid into the yard below. A dog barked, shattering the quiet night.

He crossed to the table and took up a boiled rag, tearing it into a bandage. As he tugged at the cloth, his thoughts returned to the princess. He knew how determined she was to escape, so he’d set Evan and two other Scottish knights to take turns watching her.

It was a makeshift solution at best, for the sooner they departed Kinsale, the better. The longer they tarried, the harder it would be to keep her from securing aid or escaping.

He needed to make plans.

He would leave Clach, whom he’d trained in the healing arts, to care for Dall and Morogh. Malcolm could finish restocking the castle and giving foodstuffs to the outlying crofters.

Her Highness would want her serving woman on the journey. Raul would need to take two of his best knights as escort, leaving Barclay in command and his other knights behind to secure Kinsale. They could take ship from Cork and journey to the Sinclair’s harbor at Castletown in less than a fortnight if the winds were favorable.

Satisfied with his plan, he snuffed out the guttering candle and removed his hose and tunic. He stretched out on the lumpy pallet and folded his hands beneath his head, drifting off to sleep, only to be awakened by a loud, banging noise.

Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and tried to clear his sleep-fogged mind. Who would be hammering at his door and why? It wasn’t morning yet, for the room was still dark except for a silver wedge of moonlight gilding the flagstone floor.

Morogh and Dall groaned and tossed on their pallets, as if in protest. Raul threw off his covers and stumbled to the door, using the wan moonlight to guide him.

When he opened the door, he found Evan. And then Raul knew. “Where is she?”

“Gone to the stables. I would have stopped her, but you said—”

“To fetch me.” Raul glanced down at his naked body and realized he must dress. The groan of metal gears smote his ears, and he knew there was no time.

¡Sangre de Cristo!

She was getting away. “Stop her,” he commanded. “I’ll dress and come down.”

“Aye, Sir Raul.” Evan spun around and trotted down the hallway.

Moments later, Raul crossed the yard and glanced inside the portcullis, wondering who had been on duty and allowed her Highness to pass against his orders.

The room stood empty. Not too surprising. The man must have known he’d have to answer for his action. But hiding would do him no good. Raul would deal with the gatekeeper later.

Rounding the guard tower, he found Evan standing in the middle of the drawbridge with his sword pointed at a rider and horse. A bulky cape and hood covered the rider, but one slender ankle peeked from beneath the heavy outer garment.

“Evan, sheath your sword,” Raul said.

“But milord, she would have run me down.”

He stepped in front of her mount and grabbed the bridle. “She won’t run now.”

Shaking his head, Evan put his sword away. Raul moved alongside the princess and held out his hand. “Please, milady, dismount.”

Something flashed bright against the dark night, and he glimpsed the swift descent of a knife. Throwing up his arm to deflect the blade, he was surprised when she cried out, “Nay, I cannot.” The blade clattered on the cobblestones.

Why would the lioness he’d met on the battlefield stay her hand? Glancing up, he met her anguished stare. By the pale light of the moon, her green eyes appeared as dark as the deepest recesses of the forest. But they flashed fire, too.

He bent to pick up the dagger and threw it to Evan. “Return to the castle and wait there.” The knight sketched a bow and left them alone.

With a toss of her head, the hood fell back. Her hair tumbled to her waist, a red-gold skein that trapped the silver moonlight in its web and reflected the light in a thousand dancing moonbeams.

“How did you know?” she asked.

Shrugging, he admitted, “Evan was watching your room.”

“But I’m not a captive, so say you.”

“After finding the message and—”

“Talking with Malcolm about my kin,” she finished.

He nodded. He wasn’t going to lie. “Yes, I spoke with Malcolm. I knew you would try to send for aid again. I didn’t think you’d be so foolhardy as to go yourself.”

“Why not? No one will help me, not even Malcolm. You’ve turned my men against me.”

Her face appeared pale and drawn and the hollows in her cheeks deeper, as if she’d lost weight. Grinding his teeth, he pushed away his damnable sympathetic thoughts. He could ill afford to be sympathetic and underestimate her. Her form might be slight and dainty, yet she possessed a will of iron.

“Not all your men have deserted. Someone had your mare ready.” That someone had been Loghan, he would wager, remembering the lad’s fierce loyalty. “And the gatekeeper lowered the drawbridge.”

“You will punish them, I doubt not.”

“No, I don’t hold with punishing men to gain their compliance.”

Not only that, he didn’t dare risk the tenuous hold he had on Kinsale and her subjects by acting the brute. He must be certain of her men’s loyalty before they departed.

Her attempted escape tonight lent weight to Malcolm’s warning that some of Kinsale’s men were still loyal to her and her kin. Leaving behind the Sinclair’s knights to secure the castle would help, but he needed to ensure her men’s allegiance as well.

“Then what will you do to those who aided me?”

“Make your people swear loyalty to the Sinclair in a formal ceremony.”

The words tumbled from his mouth without warning, for he hadn’t known what he would do until he said it.

And what he proposed made a terrible kind of sense for an oath would legitimize his hold on Kinsale.

Her brows drew together, and she scowled. “Nay, you wouldn’t. You couldn’t shame me so.”

Her brave plea added to the weight of his guilt. He lowered his gaze, for he couldn’t look at her, knowing the humiliation she would endure.

For what he proposed was the death knell of her kingdom, her power. A formal swearing of her people to the Sinclair would strip her of hope and leave her with nothing.

Less than nothing.

But he had a duty to fulfill and a castle to secure. He was honor bound to his lord and couldn’t fail.

He forced himself to meet her gaze and pushed aside his guilty thoughts. He couldn't afford to weaken, to feel empathy for her or he wouldn't be able to do what he had to do.

His gaze met hers and held.

“You’ve left me no choice, Your Highness.”

Chapter Five

A low murmur swept the great hall, eclipsing the slurping of soup and the clank of tankards. Raul looked up from his meal of salted pork and barley mash with peas, wondering what had drawn the men’s attention.

The princess stood at the top of the stairs, a tight smile on her lips. Dread, like the cold grip of winter, squeezed Raul’s heart. He knew why she was here, and he’d prayed she would stay away. He hadn’t wanted her to come, didn’t want to think how she would feel when her men pledged their allegiance to the Sinclair.

That night on the drawbridge had stripped away all pretenses and laid bare the truth. Now there were no pretty words between them. He was her captor, and she was his captive. No longer was she her Highness or even a woman but a pawn in a game of wealth and power played by men.

True to the noble blood that ran in her veins, she’d accepted her fate with dignity. She hadn’t repined nor railed. She’d merely banished him from her presence, sending Mildread for the ointment. At first, he’d been relieved, but he’d soon learned to despise his banishment. A hundred times a day, he found himself standing outside her door, hoping to catch a glimpse of her as the servants came and went.

Like a falcon trained to its master’s hand, he couldn’t stay away. He longed for a glimpse of the red-gold fall of her hair, framing the creamy-white perfection of her face. He yearned to hold her slender hand and brush his fingertips over her petal soft skin. Such simple pleasures they’d shared while the pretense lasted, sweet as summer-ripe berries, and just as fleeting.

But it was not meant to be.

The princess, with Sean guarding her, took her place at the high table. The high table was reserved for the O’Donnells and their guests. On this night, she sat alone, the last survivor of her noble family.

She wore a green velvet gown, the color an exact match for her eyes. She’d taken off the bandage and placed a gold circlet on her head. Gazing at the gleaming metal, he understood the silent message of that simple band of gold. It was her way of reminding her people that she was their anointed lord, even though she was female.

The hum of voices increased, crashing against Raul’s thoughts like the waves that flung themselves at the castle’s curtain wall. The voices rose and fell, but one word stood out, as stark as a cry in the dark, and that word was
scarred.
He knew what they were saying. Knights and common folk alike whispered about the scar and how it ruined her looks. Cringing inside, he despised himself, knowing he’d marked her for life—marked her in more ways than the one.

Por Dios
, he didn’t want to take her to the Sinclair. He wanted to stay by her side and make her smile again. Hear her happy laughter bubbling. Listen to her playing the harp. But he had no right to wish for such things. And even as he refitted her castle, he lived a lie, using the Sinclair’s
coin to do so. He had naught to give a noble lady, nothing but his admiration and his life.

He caught her gaze, and she acknowledged him, inclining her head. To his eyes she wasn’t scarred—she was beautiful. But how would the Sinclair react when he saw his betrothed? Would he be appalled that his bride was flawed?