“We are friends of Renaud de Vichiers, one of your Templars,” she replied easily. “We were on our way to Edinburgh when we heard Renaud was at Castle Brodie. I am Elizabeth … MacBreide.” She gestured with an elegant, slim hand. “And this is my brother, Tally.”
“MacBreide of Shallotan?”
“Near there,” Tally replied evasively.
“Your brother,” Duncan observed aloud, as the significance of their relationship sunk in. He was not her lover. He wouldn’t have to kill him.
“And protector,” Tally added dryly. “Do not think to attempt to seduce my sister, Duncan Douglas. We heard of your exploits shortly after arriving, and Beth said she saw you dallying with one of the maids.”
Duncan cringed inwardly. He had indeed tupped less than privately early this morn. So, she had noticed him—and how long had she watched?
“Chasing her about in the bailey, then up onto the parapet,” Elizabeth added, without the slightest blush. “The maids here cannot say enough about you. Even as far as the taverns in Inverness we’d heard of the wild and irreverent Douglas brother. They say there isn’t a fair maid you haven’t tumbled.”
Words that would have made him preen with masculine pleasure on any other tongue made him wince, coming from her absurdly full lips. It was all too obvious what she thought of him. There was nothing he could say in his own defense; she plainly did not care for casual tupping, and he’d never concealed the fact that he relished it. There were certain rooms he’d entered in his life that had held a dozen different women he’d tupped. Never before had that fact bothered him.
Retreat and reform into a fresh attack, he advised himself, then charge again when she least expects it. By God, this was battle, and if the front line couldn’t be breached, he would find a way to circumvent her outlying guards and penetrate her flank. That he’d blown the first attack didn’t mean he’d lost the war.
He raised her hand and kissed the air above it. “Elizabeth, Tally, welcome to Brodie,” he said coolly before turning away.
As he moved off into the crowd, he walked tall, concealing the uncomfortable sensation of slinking away from a resounding set-down. As he wove through the dancers, Duncan muttered darkly to himself. How dare she criticize him for being a good lover, an enthusiastic man? He was considerate with his wenches, he was patient, always ensuring their pleasure. How dare she belittle him for his … frequency. Leftovers, indeed!
Scowling, he headed for the courtyard, the glorious night now fractured by her disdain.
* * *
Armand watched the lord and lady with growing frustration. He’d been impatiently following her for days now, and not once had he been able to catch her alone. The laird was at her side constantly.
He must capture her tonight, or he would never make it to the arranged meeting place with James Comyn on time. He’d completed searching the castle, all but the laird’s chambers, into which there was no entrance without the key. He’d even climbed to the roof, only to encounter a dozen forbidding guards, at which point he’d pretended to have sought the gloaming to meditate closer to God. There would be no scaling the wall to the laird’s room, for the castle was too carefully observed. But surely she had a key, and once he snared her, he would spare time to search their private bedchambers before leaving. He needed those weapons.
He gritted his teeth, watching Circenn toss back more wine. The man had consumed such quantities that any other man would have sought the garderobe long before now. His eyes narrowed as he watched Lisa whisper something in Circenn’s ear. He noted that she briefly pressed her hand to her abdomen.
Ah, although he might hold his drink well, she did not. Armand slipped through the crowd, maintaining an innocuous distance, ready to sprint to her side the moment she left the protective arms of the forbidding laird of Brodie.
* * *
Lisa was dazzled by her first medieval feast. She’d never forgotten the night she’d first arrived at Castle Brodie and gazed up at the towering structure, thinking how incredible it would be to belong within its walls, to be part of a laughing, warm group of clansmen. To belong.
And now she did.
Circenn had proudly introduced her to his people, and although she’d noticed he stumbled over many of their names, that didn’t worry her overmuch. She could change that. She would help him get reacquainted with his clan and draw him into the joy of their lives.
“Why do you smile, lass?”
Lisa tipped back her head. Happiness radiated from him, increasing hers tenfold. Clad in full clan regalia, he looked like a savage Scot warlord, but she knew what kind of man he really was. Intense and deeply emotional. Mercilessly sexual. Gentle. A dizzying wave of feeling grew and spread inside her. “So this is what it feels like,” she whispered. She gazed up at him, her eyes wide with discovery.
“What what feels like?”
“Circenn.” A wealth of emotion infused his name.
He watched her, unblinking.
“I love you.”
Circenn drew a sudden, deep breath. There it was. There was no coyness about her, no games, no attempt to hide the truth or manipulate him into making such a declaration first. Boldly she gave her heart. Why would he have expected anything less?
He swept her into his arms and closed his eyes, absorbing the feelings ebbing and flowing between them.
“Does this mean you are not adverse to the fact that I’ve lost my heart to you?” she teased.
“Could a man be adverse to the sunshine warming his skin? A spring rain quenching his thirst or a night such as this one, when any wonder seems possible? Thank you.” His smile was devastating. “I’d begun to fear you might never give me those words.”
“And?” she encouraged. He said nothing, but suddenly a shiver of pleasure danced beneath her skin. It penetrated her thoroughly, leaving her breathless. “What was that!”
“I’ve been practicing trying to say it without words. Did it work?”
She blew out a calming breath. “Oh yes,” she said. “I want you to do that tonight when we’re … you know.”
“Aye, aye, mistress,” he teased. “And how about this one?”
Lisa’s nipples stiffened as a wave of dark eroticism washed over her. “Oh, God. That was truly amazing.”
“This bond can be wonderful, can it not?”
Smiling her agreement, Lisa stood on tiptoe and kissed him. When he moved to deepen the kiss, she pulled back. He looked startled, so she hastened to reassure him. “I’ve drunk too much wine, Circenn. I’m afraid I must find one of those dratted chamber pots.” She sighed morosely. “There are some things I really miss about my century.”
“A chamber pot? Why not use the garderobe?”
“The what?”
“The garderobe.”
“You have garderobes here?” she said stiffly.
He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Not that I wish to pry, lass, but where have you been going?”
“Chamber pots,” she muttered.
“And what have you been doing … er …”
“Dumping them out the window,” she said, prickly as a porcupine. So much for demure privacy. If there was a garderobe, why on earth had Eirren told her to use the chamber pot? Then she realized how mischievous the lad could be. It was just like Eirren to be prankish. “Was there a garderobe at Dunnottar, too?”
“It is you who has been dumping them out the windows? I have been blaming it on my men, making them wash down the stones. Aye, there was one at Dunnottar. I had garderobes put in every keep I own or visit.”
“You never told me.”
“You never asked. How was I to know? When you first arrived here, I wasn’t about to address such private issues. I assumed you had found our garderobe on your own.”
Lisa snorted. Eirren had truly bamboozled her, and her pride had kept her tidily trapped in his jest. “I can’t believe all this time I’ve … Oh! Where is the blasted garderobe?”
He told her, b
iting his lip to keep from smiling. He watched her hips sway gently in her emerald gown as she climbed the stairs. She’d said she loved him. That was promising.
Perhaps it was nearly time to talk to her about loving him forever.
LISA SHOOK HER HEAD AS SHE EXITED THE GARDEROBE. Very civilized. Now that she knew where it was, she couldn’t believe she’d bypassed it while she’d searched the castle for the flask, but the entrance gave the impression of a servant’s door, so she’d not given it a second thought. The garderobe was not what she had expected; it was larger than most modern bathrooms, and spotless. It was obvious that the laird of Brodie prided himself on tidy garderobes. Fresh herbs and dried petals were scattered amid the hay piled inside the chamber—medieval toilet paper.
She resolved not only to bathe Eirren the next time she saw him but to dunk him a time or two as well for all those miserable chamber-pot moments.
Slipping from the small room, she was surprised to encounter Armand Berard loitering in the corridor.
“Milady, are you enjoying the festivities?”
“Yes, I am.” Her feet were still tapping from the cheery music and she was eager to return and perfect her steps. But she hadn’t seen Armand for over a month and had rather missed the opportunity to get to know a real live Knight Templar. She frowned, eyeing his somber attire. Circenn had told her the Templars would stay in their garrison and not join the revelry. “I thought your Order did not hold with feasting such as this.”
He shrugged. “Some of my brothers are more rigid than others. A few of us have accepted that the Order is destroyed, bitter though it is to admit that you have pledged your life to something that no longer exists.”
“I’m sorry,” Lisa said, feeling awkward. Before her stood one of the legendary Knights Templars and she couldn’t think of one thing to say to make him feel better. “Are your men hunted, even here in Scotland?” she rushed on. She was intensely curious about the Templars, their legendary powers and myths.
“It depends on who encounters us. If it’s an Englishman, he might try to take us across the border. A Scot is far less inclined to do so. Most of your people care little for the edicts of France, England, or even the Pope.” He uttered a harsh laugh. “Your own king was excommunicated by the Pope for the murder of the Red Comyn in the church at Dumfries. Your land is a wild one. When a country is fighting merely for the right to survive, they are less inclined to be judgmental. Come.”
He offered his arm, and she looped hers through it. Within moments, she was so engrossed in their conversation that she paid no heed to where he was leading her.
She listened, fascinated, while he spoke of the Order, of their residence outside Paris, of their lifelong commitment to their vows. His expression grew bitter as he recounted how the papal bull Pastoralis praeeminentiae, issued on November 22, 1307, had ordered all monarchs of Christendom to arrest the Templars and sequester their lands in the name of the papacy. He skimmed over the persecution, the interrogations, and the torture, unwilling to give such detail to a woman, for which she was grateful. There were some limits to even her curiosity.
He explained how, in 1310, six hundred of their brothers had agreed to mount a defense against the unjust persecution, and Pope Clement had finally agreed to postpone the Council of Vienne for a year while they prepared. Then, Philippe the Fair, desperate to crush the Order and line his coffers before it was too late, circumvented the Pope, reopened his episcopal inquiry, and had fifty-four Templars burned at the stake outside Paris, silencing the remaining Templars’ protests. In 1312, the papal bull Vox in excelso was issued, forever suppressing the Order.
There were many questions she wanted to ask him, and this was a rare opportunity to explore history from a Templar’s perspective, but her first question was patently twenty-first century, brushed by a bit of romanticism.
“What is the secret of the Templars, Armand?” So many rumors abounded: that they had protected the Holy Grail, that the Grail was really the genetic bloodline of Christ, that the Templars had uncovered a personal alchemy for the transformation of the soul, that such alchemy could manipulate time and space. She didn’t really expect him to answer, but since she had her arm through the arm of a Templar, there was no harm in asking.
Armand’s smile made her shiver. “Do you mean what could we possibly possess that would make a king and a Pope fear us so greatly they would use every weapon they had to destroy us? Are you a religious woman, Lisa MacRobertson?”
“A bit,” she conceded.
“What might the Pope and king want from us?”
“Gold?” she guessed. “Religious artifacts?”
His laughter sent a chill up her spine. “Consider this: What if the Templars had discovered something that would tear asunder beliefs that had been held for centuries by nearly every land in the world?”
Now he really had her curiosity going. “You must tell me,” she breathed.
“I didn’t say that we had,” he prevaricated. “I merely postulated the possibility.”
“So, is it true then?” she asked, fascinated. “Does your Order possess such knowledge?”
He didn’t answer. His face was averted, so she didn’t see it contort with rage, hence she was completely unprepared when he grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back, arcing it up between her shoulder blades, forcing her to double over in an effort to escape the pain.
He shoved her against the wall and pressed a knife to her side.
Lisa was so stunned that she made no sound. One moment she was strolling with a perfectly sociable Templar, indulging her incessant curiosity, teetering on the brink of stunning revelations, and the next her life was being threatened. It had happened too swiftly for her to grasp, and, in shock, she had wasted precious seconds during which she might have fought back.
“Give me the key,” Armand growled into her ear. “And if you so much as whimper, I will kill you.”
“The key to what?”
“Circenn’s chambers.”
“I don’t have one!”
“You lying little—” Hooking a thick forearm around her throat, he patted her body, searching for a key ring. “Then it is in your room,” he accused.
“He has never given me one!”
Armand tightened his arm around her throat, cutting into her windpipe. His arm was an unrelenting band of steel, and Lisa felt her air supply being cut off. Her cheek smashed against the stone wall, and she grew dangerously light-headed.
“We can play as rough as you like, lass,” Armand murmured into her hair. “Where is the key?”
Lisa closed her eyes and reached for Circenn.
* * *
Circenn crushed his metal goblet in his hand, spraying half a dozen villagers with wine. He glanced about, his eyes wild.
Lisa.
Danger. Frightened. Can’t breathe.
But where?
He raced up the stairs to the garderobe, feeling for her with his heart, reassuring her he was coming.
Pain.
He cursed the emotional bond by which he could share her feelings but not obtain words or a hint of her location. Where would she have gone? How could she be in danger? Who could possibly wish her ill?
He ranged the corridors like a maddened beast, fighting an urge to bellow for her, aware that that would only alert whoever was threatening her. He paced up the south corridor, then back. Every ounce of his intellect was absorbing her fear, sponging it up, and it was rendering him senseless. He plunged down a hall, then stopped abruptly.
Brash fury would not serve. He must be logical. He should check his room and hers, then other areas she had been inclined to attend. Perhaps the chapel. He pivoted sharply and raced back down the hall. He flew through the castle and into the east wing.
As he neared his chambers he slowed, alerted by a soft murmur and a strangled sound. Drawing to a halt, he slipped stealthily around the corner.
Armand had Lisa pressed up against the wall outside his chambers, his
thick forearm choking her to unconsciousness. Circenn labored to draw slow, silent breaths when his lips begged to roar. She was going limp in the Templar’s arms, giving up the fight as she lost her precious breath.
A flicker of silver flashed in the dim glow from the rushlights mounted on the walls. The Templar had a blade. Circenn didn’t wait to see more. He drew on his unnatural abilities and moved like the wind, stopping behind the Templar, who had no warning that Circenn stood a breath behind his heart.
“The key, you stupid bitch,” Armand muttered. “Don’t pass out on me.” He shook her. “Where does he keep the hallows?”
Circenn’s mouth twisted. So that was what this was about. A rogue Templar, turned on his Order. Armand wasn’t the only knight who’d lost his faith. Circenn had heard of others who, believing that God had abandoned them, had turned mercenary and faithless.
In an instant of blurred space, Circenn disarmed the knight and flung him across the corridor, where he struck the stone wall with a sharp crack of his head. He slumped to the floor. Circenn spared no regret that the attack had been unfair. When in the past he’d suffered guilt over using his enhanced abilities, he now felt grim satisfaction. He towered over the fallen knight and raised his sword for the fatal blow.
“Stop!” Lisa cried.
Circenn’s jaw locked, his face contorted with fury. His arm suspended at eye level, the point angled down, ready for one swift thrust into Armand’s heart. When he plunged down, it would be with such anger that the force would likely shatter his blade against the stone beneath the knight’s back. He spared her a glance, and from her horrified expression he realized that she was feeling his internal landscape: barren, bleak, and murderous. Hot. Hellishly hot. He would never understand—not even should he live to be five thousand—why women consistently protected villains. It was simple in a man’s mind: Kill the man who tries to harm your own. But women made it much more complex. They held out hope that evil could be redeemed. A foolish hope, to his way of thinking.