by Hebby Roman
If only there was some other way to safeguard her.
He accepted a platter of roasted grouse and speared a bird for his trencher. A serving boy poured wine for him, and he broke off a piece of freshly baked bread. More dishes followed, and he filled his plate to bursting. But when he gazed at the heaped food, his stomach turned over.
A loud burst of laughter at the head of the table drew his attention. Cahira had her head bent close to the Bruce’s mouth, listening attentively. The two nobles appeared taken with each other, whispering together and then breaking into rollicking laughter.
Wishing he sat closer and could hear what the merrymaking was about, Raul looked on while he tried to nibble at a bit of grouse. But his heart stuttered, watching as Cahira smiled and laughed with the Scottish king. Seeing them thus, he felt as if a white-hot poker had been driven into his gut. And the over-cooked grouse clogged his throat as the Bruce feed her a sweetmeat. She accepted the tidbit daintily, but the Scottish king’s fingers lingered, brushing her pink lips.
Witnessing the easy intimacy they shared, Raul’s stomach turned over again. He clenched his jaw and ground his teeth to keep from threatening the Bruce with bodily harm. Digging his fingers into the edge of the table, he fought the urge to leap to his feet and drag Cahira from this accursed banquet. Instead, he gazed in silence while the king pawed Cahira, placing his loutish hand on her delicate arm.
Raul’s head spun and his temples pounded. Bands of steel encircled his chest, squeezing the very breath from his lungs.
The Bruce poured wine for Cahira, and she drank from his cup, the muscles in her long, swan-like neck flexing. The Scottish king licked his lips and watched her as a bridegroom would watch his bride, his eyes narrowed and the flush of lust reddening his cheeks.
Raul closed his eyes as the bands of steel tightened. His breathing labored, and the gorge rose in his throat. Stumbling to his feet, he mumbled excuses and staggered outside. The cool night welcomed him. The steel bands loosened, and he gulped in fresh air. The sweet scent of growing grass filled his nostrils, bringing the promise of summer. He shook his head to clear it, wanting to forget what he’d witnessed. What did Cahira think she was about—laughing with the Bruce and drinking from his cup?
He found a fallen log and seated himself. He lowered his head and buried his face in his hands. He’d made a terrible mistake. The Bruce wouldn’t help Cahira to marry. For it was obvious he was smitten by her beauty and only cared about his own lustful designs. And how well Raul understood—for her grace and beauty had ensnared him, too. She’d stolen his wits and made him want to forsake his duty.
He wanted to know her as a man would know a woman.
The unworthy thought made his groin tighten and his member grow stiff and heavy. No, he couldn’t blame the Bruce for wanting her. But what should he do? Extricate her from the lusty king and deliver her to the cruel earl? Or should he turn around and take her to the only home he’d ever known, his uncle’s castle in Spain? Perchance his uncle could find her a noble match.
He groaned, astounded by the wildness of his plan and still not knowing what to do. Filled with indecision, he raised his head and watched the guards as they paced the perimeter of the camp, his mind going in circles with them. He rose, pondering his plight and finding only one conclusion. He must get Cahira away from the Bruce.
Tonight wouldn’t be soon enough.
****
Raul signaled his knights to follow with the horses. Evan and Sean had been surprised when he’d awakened them well after the twelfth hour, but they’d followed him with barely a murmur, placing their trust in his decision.
Raul crouched down and waited at the corner of the tent that housed the women, until a guard passed by. Leaving Sean and Evan on lookout, he lit a torch and went inside. As was the custom, Mildread slept close to the entrance of the tent, protecting her mistress.
Leaning down, he placed one hand on the serving woman’s shoulder and shook her. “Wake up, Mildread, we must be off.”
The maidservant opened her eyes, blinking owlishly against the sputtering glare of the torch. “Wha-what, milord? But ’tis the middle o’ the night.”
“Yes. We must be away, or I fear harm will befall the princess. Please, awaken her.”
With the help of his arm, Mildread clambered to her feet. “’Urt ’er, who would—”
“Sssh,” he warned. “Make haste and ready Her Highness. I’ll wait outside.” He handed the torch to Mildread.
With a dip of her head, Mildread took the torch and moved to the princess’ pallet. Raul let the tent flap fall. When he turned, he ran straight into the barrel chest of Robert the Bruce.
Recoiling, he backed up a pace and bowed. “Your Highness,” he said, but his thoughts galloped ahead. What was the Scottish monarch doing here at this time of night?
He caught sight of Sean behind the Bruce. A look of astonishment blanketed the fair-haired knight’s features, and he lifted his shoulders in an elaborate shrug.
“Sir Knight,” the Bruce slurred his words, “I had not thought to find you here at this hour.”
“Nor I you, Sire.”
The king narrowed his eyes. Raul threw his shoulders back, knowing he stood on shaky ground, facing down the king in his own camp. But that mattered not as he was prepared to protect Cahira at any cost.
They stood toe-to-toe, neither one giving an inch, taking the other’s measure. Raul was taller by half a head. The Bruce possessed massive arms and shoulders and was known for his fierce fighting skill.
But the Scottish king was obviously deep in his cups. The odor of sour wine rose from him like a cloud, and his feet were planted wide, as if to steady himself. Obviously, he had immersed himself in the grape, hoping to gather the necessary courage to accost a virgin woman of high birth.
The thought of the monarch’s brawny body covering Cahira made Raul’s stomach turn. Red dots danced before his eyes. He sucked in his breath and tried to calm the thundering of his heart.
“We thought to make an early start, Your Highness.” Raul inclined his head. “With your leave.”
“A most early start.” The Bruce stabbed Raul’s chest with his index finger. “And you don’t have my leave. I want to see the princess.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
Raul blocked the way, placing one hand on his sword’s hilt. The Bruce licked his lips and eyed the half-drawn weapon. All the Scottish king had to do was raise his voice and call upon his army.
The question was—could the Bruce call for help before he ran him through?
Raul would willingly die before he’d allow harm to befall Cahira. But first, he would take the Bruce with him. He would wager the king, even as drunk as he was, understood that.
The Scottish monarch lifted his chin and tried again to push past. “Stand aside, Templar. That’s an order.”
“With all due respect, Sire, I cannot.”
“You know at what you play?” The Bruce’s eyes glittered, and he fisted his hands.
“She’s mine to protect.”
“Nay,” the Bruce shook his head, “not yours but the Sinclair’s.”
Raul drew back. So the Scottish king knew. Devious to a fault, he’d not admitted such when Raul had approached him this afternoon.
The king lifted his finger again and wagged it in front of Raul’s nose. “She’s mine now, remember? You gave her over to my protection.”
“What you say is false.”
“Nay, ’tis the truth. Very wise of you, since your lord has taken a Norse chieftain’s daughter as his bride, spurning his betrothal to the princess. Alas, she has no protector.” He snorted and glanced at Raul’s sword. “Except you.”
Stunned by the information, Raul frowned. Did the Bruce speak the truth? Would the Sinclair have done such? Or was this yet another devious ploy so the Scottish king could have his way?
“You didn’t know?” Surprise colored the Bruce’s whispered words. “Why come to me then?
” He shook his head as if to clear the wine fog. “No matter. Of certain you have your reasons. But if you plan to go against your lord, I’d not stay overlong in Scotland, Templar.”
Raul didn’t answer, remembering the missive from Arnaud that had urged his departure for Orkney without revealing why haste was necessary. Had Arnaud been trying to alert him of the Sinclair’s intended betrayal?
Or was the Bruce lying for his own ends?
“I’m prepared to offer your princess status as my royal leman. My wife is being held hostage by my rival.” He shrugged. “Should she not live, I will take the princess to wed and make her Queen of Scotland.”
Shocked, Raul could not speak.
What a cold bastard was Robert the Bruce.
Cold enough to offer a noble-born princess a role as his concubine with the promise of marriage if his wife was murdered. So the Bruce’s bid for support had naught to do with ransoming his wife and more to do with his selfish desires.
Disgusted, Raul’s hand trembled on his sword. If truth be known, it would be a pleasure to run through this strutting drunk. But he stayed his hand, grinding his teeth, telling himself if he did so, he’d die, along with Sean and Evan, and the princess would be left unprotected.
“The princess won’t be your leman.” He finally spoke.
“Shall we ask her?” The king bared his teeth. “Her answer might surprise you.”
“No!” Raul gripped his sword tighter. “Stand back, Sire. We leave now.”
The tent flap opened, and Cahira stepped out. “Sir Raul, you should have consulted me first.” She turned to the Bruce and smiled. “Though your Grace honors me with such an offer, I would tarry not in Scotland. Since the earl has no need of me, I would return to my homeland.”
Raul gaped at her. She’d overheard them and knew the truth, if the Bruce could be believed.
The Scottish king returned her smile and executed a slightly off-center bow. “Ah, a lady who knows her own mind. I like that in a woman.” He straightened and waved one hand. “But stop a moment and consider. I would give you everything, all my kingdom for your favor, Princess.”
He reached out to stroke her cheek, but she pulled back. His hand hovered haplessly in the air, until his wine-soaked brain registered the snub. He drew back his lips in a half-snarl and dropped his hand.
“You have no kingdom to give, Robert,” she reminded him. “Whilst I have a legacy worth keeping.” She shot Raul a sharp glance and pulled on her leather riding gloves. “Sir Raul has said it well. We ride for the coast tonight.”
A net of tension encased the three of them, closer than a weaver’s warp. For what seemed like an eternity, Raul scarce dared to draw a breath. He glanced at Sean and Evan, who waited a few paces away.
Cahira didn’t acknowledge the tension. She appeared at her ease, even cheerful, obviously contemplating her return to Eire, as she called for Mildread to come.
The Bruce watched her, his eyes barely open, half-slits in his face and with a snarl twisting his handsome features. A sudden curse spurted from his lips, but he gave over with obvious reluctance.
“As you wish, Princess. I’ll direct the guards to let you pass.”
Turning to Raul, he spat, “I wouldn’t stay in Scotland if you value your necks.”
****
“You could have told me what you meant to do,” Cahira said.
“I wasn’t sure my plan would work. And as you can see, it failed.” Raul moved his mount closer to hers, knowing their voices carried.
Mortified the others might overhear their argument, he glanced around. His knights and Mildread had fallen back, giving them privacy.
“I never meant we would return to Eire,” he explained. “I had hoped—”
“You’d hoped to pawn me off on Robert the Bruce.”
“You didn’t seem to mind sharing a trencher with him.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he groaned inwardly, wishing he could snatch them back.
She angled her gaze at him from beneath the brim of her hat. The rising sun had lightened the sky just enough so he could make out her features. Her green eyes were alight with hope and something else he couldn’t quite name. A softness, perhaps, that belied her sharp words.
He wished he could vow his intentions had been noble. That he’d changed his mind about taking her to the Sinclair because he was thinking of her happiness. But that was only part of the truth. Deep down, he didn’t know if he could let her go to any man.
As dishonorable as the Bruce’s intentions had been, his own design was no better. For he wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms and bury himself in her sweet, yielding flesh. To beget children upon her, to wake in the morning with her beside him, the spill of her red-gold hair across his naked chest, her dainty limbs entwined with his.
How his traitorous flesh ached for hers. And for one of her melting glances, he’d willingly betray his duty and disavow his honor. If only she would have him…
“You heard the Bruce,” she said. “We shouldn’t stay in Scotland, especially now the Sinclair has betrayed me. We should return to Eire. I want my castle and lands back.”
Raul wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Not so. The Bruce could have lied to—”
“But you weren’t taking me to the earl. Were you? Where else can we go?”
He shook his head. If he’d been uncertain as to what to do before the Bruce’s news of the Sinclair, now he really was at a loss.
“I thought to my home in Spain. Once there, I could ask my uncle to provide knights to retake your castle.”
She tossed her head, and her hat slipped down, held only by a thin cord around her neck. The morning sun picked out threads of gold in her glorious hair. How he yearned to plunge his hands into that mass of curls, allowing the feel of her satiny tresses to spill through his fingers.
“And what if your uncle doesn’t agree?”
What, indeed? Raul knew his uncle well, and the count seldom undertook causes unless the outcome would fill his coffers. But he couldn’t tell Cahira that. He still hoped to find her a noble marriage and a husband who would champion her cause.
“You’ll need coins and knights to retake your lands. If the Sinclair broke his word and wed another, we’ll need proof. And even then, his knights will hold Kinsale until they receive orders from the earl, which I doubt—”
“He’ll send because he’s a thief and a scoundrel,” she finished. “Just as I’ve said all along.”
Raul couldn’t argue, but the truth of her words did little to alter the situation. So far, he’d kept this new knowledge from Sean and Evan, but alas, they owed their allegiance to the earl. He would have to tell them.
But not yet—not until they reached the coast.
“I don’t need men or money to retake my castle,” she said. “When my men learn what the Sinclair has done, they will rally to my side.”
“Are you certain? They fill their bellies with provisions bought with the earl’s coin. And the Sinclair’s knights reside within the castle. It may not be so easy to retake Kinsale.”
“Aye, thanks to you, Sir Raul. You made certain to secure it against me.”
She turned away and urged her gelding to a gallop, as if she wanted to remove herself from his odious presence. He couldn’t blame her. Because of him, she’d lost everything and been betrayed in the bargain. With a glance at the others, he spurred his steed to greater speed, not wanting Cahira to put too much distance between them.
Ahead, the road forked, the right branch leading into a deep ravine, while the left skirted the mountains, meandering through a grassy meadow. The right fork led toward the coast, the way they needed to go, but there was something sinister about that track. He didn't know what bothered him about the right fork, but something about it made the back of his neck tingle.
Cahira turned her mount to the right, and as she did so, the hairs on the back of his neck rose. For some reason the towering walls of the steep pass made hi
m uneasy. Even if it meant they took the long way around, he preferred the other trail.
Drawing alongside Cahira, he said, “We should go the other way.”
“Why? The coast is this way.”
“Your sense of direction is excellent,” he replied. “Or should I credit that map you have hidden in your sleeve?”
She opened her mouth and then colored, the rosy glow of her cheeks making her emerald eyes sparkle. “How did you know?”
“Seems we’ve no talent for keeping secrets from each other.” He allowed himself a rueful smile and glanced at the sheer cliffs looming overhead.
A frisson of dread shook him.
Grabbing her mount’s bridle, he stopped, waiting for the others to catch up. When the others reached them, he glanced warily at the pass again, only to be blinded by the bright flash of sunlight reflected on steel.
Eight masked men emerged from the boulders, their swords drawn. The men crowded around them, surrounding their mounts. One man stepped forward and leveled his sword at the princess.
“Dismount,” the leader barked, “or the lady dies.”
Chapter Twelve
Raul tossed his moneybag at the man holding Cahira. The leader lowered his weapon and caught the pouch. In that one unguarded moment, Raul drew his sword. “Take the money,” Raul said. “We’ll not stop you.”
Raul, his knights, and the women had been forced to dismount. These men were obviously brigands, intent upon robbing them. They could have all his money if they’d not harm Cahira. Even with his sword drawn, he possessed no illusions. They were hopelessly outnumbered and could ill afford a fight.
Leveling his blade again, the leader hissed, “You shouldn’t have drawn on me.”
“My error.” Raul shrugged, hoping they would be satisfied and go. But he didn’t sheath his weapon. “You have my vow we won’t pursue you. I make you a gift of our coin.”
“How kind of you, Templar,” the leader sneered, “to surrender your money so readily. But it’s your stinking life I want.” He brought his sword up and drove straight for Raul’s heart.
