The house smelled of books. A narrow bookcase stood in the hallway, and books filled the shelves that lined the walls of the living room, flowing over onto the floor and coffee table. Most covered historical subjects dating from the Civil War—in one section books by Arthur Bryant marched beside the works of Plumb and Briggs, Boswell and Gibbon, as well as many scholarly works by writers Anne had never heard of. He watched her as she ran a finger along the faded spines.
“My field is early modern history, but this little episode at Moreton has awakened my interest in the earlier period. I may well follow it up with a trip to the Middle East.”
“Lucky you.”
He smiled and cleared the magazines off one sofa. “Have a seat. Coffee?”
“Please.” She didn’t sit down but followed him into the narrow kitchen, which was all white and stainless steel. “Oh.”
“Surprised? Just because I like history doesn’t mean I like to live in the past. I had this kitchen put in a couple of years ago—streamlined, modern, all the latest appliances.” He turned and, finding that she was standing just an arm’s length away, reached for her. “I’m not a fossil, you know.”
Anne allowed herself to be pulled into his arms and didn’t move away as he kissed her, but she was unprepared for the explosion of feeling his touch unleashed in her. Her skin tingled expectantly, and pure lust welled up within her. She clung to him, and his arms tightened around her. His tongue explored her mouth, awakening desires that had been dormant for years.
When at last he stopped, she leaned against his shoulder, looking up at him through half-closed eyes. She was filled with a languorous desire. There was no urgency, as yet, but she had no doubts about what she wanted to happen. Without a word Toby took her hand and led her up the stairs to his bedroom. It was masculine and modern in dark blue and cream with a king-size bed taking up most of the floor space.
Turning to her, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again, a long, lingering kiss, which she returned while her hands flicked open the buttons of his shirt. His body felt cool and firm beneath her touch. His hands coasted down over her shoulders, the fingers moving under the thin wool, caressing her breasts. She broke free of his mouth, moaning a little, and he laughed softly.
“Let’s get you out of this. It’s too restricting.”
She slipped out of her dress, then reached for him again, hungry to taste his lips once more. As he unclipped her bra, her hands fumbled with the fastening of his waistband. She ran her hands over his flesh, and a little thrill ran through her at his stifled gasp. Swiftly they threw off the remains of their clothes and fell together on the bed, a tangle of limbs. With hands and tongues they explored each other, the excitement building to an almost unbearable crescendo. He lifted her to a final, shattering climax before they both collapsed together, too exhausted to roll apart.
Lying in the darkness, Anne allowed a shudder to run through her, and Toby’s arms tightened instinctively. She had not felt this happy for years. She’d never made love on a king-size bed. It added a touch of decadence which, combined with Toby’s expertise in arousing her, had made the whole experience so pleasurable.
Even more enjoyable was sex in the early morning, when she was relaxed and pliant from sleep. She awoke to feel his body curled about hers, and she became aware of his hands moving gently over her skin. She twisted in his arms so that she could cup his face and enjoy a slow, languorous kiss until his busy fingers roused her to the point of panting, gasping excitement. She arched her body towards him, eager that he should share the cresting passion washing over her.
It was nearly noon when they stirred again. Anne opened her eyes to find Toby propped on one elbow looking down at her. She thought how blue his eyes were now that she could see them without the glasses. He kissed her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Lindsay.”
“Morning, Professor.”
“How about that coffee now?” He ran a finger lightly over her nose and she tilted up her head to catch the tip gently between her teeth. “I’ll make some fresh, of course.”
“Mmm. Please.”
When he’d gone, she lay back on the pillows and considered the last twelve hours, giving a little shiver of pleasure at the thought of some of the more intimate moments. She hadn’t imagined Toby Duggan could be so romantic, yet he was practical enough to have a supply of condoms in a bedside drawer. She felt neither surprise nor offence. She wasn’t naive enough to think she was the first woman he’d brought to his home. She was a little ashamed to realise Toby had been the one to insist on protection—she’d been so eager for him she would have carried on and risked the consequences. A silent laugh shook her. She was setting a very poor example for her pupils, if only they knew of it.
There was a spare robe hanging behind the door and she dragged it on to go downstairs, where she could hear Toby clattering about in the kitchen. He gave her a slightly myopic smile as she appeared in the doorway.
“I was going to bring you breakfast in bed. Would you prefer to eat down here?”
“That would be fine.” She remembered the cluttered coffee table. “I’ll go and make some space.” As she passed through the hall she collected the paper from the doormat and took it into the living room. Sinking to her knees on the rug, she cleared the coffee table and spread out the paper, idly scanning the headlines. One immediately jumped out at her, burning itself into her brain. Templars vs. Tourists: One Historian’s Fight for Truth in an English Village, Page 8. She quickly flicked over the pages. There was a picture of Toby in profile, superimposed on an impossibly pretty picture of St. John’s Church.
Claims to have a Templar burial site in Moreton-by-Fleetwater are denounced as a complete fabrication by eminent historian Tobias Duggan. The press release for the village’s pageant next weekend describes Moreton’s ancient church—
“Here we are—coffee at last!” Toby put the tray down then paused as he saw the article. “Ah.”
Anne turned to him, her face very pale.
“You knew!” she whispered. “You knew this would appear, yet you still—”
He picked up the paper and fished out a spare pair of glasses from between the cushions on the sofa. “I answered a few questions for them, that’s all. I won’t know if they’ve misquoted me until I’ve read it…”
Anne waited impatiently for him to finish studying the article.
“They certainly make it sound like the biggest thing since Piltdown Man.”
“I can’t believe you would do this to me!”
“Anne, look, I’m sorry. I only told them the truth—”
“But you said last night you wouldn’t do another article.”
“Yes, that’s true. I—” He stared at her, frowning. “You thought you could persuade me not to say anything to the press. Is that why you came back here with me, to make sure I didn’t rock your little boat? Trying to buy me off!”
Anne jumped to her feet, her eyes sparkling with anger. “You said we were both searching for the truth. I thought that meant you wouldn’t say anything, at least until we had something substantial. You tricked me.”
“I told you from the first I would never condone you twisting history to suit your own purposes. And what about you, trying to buy my silence with a night of sex?”
She slapped him so hard her hand stung, and the marks of her fingers were clearly visible on his cheek. She turned away, tears burning her eyes as she stormed upstairs to dress. How dare he? How dare he ruin such a wonderful evening with his sordid accusations? Angrily she dragged a comb through her hair and threw her makeup and jewellery into her bag before she hurried downstairs.
Toby was leaning against the kitchen door, arms folded. “Go on,” he growled as she opened the front door. “Go on back to your masters and tell them you failed. Mata Hari!”
Anne never knew how she drove home. Anger and frustration choked her throat. At one point she had to pull off the road when the tears blinded her. Finally she reached Moreton, and with dogg
ed concentration manoeuvred the car onto the drive. She let herself into the house, took the phone off the hook and crawled into bed to indulge in a hearty bout of self-pity, made worse by the realisation that there was a ring of truth in his accusations. She had planned to persuade him to keep quiet.
Chapter Twenty-One
Deborah managed to get away early from the Yew Tree on Sunday afternoon. She found Josh waiting for her by the river and walked into his arms quite naturally, as if she’d been doing so for years. He kissed her.
“Hi. Busy time?”
“Mmm, and I can’t stay long. Dad’s closing the restaurant for a week and taking Mum off to Chichester. She’s been feeling a bit under the weather lately. I promised to help them pack up.”
“Shall we just take the river path then? It’s a bit muddy but I’ll look after you.”
She giggled.
“My hero!” She sighed with contentment. “There’s a real sense of peace down here by the river, don’t you think? I love it here, despite getting a soaking.”
“So do I.” He put his arm round her shoulders as they walked. “Alan wants to talk to me tomorrow. New plans, I think. He wants to expand his empire.”
“I know that. He already owns the Towers and a couple of hotels on the far side of Flixton, as well as some in Swindon.”
“From what I’ve heard, business is so good that he needs to invest some of his profits in something else.”
“He wanted to buy the Yew Tree and turn it into an Irish bar—you know, plastic mahogany and shamrocks everywhere, leprechaun lunches for the family. Dad wouldn’t have that, though. He thinks too much of his customers and his neighbours to allow that to happen. But there’s no doubt that now Mum’s ill he can’t carry on indefinitely, so he’s going to think about all the options while he’s away.”
Josh tightened his arm around her shoulders. “He’s a good man, your dad.”
They reached the old yew tree just as the first few spots of rain began to fall. Josh ducked under the branches, pulling Deborah with him. They climbed in between the multiple purple-brown trunks of the ancient tree, and Josh sank to the ground, pulling Deborah onto his lap. The dense, needlelike leaves provided surprising good cover from the worst of the downpour, and Deborah settled back against Josh. Gazing out at the steady flow of the river, she felt strangely at peace. People had been living here for centuries. How many of them had brought their troubles to this riverbank and felt its soothing influence? Or was it Josh’s presence that made her feel so comfortable?
“So you’ve no idea what Alan wants?” she asked him.
Josh shrugged. “No, but it could involve moving.”
“Would that worry you?”
“No, not much. I enjoy it at the Towers but I still want to go out on my own someday, so if he had something else lined up, it would be good experience.”
Deborah felt a coldness creeping into her heart. She turned within the circle of his arms and nestled her cheek against his shoulder. “Oh, Josh, I don’t want you to leave Moreton.”
“Hey, nothing’s settled yet. I don’t even know what he’s got in mind. No point in getting all worked up until we know what he has to offer me. Look, the rain’s easing.” He put his hand under her chin and tilted her face up towards him, kissing her gently. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”
When they reached the bridge, they parted.
“Where are your Mum and Dad staying in Chichester?”
“It’s actually in Bosham, and more of a guesthouse, even though it’s called the Seafarer Hotel. They know the owners quite well.”
“Good. Well, wish them a good break from me, and I’ll call round in the week to make sure you’re not too lonely.”
***
“Look, brother. Look at the might that is assembled in the name of the true God.”
Hugo looked out across the colourful city of tents spread out beyond the walls of Saffuriya. Pennants fluttered in a warm breeze that did little to cool the air. Only the lengthening shadows held the promise of a respite from the sweltering heat.
The knight beside him nodded contentedly. “They say we have some twenty thousand souls gathered here ready to fight Saladin, and the Bishop of Acre will be carrying the treasured piece of the True Cross into battle, to ensure our victory.”
“More to the point, I hear they have raided King Henry’s treasure chest to hire mercenaries,” was Hugo’s dry response. He raised his head, watching a rider gallop through the bustling thoroughfare. “Another messenger for the king. Pray God he has better news of how the city of Tiberias fares.”
In the huge crimson tent at the centre of the camp, Guy de Lusignan, King of Jerusalem, dismissed the messenger, frowning over the latest information.
“Sire, only the citadel at Tiberias stands out against the Mohammedans. We must act now if we are to relieve our brothers there.” Gerard of Ridefort, Master of the Temple, spoke low and urgently to the king. He looked to his companion to assist him. Raynald de Châtillon nodded emphatically.
“The Master is right, sire. If we set off immediately, we can be at the gates of Tiberias within two days—”
“No.” A fourth lord stepped forward, his sunburned face lined and anxious. “We cannot reach the enemy without crossing the hills, and in this summer heat that is too dangerous, we do not have sufficient water. Think of the loss of lives, men and beasts. It may already be too late to save the city and, once Tiberias has fallen, Saladin will undoubtedly march back across Palestine to engage us. His will be the exhaustion if we remain here and wait for him to come to us! That way, victory is assured.”
“My Lord of Tripoli advocates caution when an early strike would help our cause more.” Raynald de Châtillon’s tone was scathing. “In a lesser knight I would call it cowardice—”
Raymond’s face blazed with anger. “Do not throw that at me, Châtillon! My wife is in command at Tiberias. Do you think it does not tear at my very soul to leave her in such danger?”
“You will not deny that the lady’s children—your stepsons—have petitioned the king to come to her aid!”
“And I tell you it is folly to attempt it!”
Guy de Lusignan put up his hand. “Doucement, my friend. I doubt not your courage, or the wisdom of your advice to remain here.”
Raynald de Châtillon banged his mailed fist upon the table. “Sire, as overlord it is your duty to relieve Tiberias!”
Gerald de Ridefort shook his head at him. “Come, de Châtillon. Let us leave the king. Perhaps a night of prayer and reflection will bring him to know God’s will.”
They went out, leaving Raymond of Tripoli alone with the king. The two men eyed one another, and the king spread his hands.
“What shall I do? If Tiberias falls…”
“It will fall, sire, an we march or no, but our chances of defeating Saladin are greater if we wait here and conserve our strength. To march is to risk everything.”
“But ’tis little over a day’s journey to the west coast of the Sea of Galilee—”
“Over a high plateau, my lord, and we have no way to carry water for such an army as this.” Raymond shook his head. “Do you not think I would do everything in my power to aid my countess? But I would not destroy God’s army in the aiding.”
“I know, I know, my friend. It galls me to lose a city, but your advice is sound. We will wait here.”
Raymond of Tripoli strode out to make his way back to his own quarters. As he passed a small group of Templars, he stopped, recognising the tall frame and blond mane of de Moreton.
Hugo saluted him. “How now, my lord. Do we march?”
Raymond indicated by the faintest movement of his head that they should move apart.
“I hope not, brother. To cross those dry plains at summer’s height is madness. It is better we wait here for Saladin to attack. We should make him come to us.”
Hugo stopped. “But your wife, my lord. The countess—”
A shadow of pain fled across
the lined face.
“Aye. She is in charge of the citadel at Tiberias. But Saladin was ever merciful in victory, and despite everything he is an honourable man. Doubtless he will give her safe passage out of the city. I must hold to that comfort, for God knows there is little else. By the time he marches back to meet up here, we will be ready for him.” He shot a quick glance at Hugo. “What say you, Templar?”
“I fight where the Master wills it. It makes little difference to me.”
“Without question, my friend? Have you so little desire to live?”
Hugo hesitated. “I do have one wish. To see England again before I die.”
“Then pray God will grant it,” the count muttered. He stared at the floor, his boot kicking idly at a tree root, then with a sigh he held up his hand. “Good night to you, Templar.”
As darkness fell, the noise within the tented city abated, but Hugo was unable to sleep. He strode off to the edge of the camp. A steep climb took him clear of the tents, and soon he was standing on a rocky promontory, the old city of Saffuriya to his left, and the Christian army spread before him, colours muted to blue-grey in the moonlight. A soft breeze stirred over the camp, carrying to him the sounds of the night: the calls of the lookouts, the occasional whinny of a horse.
Hugo knew a sudden yearning to be in England, to look once more across the water-meadows at Moreton, to see his home again, and Maude. Something like a groan burst from him. He had thought himself inured to such pain—the rigorous life of war and prayer had given him solace over the last fourteen years, and apart from one moment of weakness with the lovely Agnes of Chercourt, he had never been tempted to break his vows of chastity. But now Maude’s image rose unbidden before him, and the pain of separation was as keen as ever. With a sigh he took a last look at the clear night sky, then made his way back to his tent.
At dawn the trumpets raised the camp in a chaotic frenzy. Hugo shrugged himself into a clean linen chemise as his sergeant hurried in, carrying the heavy chain mail he would wear under his white habit.
Casting Samson Page 16
