“Why? ’Tis important to you.”
“Not as important as you.”
Shock froze the breath emerging from her lungs. “What are you saying?”
He kissed her brow, the touch of his lips incredibly tender. “I…care about you. I always have done.”
She shook her head; she must have misheard. “I thought—”
“Those summers at Callingston were the best part of my childhood.”
“Oh, Ryder.”
“When you arrived at Merringstow, I was so smitten with you, I could not think straight. But, I had no idea how to show you that I liked you. To get your attention, I played tricks on you. I know I…was unkind.”
“I thought you hated me,” she admitted.
“More than anything, Amelia, I wanted you to be mine.”
***
The words he’d wanted to say to her for so long tumbled from his lips. He wasn’t speaking well, though. He’d never been all that good at expressing himself.
Astonishment gleamed in her eyes, and his heart constricted. He’d made a bloody mess of things with her, but he had a chance right now, with truth of his own, to repair the situation.
“Did Tilden know you were interested in me?” she asked.
“He knew, but I made him swear to secrecy. When we joined the Templars and left for Crusade, I resolved to forget you. But, once the grimness of endless battles set in….”
“Go on,” she said softly.
“You—memories of you—were what sustained me. You helped me through the night hours when I lay awake, wondering if the next day I would be slain. I forced aside my anxious thoughts, recalled your strength of will, your compassion, your exquisite beauty in that low-cut dress….”
She made a sound of distress, and he gently pressed her lower back with his arm. “That night, you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. At Acre, remembering you brought me courage, determination, and faith that I would return to England…and mayhap one day, see your loveliness again.”
“Mother Mary, I had no idea you felt that way.”
“I know.” He kissed her brow again. “In the East, I did not tell even Tilden that I dreamed of you, for I had vowed to forsake carnal desires. Feeling as I did and keeping it a secret, though, brought me a relentless internal struggle. After returning to England, I decided I was not suited to life as a monk. I needed a woman’s love. I longed to love in return.”
“That is why you resigned from the Order?”
“Aye.”
“And here we are.”
In her expression, he saw uncertainty as to what lay ahead. He didn’t have answers to give her, but he did know, if given a choice, what he wanted at this moment. “Now that you know my heart…may I kiss you again?”
“How will you kiss me this time?” she asked, her gaze tinged with mischief.
Warmth spread through his chest like a draught of mulled wine. “I will have to yield to wickedness again. Like so,” he said, kissing her temple. She trembled when he lifted his mouth from her skin. “And so,” he added, pressing his lips to the downy plane of her cheek.
“Ryder,” she whispered. A protest? God, nay. He’d not let her go now.
“And so.” He pressed his mouth to hers.
When their lips touched, the lightest brushing of skin, she trembled again. But, she didn’t pull away. With a sigh, she opened her mouth beneath his, kissed him back, and he was lost.
Pleasure roared in his soul. He kissed her with the hunger he’d felt for her years ago; with the lust of the man he was now. His mouth became bolder, and she leaned in against him, her hands fisting into the front of his tunic. The honorable part of him warned him to back away, but the selfish part of him wanted her to feel the rock-hard proof of his desire; to prove his concern for her went far beyond what happened to the ring.
At last, their kisses slowed. She drew back, her eyes still shut and her cheeks flushed. Ryder sensed her savoring the sensations within her, and he waited until her eyelids flickered open.
“Your wickedness,” she said.
“Aye?”
“’Tis far greater than I ever imagined.”
He chuckled, pleased to hear the teasing note in her voice. “I can continue—”
Amelia pressed a finger to his mouth. “When we have proven my brother did not steal the ring, we can kiss again.”
Disappointment raced through Ryder. “And if we discover that Tilden did, in fact, take the jewel?”
“We will not.”
Annoyance prompted him to withdraw his arm from around her waist and step back. He snatched up the ring and cord lying in the grass.
Sunlight illuminated the jewel as it settled in his palm…as well as the symbols on the inside of the ring. Frowning, he picked it up with his thumb and index finger and held it closer for a better look.
Amelia’s gown rustled as she headed for the keep.
“Hold,” he commanded.
“Why? We—”
“Did you notice the markings inside the ring?”
Halting, she said, “I thought they were part of the design.”
“They were not on the ring when I had it.”
“They…were recently added?”
“Aye, after the jewel was stolen.”
***
“A cross. A fleur-de-lis.” Amelia turned the ring a fraction to better see. “A star over a horizontal crescent moon.”
“’Tis what I saw, too.”
“Each is shown twice, except for the star and moon.” Curiosity gnawed at her. “Are the symbols important?”
Ryder shrugged, but the gesture was far from carefree. “I have seen them used in seals made for the Knights Templar.”
“The symbols are used by others, too.” She’d seen fleur-de-lis featured in coats of arms.
Ryder stretched out his hand, and she reluctantly set the ring back in his palm. “Why are the symbols on the ring?” she asked.
“I wish I knew.”
“Do you know who might have engraved them, and why?”
He shook his head. “More vital information we must uncover.”
She had to know the mystery of the symbols. Her thoughts returned to when Tilden, near death, had given her the ring and his strange words. What had he been trying to tell her?
“When my brother told me to protect the crescent,” she said, “do you think he was referring to the ring?”
“I cannot say,” Ryder answered. “’Tis not clear to me, yet, what he meant.”
Cross. Fleur-de-lis. Star hovering over a crescent moon.
Anticipation slipped like a droplet of cold water down her spine. “Wait.”
“Do you remember something more?”
“Those symbols. They were used—” Beware. She mustn’t reveal too much.
“Amelia,” Ryder growled.
If she told him all, he’d gather his men and ride off, leaving her behind.
“I will tell you,” she said, “but I am coming with you.”
He glowered. “Not fair.”
“’Tis indeed fair, when I, too, am connected to this mystery.”
Ryder’s eyes glinted with warning. “You are very bold to ask me to agree to your terms without knowing what you are going to say.”
“I want to help, Ryder. Let me.”
He closed the distance between them and slid his hands into her hair to hold her head firm. Tilting her face up, he rasped, “If you should come to harm—”
“I will not. I shall be with you. I will have my knife.”
“And if you have to use it?” His earnest stare searched hers. “Could you stab a man? Draw blood? Kill him, if necessary?”
Such concern etched into Ryder’s features. “If I had to,” she said, “I could—and I would.”
He remained silent while the breeze tangled his hair and stirred their garments. “All right,” he finally said. “But you will heed my instructions, even if you do not agree with them.”
“I
will.” Her chin nudged higher. “One more thing. Once we resolve the mystery of the ring, I am free to go back to Callingston Keep. You will no longer have any hold upon me.”
An emotion she couldn’t define flickered across his face. He seemed about to challenge her words, but then, he slowly nodded. “The symbols?” he urged.
“The ones etched onto the ring appear in the church in Lynborn. They were painted on the crypt walls. ’Twas part of the renovation, which was funded by Tilden.”
Chapter Ten
Morning light washed over the church in the town square directly ahead, illuminating the building’s carved main door and portico.
Amelia, riding sidesaddle on the mare Ryder had given her earlier, followed him out of the narrow street lined with two-story buildings: shops established on the ground level and living quarters above. Ten of Ryder’s men-at-arms rode close behind her, and Honor trotted at her right side, tongue-lolling, but ’twas a comfort to have so many protectors, especially after the outlaw attack the previous day. Thankfully, the journey to Lynborn had been uneventful, although Amelia’s anxiety had heightened now that they approached the church.
The square seemed unusually full of folk, but in the summer months, the town often hosted outdoor festivals and plays that attracted travelers as well as people who lived in outlying villages.
The glint of sunlight on metal drew her gaze to Ryder, tall and commanding astride his destrier. A tremor wove through her, for she’d barely slept last night at Brindston Keep, her thoughts unsettled not only by what they might discover in the crypt, but by him.
He’d agreed that once they’d uncovered the truth about the ring, he’d no longer have any hold upon her…but that wasn’t true. As she’d turned restlessly in her bed and watched firelight shift over the walls and ceiling, she’d had to acknowledge that he’d found his way into her heart. His kisses and touches had captivated her in ways she’d never forget; in ways she longed to explore more fully. Her feelings for Ryder seemed similar to what Nanette felt for John, judging by what the younger woman had confided with much excitement to Amelia before they’d retired to their beds.
Such longings, though, weren’t love…were they? And did Ryder care enough for her to love her, or would his feelings for her fade once they’d resolved the mystery of the ring?
Ryder halted his horse in front of the church, dismounted, and tethered the animal to a post. As she reined in the mare, he strode to her side and helped her down.
His hand on the hilt of his broadsword, Ryder faced his men-at-arms. “No one enters or leaves the church until we are done.”
“Aye, milord.” Some of the guards headed around the side of the building; Ryder had told them earlier to watch the alley at the back of the church.
Honor fell in alongside Amelia as they walked to the door, but she ordered the dog to wait outside. With a grumpy whine, Honor sat down, no doubt to enjoy a rest in the sun.
Ryder pulled open the church door, and when they stepped into the foyer, the scents of burning tapers, beeswax polish, and time-worn stone enveloped them. Candlelight flickered on silver and gold at the altar. The pews, though, were empty of worshippers.
A sense of nostalgia rushed through her, for the last time she’d been inside the church, Tilden had only just fallen ill, and had asked her to deliver a donation on his behalf. The grateful priest had given her a quick tour of the renovations, including the crypt, where painters were finishing up the walls.
“This way,” she said to Ryder. He crossed with her to the far aisle and followed her to the top of a shadowy flight of stairs, leading downward. She took two burning reeds from their nearby holders on the wall, handed one to him, and then went down the steps, the tap of their shoes echoing eerily as they entered the chamber with its low, vaulted ceiling.
Stone tombs occupied much of the crypt, some elaborately carved and painted, others plainer in design. A chill hung in the air, and she drew her cloak closer to her body. As Ryder halted near one of the tombs, she said, “See the decoration?” Holding out her torch, she indicated the black symbols, as large as her hand, forming a painted border low on the wall, just above where it met the floor.
“I see,” he murmured. As she secured her torch in an empty holder, he touched his reed to several unlit ones in the crypt, creating more light. Then he slid his torch into a vacant holder and walked along the closest wall. “A cross, a fleur-de-lis, and a star hovering over a crescent moon. Just like the ring.”
Amelia rounded a tomb bearing the effigy of a knight and walked along another wall. “The pattern goes all around the chamber.”
“Why, though?” When she glanced at him, he added, “The painters would have been instructed to paint these symbols. ’Tis not a coincidence that the ones on the walls and on the ring are the same.”
“I agree, but—” She paused, for she heard a dog barking. Honor had probably found a bird to chase.
Ignoring the noise, she neared the fourth wall. A tomb had been positioned near it and blocked much of the torchlight. She moved in behind the tomb to better see the symbols. “Cross; fleur-de-lis, star over a crescent moon,” she noted. “Cross, fleur-de-lis—
Her heartbeat froze then lurched against her ribs. “Ryder.”
He came to the opposite side of the tomb. “Aye?”
“Look.”
As he moved in to see, she pointed to the crescent moon—without a star.
He inhaled sharply. “That might be just what we are looking for.”
***
Anticipation surged through Ryder veins. The crescent moon covered most of one stone. ’Twas entirely possible that if removed, the stone would reveal a secret cavity.
When he crouched by the tomb and examined the wall, he couldn’t find any evidence that the stone was at all loose. That meant he’d have to dig out the mortar.
Amelia reached to the front of her bodice.
“Keep your dagger.” He drew a knife out of his boot then jabbed the tip into the mortar. A small piece dropped away. He worked at the mortar again, twice, three times, and then his blade slid in easily—as though the mortar had been applied only in a thin, veneer layer.
“Ryder,” she whispered.
He attacked the mortar from a different angle. More crumbled away. As he worked, he caught the barking of a dog, louder than when he’d heard it a few moments before. Dismissing the noise, he focused on his work.
The stone wobbled.
Using the blade, he began easing out the stone. Little by little, it edged forward, until with a grating sound, it worked free.
As he set the stone aside, Amelia brought over a torch and held it so light shone into the cavity.
Inside was a rolled parchment, as well as a silver cloak pin: the jewel Tilden had been given to protect.
Amelia’s face glowed with excitement. “What does the parchment say?”
Ryder unfurled the thin, cured sheet of skin. The first names scribed in black ink were familiar.
“’Tis a list,” she murmured.
“Aye, of Templar knights at Acre who were given items for safekeeping.” The list, however, was longer than he remembered, with two columns of names that continued onto the back of the parchment. Tilden had obviously attended a number of secret meetings.
If the majority of the Templar treasures on the list reached English soil, ’twould be a sizable hoard indeed.
He pushed the parchment and cloak pin into his right boot then reached into the opening again. His arm stretched a fair way back—his shoulder was partway into the cavity—before his fingertips brushed stone.
“How large is the hiding place?” Amelia asked.
“Large enough to—”
The sound of footfalls on stone carried down into the crypt.
Ryder signaled for Amelia to move away from the tomb. She swiftly obeyed, while he snatched up the stone, pushed it back into its place in the wall, and shoved the knife back into his boot.
As he crossed to Amelia
’s side, a man entered the crypt.
Stephen.
***
“There you are,” Stephen said, glancing from her to Ryder.
The tiny hairs on Amelia’s nape prickled, for a sense of imminent danger hummed within her. Ryder had told his men not to let anyone into the building. That order would have included Stephen.
“What are you two doing down here in the crypt?” Stephen asked, while his keen gaze traveled around the chamber.
“I could ask you the same,” Ryder said. “My men were to keep visitors out of the church.”
“Well, your guards are preoccupied at the moment, so I was able to get inside. Your men—even those in the alley—were attacked, you see, by folk who were really outlaws in disguise.”
Amelia gasped.
“How do you know they were outlaws?” Ryder demanded. “And how did they know we would be in Lynborn?”
Stephen shrugged, but judging by his smug grin, he well knew the answers to those questions.
What was going on? Why would Stephen strive to protect the outlaws?
Ryder caught Amelia’s arm and steered her toward the stairs. As she hurried along, her legs wooden, Stephen moved to intercept them. “Wait.”
“Step aside,” Ryder growled.
Amelia’s breath jammed in her throat, for Stephen’s left hand had shifted to his sheathed sword. More alarming, though, were the linen bandages around his wrist.
Stephen was the thug who’d opened the carriage door.
Judging by Ryder’s mercurial expression, he’d realized the significance of the bandage, too.
“You found something down here.” Stephen challenged. “Aye?”
Oh, God. Oh, God.
Ryder shoved her toward the steps. “Run.”
***
Stephen moved to draw his sword, and Ryder lunged. He careened into Stephen, shoving the other knight sideways. Stephen cursed as he slammed back into a tomb then struck out with his fists.
Ryder’s head reeled at the force of the blows. They’d both learned to fight well with their fists; a few times, when battling the Saracens, his sword and knives knocked out of reach, Ryder’s bare hands had been the only weapons left to him to fell his opponents. And he’d succeeded.
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