Wulfe marveled that she concocted a tale with such ease. Was she hiding the truth to defend his secrets, or did she protect the brothel? Where did her alliances lie?
Christina stepped toward him, that alluring smile curving her lips. “My fate would certainly have been worse, had I not been abed with a champion who defended me.”
Wulfe felt his neck burn. “I defended myself,” he corrected. “I was attacked and I ensured my own survival.”
“And mine as well, to my eternal gratitude.” Christina bowed deeply to him.
“Your gratitude need not last so long as that. I will give you another coin, even two, that you might continue on your way as we continue on our own.” His party had to leave for Paris this very day. He would talk to the owners before they rode out, in the hope that Christina could find honest labor here.
But Christina lifted her chin. “And I say you shall be repaid, in kind or in trade, for saving my life. Wherever you go, sir, I will follow.” Her manner was, if anything, more resolute than it had been in the streets. “Rely upon it.”
Wulfe could well understand a desire to abandon the past and begin anew, never mind the urge to return home.
But she was not his responsibility. His duty to the order had to come first.
“There are worse fates,” Duncan murmured.
The man-at-arms smiled at Christina, hoping to ease her mood. She did not avert her gaze from Wulfe, her expectation clear.
“Were you injured?” Gaston asked, recalling Wulfe to the matter at hand.
He indicated his own back. “It is naught, but it is naught because I was awake. Had I been asleep, the blade would have slid between my very ribs.” Consideration dawned in Gaston’s eyes, and Wulfe knew they would speak of it in more detail later.
“I suppose such peril is a hazard of visiting such establishments,” Everard mused, his tone prim. Wulfe could have done without that man’s moral commentary.
“It is of no matter what you believe you owe to me,” he said to Christina, his tone less vehement than it had been. “We ride out with all haste. You have no steed, therefore you will not depart with us.”
“Just because you have been routed in the midst of your pleasure by some unfortunate incident, I see no reason to hasten away,” Fergus drawled. “And still Hamish requires those days of rest.”
Wulfe raised his fist. “A squire will not…”
“I say we break our fast,” Gaston said flatly. “And review the situation after that.”
Wulfe fell silent reluctantly, but Gaston continued as if unaware of his annoyance.
Again, Gaston took command of the company.
Again, the illusion of Wulfe’s authority was compromised. He was well aware of Christina, watching them and no doubt seeing more than he would have preferred.
“No good decisions are made when the belly is empty,” Gaston said. “And my wife has purchases to collect on this day. Perhaps we will compromise and depart on the morrow.”
“We need to reach our destination sooner rather than later, that I might return to Jerusalem to aid in its defense,” Wulfe protested, though he guessed it to be futile.
“And a delay of a day will make little difference,” Gaston replied, his tone revealing that his thinking would not be changed.
It was appalling.
It was wrong.
But Wulfe knew what he had to do.
He exhaled slowly, tempering his reaction. “Perhaps there is good sense in your advice,” he acknowledged, though it nigh pained him to do as much. “I will break my fast before making my decision.”
“Perhaps your guest would join us,” Fergus said, bowing to Christina. “Since I gather that her previous abode is no longer hospitable.”
“It is not, and I should be delighted to accept your invitation,” she said and put her hand on his elbow. Fergus escorted her into the common room, followed by Joscelin and Duncan. Everard marched up the stairs to his chamber, sweeping his cloak around himself in a gesture of disapproval. At a pointed glance from Bartholomew, the squires returned to their duties in the stables, leaving the two knights alone in the courtyard.
Wulfe did not know where to begin. He glared at Gaston, certain the man had to understand the source of his vexation. Gaston returned his gaze with that infuriating calm, though, and Wulfe knew that once again, his will and supposed command would be overruled.
It was Gaston’s fault that their departure from the Holy Land had been so late, that they had been followed and not caught the culprit, that they would linger in Venice so that his very life was in peril.
Perhaps that was Gaston’s plan. Perhaps he intended to see Wulfe sacrificed in a hope to draw the villain into the open. There were a hundred questions he could have asked, a hundred answers he could have demanded, but in this place, they were too likely to be overheard. He hoped Gaston could discern all of those concerns in his expression.
The knight nodded, as if he did.
“This afternoon,” Gaston murmured as he passed Wulfe, heading toward the common room and the others.
Wulfe stared at his boots, knowing that discussion could not come too soon. He glanced toward the company breaking their fast, watched Christina charm the other men with remarkable ease, then her attention flicked to him. Their gazes locked for a charged moment, sending a fearsome jolt of desire through him.
He was ten times more frustrated than he had been the night before, when he had sought relief so that would ensure his skills were not compromised.
And Christina was more than willing.
But he would not be tempted because it would only encourage her expectations. He crossed the courtyard with quick steps, and passed through the common room. He dispatched Stephen with a gesture to bring him a meal, then climbed the stairs alone.
He had to leave Christina behind, though he knew it would not be readily done. He was well aware of the irony of his situation—he was the one who had charged Gaston with adding his whore to their party in Jerusalem. He would not add his own to the party now. Christina had to remain in Venice, and the longer she remained in his company, the more he would fall beneath her spell.
At dawn, their ways must part, one way or the other.
* * *
It could not be him.
Christina caught only a glimpse of the nobleman in Wulfe’s party, but it was enough to turn her blood to ice. She reminded herself that nine years had passed, that people changed and that her memory might not be reliable.
Still, she could not shake a conviction that a familiar serpent was part of Wulfe’s party.
She wanted to speak with Wulfe, but he was clearly irked. She knew better than to pursue a man when he was vexed.
At least he did not leave the house. He climbed the stairs, undoubtedly to a chamber he had claimed for his own. The younger squire hastened after him, while the other gathered bread, honey, fruit, and a pitcher of ale for his knight before following on fleet feet.
Christina would grant Wulfe time to compose himself before lending chase. She would take the opportunity to learn as much as she could, so that she could prove her usefulness to him. Indeed, she found it nigh as vexing as Wulfe that he was treated with such indignity, but she believed she hid her response better. If he led the party, his command should be respected, not challenged. Christina thought it outrageous that he was nigh ignored.
She ensured no hint of her churning thoughts was revealed to her companions. She accepted a seat at the board at the urging of the man-at-arms, feigning delight in the conversation and the company. For once in her days, Christina was grateful to Costanzia for the lessons learned in that house. It was easy to laugh with the three men who sat with her in the common room, to pretend they had her undivided attention, even as her thoughts returned to that unnamed nobleman.
Could it be Helmut? Here? After all these years, it defied belief. But perhaps not—she had met him en route to Jerusalem and Wulfe’s party came from that very city.
If sh
e was right, what was Helmut’s scheme? She recalled enough of him to know that he always had a scheme, and it was assuredly one that saw to his own advantage, if not the detriment of everyone else. Why was he in this party at all? Was it coincidence or a plan? She had heard about Saladin attacking the Latin Kingdoms and Wulfe had confirmed their precarious state. She knew that a man like Helmut would not remain behind to fight, if there was any chance he might have broken a fingernail.
But where was he going?
And why?
She heard a door slam overhead, then no more.
Surely Wulfe had not gone to consult with Helmut? Surely they were not in league with each other? Nay, it could not be. They two were as different as men could be. Wulfe could not know Helmut’s true nature.
Christina was tempted to warn Wulfe, but what would she say? She had no proof of any foul deed committed by Helmut, simply her own suspicions and memories. It was too easy to recall Gunther’s warning that she not leap to conclusions and soil a man’s reputation without proof.
Even if her instincts were invariably right.
Wulfe might not believe her, even if she did speak out, or worse, he might consult his fellow travelers—and in that, Helmut would be warned. Nay, the wisest course would be to keep silent while discovering as much as possible about this party and its members.
Christina smiled at the knight who sat across from her, the one with the easy manner and the sparkle in his eyes. His hair was dark and wavy, falling to his shoulders, and he spoke in a rollicking brogue. “I hear Scotland in your voice,” she said. “What brings you so far from home?”
He smiled readily. “An instruction from my father. He decreed that I should serve the Templars before wedding my betrothed.”
“Then you are to be wed?”
The knight nodded with the satisfaction of a man well content with his fate and Christina could not help but like him for that. “The day cannot come soon enough, to my view.”
“Then you know your betrothed already.”
“All my life. She is a neighbor’s daughter and our fathers schemed over her cradle that our match would be made.” He grinned. “From first glimpse, I found myself in vehement agreement.”
“You must have been young, if your families are neighbors.”
“I was but seven years of age, and she a sleeping babe. Even then, I saw that she was an angel come to earth.” He grinned. “I confess I became only more convinced of that in the years since.”
The mercenary cleared his throat. “No woman is an angel in truth,” he corrected gruffly, but with similar good humor. His accent was heavier than that of the knight he accompanied, but it was clear they shared the same homeland. “I hope you do not spurn your bride when you realize she is a mere mortal.”
“Or that her feet do tread the earth,” Christina teased.
The knight laughed. “Not my Isobel. I will cherish her all my days and nights.”
His conviction was such that Christina believed his affection would not be readily swayed. It was good to meet a man so content with his life and destiny.
“And whose heart is it that fair Isobel has won?” she asked lightly.
“I beg your pardon,” the knight said, as gracious if she were a noblewoman. “I am Fergus of Killairic.” He gestured to the mercenary, a man a good twenty years older than him. “And this is Duncan MacDonald, my kinsman and escort.”
“His nanny,” Duncan said with wry humor and they laughed together. “Charged to bring him home hale and whole.” Christina imagined there was some truth in it, but that neither man was offended by it. Indeed, they seemed to be good friends.
“At the behest of Isobel or your father?” Christina teased.
“Both!” Duncan acknowledged and inclined his head to her. “But what man of merit would not put the request of a lady above all else?”
His manner indicated that he would put her request high on his list, but Christina only smiled.
The plump merchant seated beside her then cleared his throat, and she suspected he had felt overlooked. “And I am Joscelin de Provins.”
“How delightful to make your acquaintance,” Christina said, noting how that man flushed and became discomfited when she turned her gaze upon him. Not wanting to encourage any man in this party to think she courted any affections beyond those of Wulfe, she spoke to Fergus, the man besotted with his betrothed.
“And so you all travel together,” she said lightly, ensuring she did not sound overly curious. She might have been idly passing the time, polite but not truly interested. “Did you create your party in Jerusalem?”
Fergus nodded, his manner turning sober. “You may have heard that Saladin musters in opposition to the Latin Kingdoms.” Christina nodded. “But perhaps not that the King of Jerusalem was routed at the Horns of Hattin a few weeks ago.”
“Routed?” Christina echoed, as if Wulfe had not already told her some of these tidings. “As bad as that?”
Fergus leaned closer. “I suppose there is no peril in acknowledging that the military orders have paid dearly in this loss. By our departure, there was already fear that Jerusalem itself would fall.”
“We barely escaped Acre,” Joscelin contributed in an obvious effort to sound important. “We departed on the very last ship to sail from the port.”
“Indeed? Such a near escape as that?”
“It was terrifying,” the merchant confided. He eyed her, perhaps thinking she might offer a certain kind of solace.
Christina pretended to have not noticed and spoke to Fergus. “There was word of the loss of Acre, for many Venetians have warehouses there.”
“Doubtless they sailed hastily in defense of their goods,” Duncan said with a shake of his head. “More hastily than in defense of any pilgrims or holy sanctuary.”
Fergus chuckled at the truth in that, but the merchant took umbrage.
“There was tremendous value to reclaim,” Joscelin protested. “I have friends in this city, and they were most intent upon defending their possessions, as they should be. Investments lost in war are not readily regained or rebuilt. Praise be that Tyre has not fallen, for I have a goodly quantity of spice yet to be shipped from there.”
“It is all about silk, spices, and gems,” Duncan noted.
The merchant bristled. “I do not care solely about goods,” he huffed, then smiled at Christina. “But certainly a trade in fine goods has given me an appreciation for beauty.”
“You are too kind,” she said smoothly, trying to ease the tension between the men. “So, you return home to wed your beloved, having completed your service, and your faithful companion rides at your side,” she said to Fergus who nodded acknowledgment. “And you, sir, journey home after making your acquisitions for the coming winter,” she said to Joscelin who agreed with that. “Who else joins your party? There seemed to be quite a number of people in the courtyard.”
“There is safety in numbers,” Joscelin informed her.
“The knight Wulfe leads us, of course,” Fergus said, with a conviction that rang false to Christina’s ears. Both Duncan and Joscelin averted their gazes, as if knowing just the opposite to be true.
Indeed, it seemed almost that the dark-haired knight in the courtyard led the party, though Christina could make no sense of that. She had called Wulfe a lion with a thorn in his paw on impulse, but there was no doubting that his manner was more forthright in this place than she had seen previously. Was this the root of his annoyance?
“And he is a Templar,” she said with undisguised admiration. “How fortunate you are to have such vigorous defense. Are there pilgrims in your party?”
“The lady Ysmaine and her maid,” Duncan said. “They have a chamber above.”
“Though she is a pilgrim no longer,” Joscelin added, clearly trying to regain Christina’s attention. “For the knight Gaston wed her in Jerusalem, taking her as his bride nigh the moment he left the order.” He leaned closer. “He is to be the Baron of Châmont-sur-Maine
and his lady will have much to manage in that fine household.”
It was clear that Joscelin had identified a potential customer.
It was less clear to Christina how or why a secular knight could command a Templar.
“Was that the other knight in the courtyard?” she asked and Fergus nodded. If his wife slept upstairs, why had he not been with her there? She chose her words and her tone with care. “He seems most resolute.”
“Eighteen years in service to the Templars can do that to a man,” Fergus noted with a smile.
“What else might it do to him?” she asked in a teasing tone.
Duncan laughed aloud. “I see your thinking,” he noted with a wag of his finger. “Though he visits his lady, he does not slumber in her chamber.”
Fergus lifted a brow. “Perhaps he thinks our party better defended when he is in the stables.”
Christina eyed the bolted gate that opened to the street. “Surely you are safe in this abode?”
Fergus smiled a little, though there was little humor in the expression. “Perhaps eighteen years in service to the Templars teaches a man to be vigilant in guarding what he holds of value.”
His wife? But Lady Ysmaine was not in the stables, by their report.
What was? His destrier, for certain.
Or did he guard something else?
How did Helmut fit into these arrangements? “Your party is considerable,” she said. “And you must have servants as well.”
Duncan nodded. “Six boys, one injured, in addition to Lady Ysmaine’s maid.”
“Which reminds me of a task left undone,” Fergus said, pushing to his feet. He gave Duncan a nod. “We should check upon Hamish this morn, perhaps summon the apothecary for another look at him.”
“The boy’s head is hard enough,” Duncan said, showing no intention of moving. “I doubt he will sustain a lingering injury.”
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