To Tempt a Knight (23 page)

“State your purpose,” a deep voice high above responded.

Her smile slipped as the gatekeeper poked his head from the gatehouse. Beady eyes fixed her with a stare
that even at this distance raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

“I’ve come to see Monsieur de la Roche. I want to exchange the map to the Templar treasure for my father.”

The man disappeared. All remained silent. A moment later he reemerged. “His lieutenant will see you.”

“No,” Siobhan stated boldly. “I shall see de la Roche and no other.”

The man laughed, the sound harsh in the still morning air. “You are hardly in a position to demand anything as you stand there alone. The men of this castle could be upon you in a moment.”

Siobhan set the scroll at her feet, then unsheathed her sword and fingered the flint she had taken from William’s saddlebag. She drew the stone against the blade, sending sparks toward the ground. “I could burn this scroll before you could so much as lower your gate.”

Silence filled the air as he vanished inside the gatehouse once more. After a long moment, chains rattled inside the castle and the groan of gears sounded as the drawbridge came down. It settled against the ground with a thump, and the gates to the castle opened to reveal de la Roche.

Siobhan picked up the scroll and waited until the portcullis had fully risen before she started across the thick wooden structure that provided access into the fortress. With each step, her heart pounded in her chest. She tried to keep her expression neutral as she continued forward.

De la Roche remained where he stood, inside the gate, with the Spear clutched in his hand. A flicker of grudging admiration crossed de la Roche’s face as he studied her. “You are a surprise, my dear.”

“How so?” She had to keep him talking, distract him, until William and the others were ready to proceed.

His thin lips pulled up in a smile. “To have you show
up here, to offer me the scroll, all for the sake of your father’s pitiful life.”

Siobhan drew a slow, steady breath as she allowed the abuse to slide over her. She had to stay in control. “You may have the scroll and the treasure, but first I want to see my father. Bring him to me.”

“Now I understand William Keith’s interest in you. You’re far more daring than one expects. Unfortunately, that interest also makes you one of them. You’ll die like all the others.” His laughter boomed out in the empty bailey.

The empty bailey.
Where were all the warriors? How could William’s men attack if there was no one to attack? A sick feeling centered in her stomach. Had their ruse somehow been discovered? Siobhan forced her breathing to slow and her mind to stay focused.

De la Roche’s smile vanished. “If you want to see your father before you die, you’ll have to come with me.” He reached for the scroll. “I’ll be taking this from you.”

She held the scroll tight. “If I am to die, then kill me now.”

His gaze narrowed. He brought the tip of the Spear to rest against the underside of her neck. “Don’t issue a challenge you aren’t prepared to fulfill.”

Siobhan’s hand tightened on the scroll. Her other hand drifted to her sword. As William had taught her, she drew the sword swiftly and knocked the Spear away from her neck. De la Roche was thrown off balance. He stumbled.

Siobhan shuffled back, placing the length of the Spear between them.

De la Roche roared a deep-throated call to arms.

Out of nowhere, men erupted from within the bailey—from behind walls, towers, across the top of the battlements. They charged Siobhan, their swords raised.

Her breathing stopped. Her heart thundered. She hugged the scroll to her chest like a shield. She prepared for battle, her sword held high. De la Roche glared at her with his pale, eerie eyes. He pulled his arm back, ready to thrust the Spear at her.

A single shout of challenge rent the air. Footsteps sounded behind her.

Siobhan dared not take her gaze from her foe as they charged forward. One warrior bore down on her and hit Siobhan hard. She absorbed the strike with her own sword. Before she could complete her parry, the man flew backward with a slash to his chest.

William.

She could feel his presence at her back. “Well done,
ma chérie
.” Savage satisfaction tore through Siobhan at the sound of his voice.

At William’s command, the Templars surged forward from the hidden depths of the trenches they had dug the night before. On foot, they charged through the open gates, once again proudly wearing their Templar tunics. They surged through the bailey like blood-flecked waves of the sea.

William led the charge as he struck one man’s sword, then another’s, taking them both down in a single hit. The battle raged around him. His men were holding their own against de la Roche’s and his uncle’s forces. He slashed, severed an arm, stabbed a thigh.

Simon charged forward, his sword ever in motion. “Glad to see we’ve not forgotten how to fight.” He ducked as a blade aimed at his head hacked down in an arc. The blade missed. Simon brought down the attacker instead.

“Aye,” William agreed. His eyes were on one target: Siobhan. He threw himself against the ground, rolled and came up instantly to pierce the man who charged her. The man stumbled backward and collapsed, undone.

The screech and clangor of steel, along with noisy grunts of exertion, filled the bailey. De la Roche charged William. Spear down, he thundered forward. “I’ll kill you and have your head on a pike, Templar. I’ll burn what’s left of you later.”

William braced himself for impact. De la Roche wouldn’t triumph. Not this time.

De la Roche struck. William twisted to the left, sending de la Roche behind him. Two warriors charged William. He caught one in the stomach with his foot and plunged his sword through the chest of the other.

On the offensive now, William forced de la Roche back. Anticipation flared in his belly as fear entered the Frenchman’s eyes. De la Roche stepped back, hesitating. William pressed forward. A stroke of his sword took the blade from the Frenchman’s hand. A second stroke caught the man in the chest and sent him flying backward against the ground. He lay there stunned or hurt. William wasn’t sure which.

From out of nowhere, another swordsman appeared. This warrior was older, with gray hair and a full beard. “Damn you for interfering,” a familiar voice called out.

William hesitated. The sword before him came down and caught him in the chest. His mail held, but the impact stole his breath for a heartbeat. His gaze locked on his attacker’s face. Those gray eyes were so familiar, so like his father’s had been.

His uncle. Alasdair Keith.

They faced each other. Thrust. Parry. Engaging each other, counterthrusting without a break in their strides or in the rhythm of their movements. Out of the corner of his eye, William could see that de la Roche still remained on the ground.

William lunged, caught his uncle in the thigh. The man stumbled, went to one knee. Dropped his sword.
Empty-handed, he stared up with a mixture of anger and fear in his eyes. “Why come back now?”

“I would never have returned had it not been for your helping de la Roche.”

His uncle remained on his knees, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

“Why did you kill them?” William nicked the flesh at his throat. Fear pervaded his uncle’s tired, watery eyes.

Alasdair stared into the face of death, and he knew it. “I wanted what your father had.” His mouth twisted. “This castle, your mother. But they chose death instead of surrender.”

William clenched his jaw as he cast yet another quick glance at de la Roche, who struggled to sit up as he caught his breath. “Why help de la Roche?”

A warrior charged William. He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. His gaze never left his uncle’s as he pierced the man clear through, then kicked his body aside.

“Why?” the word was as hard as his gaze.

“I needed you out of the way.” His uncle shrugged. “’Tis not complicated.”

Not complicated? Hope, betrayal, fear, anger mixed in caustic turmoil through his chest. Should he take this life? The murderer of his family? His own uncle? A man who clearly held no affection for him?

If he did, would that make him the same kind of savage that his uncle and de la Roche had become?

His uncle laughed. “You’ve got no backbone, boy! Your conscience will be the end of you, mark my words.”

William clutched the hilt of his sword. Pain radiated through his grip. His breath ran harsh in his throat. He was different from these men. He couldn’t kill just to solve a problem.

A scream tore William’s attention from his uncle.

Siobhan. She fought against two men. From the look on her face and the angle of her sword, he could see fatigue setting in. He had to help her. William turned back to his uncle.

The man had retrieved his sword. “You’re a fool,” his uncle ground out.

William spun. Too late. The blade cut into his forearm, yet he managed to hold on to his sword. Drawing on every fiber of strength he possessed, he hurled himself forward.

He caught his uncle by the shoulders, and together they slammed into the rocky ground. William’s arm bled as they rolled together, each trying to gain the advantage.

“You should have killed me when you had the chance, boy,” his uncle roared. The older man rolled with him until they came up against the bailey wall, trapping William momentarily.

Seeing his opening, his uncle raised his sword high into the air.

William rolled to the side, missing the blow by a hairsbreadth. The blade clanged against the rocky ground, sending sparks flying. William gripped his sword, surged to his feet, and in a downward lunge canted the blade forward until it bit into the flesh of his uncle’s outer thigh.

His uncle screamed as hot blood spurted from a severed artery. Fired with the need to reach Siobhan, William grasped the dagger from his boot and thrust it deeply into his uncle’s chest.

Alasdair slumped forward, his gaze fixed on William’s, then on the handle of the blade protruding from his chest. His hands clawed upward and curled around William’s throat, but there was no strength left there to do more than mark the skin with bloody smears.

William supported his uncle’s weight in his arms as
the life drained from him. “I knew…I couldn’t keep…what wasn’t…mine.” With a soft rasp of breath, he went limp. William lowered him to the ground. He would grieve later for what he’d done.

Siobhan needed him.

Frantically he fought his way to her side, tossing warriors out of the way. He reached her. Two swipes of his sword later, the men who’d challenged her fell to the ground.

Off to the side of the most vigorous fighting, Siobhan sagged with relief at the sight of him, then tensed as she saw his arm. Without hesitation, she set the scroll on the ground and reached for her hem. Using Excalibur, she sliced off a length of her new velvet gown and tied it around his wound.

“My thanks,” he said as he scanned the battleground. Blood turned the bailey into a bog as de la Roche’s troops collapsed. Flesh was torn, bones shattered, men died.

But William and his men lived. These men were no match for the young and powerful fighters trained to fight the Saracens. Even his uncle’s men, some of them Scottish, had been shredded with deadly efficiency.

Some of Alasdair’s men had noticed his body upon the ground and had abandoned the fight. They ran for the open gate. Other’s shouted with triumph at the death of their lord. Cries of “Justice has been served!” filled the bailey as the castle residents who had once attended his parents turned their allegiance to William.

Harver Cates, the man who had once been his father’s steward, led the charge, and the huntsmen, the knights and the archers followed suit. Warmth flared in William’s chest at the sign of devotion to his parents. With the Templars and the castle’s residents fighting de la Roche’s troops, the battle would soon be at an end.

William took Siobhan’s hand. “We must find your fa
ther.” He led her in the direction de la Roche had disappeared. Together, they raced up the stairs to the keep’s entrance.

“Follow me,” William said, recalling from his youth the layout of the castle. The dungeon lay low in the northern reaches of the castle. He hurried through the empty great hall and down the north corridor. The castle’s staff huddled into the rooms as they passed, trying to stay out of harm’s way as the battle raged outside.

Much had changed in the castle since William had left. His mother’s tapestries had faded, or hung in tatters from their mountings. The wood panels were dingy and dull. The rushes on the floor reeked of decay.

A surge of emotion burned in his chest as memories both good and bad assailed him. He clenched his jaw, forcing the emotions back. He couldn’t give in to thoughts of the past. It was the future that mattered now.

When they came to the end of the hallway, he guided Siobhan down the stairs. Halfway down, he grabbed a torch from an iron holder. Two more turns of the staircase and they arrived at the door of the dungeon.

A howl of pain crept past the closed door. William grasped the latch and threw the door open. His heart plunged at the satisfied grin on de la Roche’s face.

Sir John Fraser hung by his bound hands from a hook in the ceiling. His body dangled limply, his head lolled against his chest. He gasped for breath—still alive, but just barely.

“You’re too late,” de la Roche sneered as he pulled the bloody Spear free of Sir John’s side.

Siobhan rushed toward her father’s abused body, her heart in her throat, only to pause a moment later as the Spear turned in her direction.

“Want to join him?” de la Roche taunted, his lips pulling back in a feral grin.

Her father’s eyes drifted open. Their gazes connected. “Siobhan. My dearest.”

“Father.” The word emerged raw, agonized.

William started forward, his sword drawn, but as the Spear pointed at his chest, he stopped. “What purpose does his death serve?”

De la Roche laughed. The sound echoed in the dank and desolate chamber. “It will motivate you to hand over that scroll. I don’t need him or the girl if I have that scroll.” His gaze shifted back to Siobhan. “Give me what I want, or you’ll all die by the Spear.”

Siobhan held the scroll in front of her. She threw the protective leather casing aside and let the open scroll flutter to the ground at her feet. “Hand over my father,” she said in a steady voice. “Or there will be no scroll.” She stepped back and plucked the torch from William’s hand. She held the torch over the papyrus.

De la Roche’s eyes narrowed on her. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” She dropped the torch. The paper caught. Greedy flames lapped at the dry papyrus.

“Stop!” de la Roche shouted, thrusting the Spear at William. In a blink of an eye, William dropped his sword and clasped the Spear’s bloody head between his two bare hands.

“I’m invincible with the Spear,” de la Roche roared.

William held tight, twisting the blade with sheer brute strength. How would the Spear interpret ownership now, with two men vying for it? For a long moment the two men stood face-to-face, eye to eye, the muscles of their arms bulging in their battle for control.

“No man is invincible, regardless of his weapon.” Sweat broke out on William’s brow as the struggle continued.

Siobhan tensed. She had to help. Her fingers drifted to the hilt of her sword. She pulled the weapon and sent it forward into de la Roche’s gut.

De la Roche gasped. He released his grip on the Spear. William twisted it free, the Spear now in his possession.

De la Roche jerked backward, freeing himself from the blade. His hand pressed against his wound. Blood seeped from between his fingers. In the next instant, he shot forward. “You can’t kill me!”

Siobhan brought her sword up to strike once more, but de la Roche was faster. He knocked Excalibur from her grasp. The weapon tumbled to the dirt with a thump. She shrieked as his hand clamped tight around her throat. She kicked out, trying to break his grasp, struggling for air.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw William toss the Spear to the corner of the chamber and charge toward them. He grasped Siobhan’s shoulders, effectively knocking de la Roche aside without sending Siobhan to the ground as well.

Siobhan caught her balance, then moved to the burning pages. She grasped the hem of her gown out of the
way, then tapped at the flames with her booted feet, smothering the flames.

William charged the Frenchman. “It’s time to end this.”

De la Roche bolted for the door.

His hand on his sword, William hesitated. His gaze shot to Siobhan’s.

“Go,” she called, waving him on. “I can take care of my father and the Spear.”

William disappeared.

Siobhan stepped over the ash that used to be the scroll to her father’s side. Blood seeped from his wound into a pool beneath his feet. On a surge of anger at what de la Roche had done, she retrieved her sword and severed the ropes that bound his wrists together. Siobhan tossed her sword down and grasped his body as he sagged against her. She nearly tumbled beneath his weight, but managed to keep from falling and set him gently upon the soft earth.

“Father,” she whispered as she knelt beside him, stroking the matted strands of gray hair away from his brow. When he didn’t respond, her heart missed a beat. Were they too late? Her shoulders doubled over under the weight of her grief. A single sob escaped her lips.

“Don’t…cry.” The brittle sound of her father’s voice caused her heart to soar.

“Father.”

His head turned to the sound of her voice. His eyes were slits he struggled to open. “Shouldn’t…have…come.”

“Hush,” Siobhan murmured as she grasped the hem of her dress, ripping off another large portion. She balled it up and pressed it against her father’s side.

He flinched, and brought a trembling hand up to rest
atop hers. Their fingers grew red with blood. New tears sprang to Siobhan’s eyes at the sight of his bloody, mangled and smashed fingers.

“What have they done to you?” she whispered as she shifted her knees under his head. Her arms wrapped around him.

Her father stirred in her arms.

“What can I do? How can I save you?” Her gaze moved to the Spear. She released her grip on her father long enough to grasp the weapon to her side before tightening her arms around him again.

“If this Spear holds any kind of blessing, I pray that it work now.” She clenched her fingers around the shaft. “My father did everything in his power to protect you for years. Please, I beg you not to let him die like this.”

Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, falling onto her father’s face, mixing with the smears of dirt and dried blood upon his cheeks.

“You found…the treasure.”

“Yes, just where your map indicated.”

He patted her hand. “Smart girl.” He drew a long, ragged breath. “Siobhan, I need…to tell…you.” His voice faded as he struggled for another breath.

She brought her fingers up to caress his face. The jaw that had seemed so strong to her all her life now trembled and looked too pale.

His eyes opened. He glanced into her eyes, his gaze tender and wise. “I will…always…love you.”

She smiled down at him, forcing her tears to stop. “I love you, too.”

“Must…go.” He coughed, blood splattering from his mouth onto his chin.

She tried to hold back her tears. “Nay,” she pleaded, smoothing his cheek. “Stay with me.”

“Be…happy. Do not…blame the Spear.” He coughed again and struggled for each breath of air that filled his lungs.

“Don’t talk. I’ll send for help. We can help you,” she pleaded.

He shook his head slowly. “The Spear…thirsts for blood.” His breathing slowed. His body sagged in her arms. “Keep it…from…others like…him.”

“Father.” Her voice was raw with pain. “Stay with me.”

“Must go.” He squeezed her fingers. “Not afraid.” His eyes closed and his head lolled to the side, his last breath rattling out.

Siobhan’s heart stumbled. She drew a ragged breath, then another. Tears spilled past her lashes. She shut her eyes against a rising tide of grief.

He was dead.

The Spear had not saved him. It had ended his life instead. William broke into a run, taking the stairs two at a time.

He had to stop de la Roche. If the man escaped, the danger to Siobhan would continue. Even if the Templar treasure was moved, de la Roche would not know that. He would always pursue the two of them, a Templar and a keeper of Templar secrets.

The two of them would never have a moment’s peace.

William ran faster. He raced down the hallway, through the great hall and out of the keep. In the courtyard William came to a stop. His gaze passed over the bailey. No sign of de la Roche, but the battle had ended. Only his men, dressed in their Templar tunics, stirred in the aftermath of the battle as they separated the wounded from the dead.

At the sight of him, Simon hurried to William’s side. “Where’s de la Roche?”

“He has to be here. I chased him from the dungeon.”

Simon shook his head. “The men and I would have seen him.” With fingers to his lips, he sent up a shrill whistle, signaling a dozen men to join the two of them.

“What would you have us do?” Simon asked.

William started barking orders. To the men closest to him, he said, “The two of you, close the gates.” He motioned to the men on his right. “You go in pairs to search the castle. The rest of you, continue to assist the wounded.”

They sprang into action, executing his commands. William remained where he stood, his body stiff with tension, every nerve stretched. He would find de la Roche. If he had to search the entire country for the man, he would do just that.

“De la Roche!” William’s voice rose, filled the bailey, echoed off the stone walls. If de la Roche was not out here, that meant he’d never left the castle. William startled as a thought struck him. Instead of exiting the stairwell on the main floor, what if the man had kept on going?

His gaze shot upward to the closest tower. That had to be where he’d gone. Without explanation to Simon, he raced inside the castle, up the back stairwell, and erupted onto the tower’s roof walk.

“Hello, Templar. I knew you’d be the one to find me.” De la Roche stood halfway across the rooftop with his back to the crenellations. The wind whipped across the top of the castle, ruffling the Frenchman’s graying hair against the collar of his bloodied doublet.

“You’ve lost, de la Roche,” William said, his tone even, steady. “You’ve lost everything.”

“Nonsense. Nothing has changed. I’ve more men who’ll join me. The Spear will be mine again. And the treasure,” de la Roche laughed. “You can’t keep that from me either.” He took two steps backward. “Soon I’ll have everything I ever wanted.”

“You’re through. The treasure is safe from you and the world.” William walked slowly toward him, his hand on his sword.

“You can’t defeat me,” the Frenchman scoffed.

“Look around you.” William’s hand encompassed the view for miles, as well as the bailey below. “There’s no one here to help you. My men will have you surrounded if you try to leave by way of the stairs. Surrender. Things will go easier for you if you do.”

Anger blazed across de la Roche’s features a moment before he drew his sword and slashed at William’s chest.

William jerked back out of harm’s way.

De la Roche twisted toward the crenellations.

Finding his balance again, William ran after him.

The Frenchman dashed across the tower toward the openings in the crenellation.

William refused to let de la Roche get away. He grasped the Frenchman’s shoulder just as he made to jump up on the waist-high opening.

De la Roche snarled. He turned and struck out with the hilt of his sword, hitting William in the chest and at the same time kneeing the knight in the groin.

Agony and pain shot through William. He staggered back as his chain mail absorbed the blow to his chest.

De la Roche jumped up onto the crenellated wall.

Forcing the pain back, William sucked in a breath and lunged for de la Roche as he jumped into the nothingness that existed beyond the battlement.

William slammed against the side of the stone, his gaze following the Frenchman.

De la Roche hurtled over the edge, toward the dark, murky waters below.

A cry of frustration was rent from William’s lips. He couldn’t follow the man over the side, not if he wanted to live.

De la Roche hit the moat with a splash.

William’s fingers bit into the stone wall as he searched the depths of the moat for some sign of de la Roche’s body. Had he survived the fall?

Nothing surfaced. William thrust away from the wall and dashed down the stairs. His shouts roused the men to his side. He ordered the portcullis to lift, explaining what had happened as they waited for an opening large enough to squeeze through.

The men followed William to the moat’s edge. “We’ll conduct a search. I won’t be satisfied until we’ve retrieve his body, dead or alive,” he said, desperately searching the silent, murky waters of the moat.

“Is there any way he could have survived that fall?” Simon asked from beside him. His gaze shot up to the tower overhead. “That’s a big drop.”

William shrugged, still staring at the waters. He should be feeling satisfaction. Most likely de la Roche was dead. Justice had been served. And yet a part of him refused to believe without the proof of de la Roche’s crumpled body. “Ask the men to be thorough. That is all we can do.”

Simon’s gaze shifted from the water to William. “Your uncle is dead.”

“I killed him myself.”

Simon’s only response was to raise an eyebrow. “That must have brought you some sense of peace.”

“Nay,” William said sharply. “I’ll grieve his death, but not the evil that led to it.”

Simon nodded, shifting his gaze to the men dredging the waters of the moat with long poles and nets. “What
will you do now? As leader of the Keith clan, this castle is yours.”

William frowned, suddenly unsure of everything in his life. For the first time he had options. He could resign as a Templar and take over the leadership of Stonehyve Castle. He could stay with the Templars and help relocate the treasure. He could continue to search for de la Roche if no body was found. Or he could spend the rest of his days in Siobhan’s arms, making certain that no harm came to her and their future children. He wanted a life with Siobhan. He wanted to keep her safe. Forever.

He allowed the words to sweep over him with their sweet shattering power.
I love Siobhan.

He inhaled a sharp breath, feeling suddenly renewed. He had to tell her. He had to ask her to spend every day with him for the rest of their lives. “Take care of things here. I need to return to Siobhan.”

He hurried back through the castle gates, through the bailey, into the keep and down the stairs leading to the dungeon. His steps were fueled by thoughts of the last several days. He would trade not a second in her arms, not one word spoken between them, not the passion they shared, not one of her smiles for anything else in the world.

He loved her.

A part of his soul had died along with his parents, and half his heart had died on that battlefield in Spain with his Templar brothers—and then she’d entered his life. Something new had grown inside him, something he no longer wanted to turn away from.

He was no longer afraid.