Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride. Lynna Banning
did not like her talk of adventure. What was she planning to do, apart from visiting her great-aunt? He would have to watch her every moment. Clenching his teeth, he turned away just as Hassam returned to the room. Like it or not, he had pledged his word to his uncle.
Therefore, so be it.
Reynaud removed his sword belt and mail shirt and leggings, stretched out on the soft sleeping couch and willed himself to tame his roiling thoughts. In the years he had been away, Leonor had grown from a playful sprite of a girl into a heart-stoppingly beautiful woman. He could not forget the scent of her hair, the sheen of her skin.
And he could not forget how foolishly eager she was to leave the safety of Granada. Her innocence was dangerous. She knew nothing of the harsh world outside this luxurious palace in this enlightened kingdom. In truth, he himself felt out of place surrounded by the opulence of his Uncle Hassam’s home.
In truth, he no longer knew where he belonged. He laid his head wherever his Templar orders took him, even to Hassam’s spacious home with its brightly tiled courtyards and the sound of splashing fountains in every room. He was to deliver the Templar proposal to Emir Yusef, then await orders for his next destination after Moyanne, to be delivered by someone in Yusef’s employ. But he did not yet know who. Neither did he know the final destination of the Templar gold he carried.
He tried to soothe his restless spirit with the trickle of fountains and the carefree chirping of night birds nesting among the branches of tamarisk trees, but memories of battle followed him wherever he went. The bloodshed, the unending senseless slaughter, the stench of burning fortresses and rotting corpses—it sickened him. With all his heart he wished he could be washed clean of his sins.
Abruptly he sat bolt upright. Was he still a pious follower of Almighty God? Or was he now a mercenary killer available to the highest bidder? At some point he needed to know what, and who, he really was. Otherwise, he could forge no other future for himself.
The next morning Reynaud gazed across the flat brown plain into the hazy distance, then reined in his grey destrier and waited for the armed escort Hassam had sent to guard Leonor. The way was clear; he had already scouted ahead for bandits.
For a long while all he could see were puffs of dust rolling towards him. No sound broke the quiet but the wind whispering through the pine scrub and the thud of hoofbeats against the hard-baked ground. Some minutes later, two horses and a mule plodded into view, laden with travel chests and surrounded by the Arab warriors. He raised one hand in silent greeting.
A large dun horse carried a tall elderly man, his black robe flapping behind his bent frame like the wings of an ancient crow. Reynaud had to smile. Benjamin of Toledo, his old tutor!
The other rider, well mounted on a cream-coloured Arab mare, wore leather riding boots, a short, drab tunic and a white turban and head veil. He studied the slight figure through narrowed eyes and his heart lurched. It was Leonor!
Every nerve jolted to attention. Travelling in disguise made good sense, but by the look of Leonor’s jaunty smile she was truly revelling in her masquerade.
She had always loved masquerades.
He signalled to Sekir, Hassam’s personal bodyguard, and pressed among the Arab warriors until he came face to face with his cousin. She flicked a glance at him, studied his chainmail hauberk, then his helmet. After a long moment her shining eyes met his and his heart stuttered.
‘You are following us,’ she observed, her voice accusing.
‘True, and not true. I travel with you, but at a distance, to watch for bandits. I promised Hassam I would look to your welfare.’
She frowned. ‘I do not want you to look to my welfare. You, with your battle-scarred soul and your distrust of the world, would never let me do anything. Particularly not what I have in mind.’ With an eloquent lift of her dark eyebrows, she flapped her reins and rode on past him.
Stung, Reynaud circled his horse to block her path.
Thoughtfully she pursed her lips. The gesture sent red-hot needles dancing along the skin behind his neck.
He remembered that look. Even as a boy that gaze could make his heart thud in his bony chest like a smithy’s hammer. With Leonor he’d never known what to expect. How she had loved playing tricks.
Benjamin rode up, peering at her from under his bushy grey eyebrows. ‘Ay, Jehovah,’ he grumbled. ‘Why do you stop in the middle of the road?’ The old man paid no attention to Reynaud; apparently he did not recognise his old student.
‘I was…reviewing my plan,’ Leonor replied, a happy lilt in her voice.
Reynaud’s belly knotted. What plan? What was she up to besides visiting her great-aunt?
The old man’s black eyes rounded. ‘What, again? Can you not ride and plan at the same time?’
She laughed softly. ‘I can do many things at the same time, Benjamin. As you well know.’
‘Do not remind me,’ Benjamin growled. He tried in vain to hide the fond look in his dark eyes.
Reynaud groaned inwardly. When she was young, Leonor had tied her father into knots. Now she was grown, and so comely that the soft curves of her body made his skin burn. Keeping an eye on her would be a challenge.
Considering his body’s response to her, it would be an ordeal by fire! He nodded to Benjamin, kicked the grey warhorse into a trot and turned his face towards the rocky grey hills to the west. What devil had prompted him to agree to protecting her?
He circled around behind the party of riders to make sure they were not followed through the remote mountain pass leading to the walled town of Moyanne.
He knew the town. As a youth, in Moyanne he had learned about wine from Burgundy and women from…everywhere.
The old hunger bit into his loins and he straightened in the saddle and willed his thoughts elsewhere. He had fought too hard to become a Templar knight to sacrifice his honour for a mere itch of the flesh.
With undisguised relish Leonor studied the moss-covered stone walls enclosing the small village of Moyanne, then peered upward at the dark stone castle on the hilltop beyond. After the bustling streets and brilliant-coloured tiled buildings of Granada, this pretty little town looked as if nothing had changed for a hundred years. Surely Great-Aunt Alais must lead a peaceful life in such a place.
The flock of sparrows in her belly fluttered to life, and she nudged the cream-coloured mare forwards. Some minutes later the two horses and the mule clopped over the castle’s planked drawbridge and through the raised portcullis to enter a cobblestone bailey surrounded by a hodgepodge of wooden buildings. From the closest drifted the sound of clanging metal, followed by the hiss of steam. The smithy’s quarters.
She studied the inhabitants of the bailey. Stable boys, washing women, even a sour-faced priest. Unconsciously she looked for an even more sour-faced Reynaud, but there was no sign of her moody cousin.
Good. She was not a child who needed tending.
Pages ran forwards to help them dismount and unload the baggage from the pack mule tied behind Benjamin’s mount. The instant she slid off the cream mare an icy shard of fear stabbed beneath her breastbone.
She was here at last. She could turn her dream into a triumph…or she could make such a fool of herself that no one, not even Benjamin, would ever speak to her again. Worse, perhaps they would laugh at her.
Her chest felt as if jagged rocks were piling up behind her ribs. She was not just frightened, she was petrified!
She swallowed hard. ‘Benjamin, I am…I am somewhat afraid.’
The old man sent her a quick sideways look. ‘All things have their price, little one. Especially great adventures.’ His