To Tempt a Knight (7 page)

And William. The thought brought a flutter to her chest. She frowned and gripped the casing all the harder. This was not the time to worry about such strange reactions. Siobhan straightened. She would have to focus more diligently.

She had done harder things in her life than resist the temptation of Sir William Keith. She pursed her lips. Hadn’t she? How many years had she lived in absolute isolation with her father? That had been far more difficult than resisting the temptation of a chaste knight.
With a sigh of frustration, she forced her attention back to the scroll. The man was a monk, for Heaven’s sake.

William left his sickroom and gingerly made his way to the chapel. A need to pray that he had not felt in a long while grew inside, fueling his unsteady steps. He pushed open the heavy wood door and entered the sanctuary. Empty. He was grateful to have the sacred place to himself.

He bent clumsily to his knee, crossed himself, then stood and proceeded to the altar, where he knelt once more. He drew a deep breath, letting the silence of the chamber sink into him. He willed the peace he usually felt in this room to sink inside him. It did not.

Perhaps nothing could help him. Or perhaps the new feelings he’d had since meeting Siobhan were tearing him away from the path he had once followed.

William closed his eyes and bowed his head, again willing that peace to find him as it had four years ago, when he’d taken his vows. At the time he knew he was making the right choice—to dedicate himself to the Templars, to God.

Upon his return from Teba, filled with pain, sorrow, remorse, he’d come back to the chapel desperate for understanding. He’d been spared in that horrible battle. To this day he wondered why. Why had God protected him when he’d allowed so many others to die? His life was no more important than those of the others. Probably less.

He had no blood relatives, at least no one who cared whether he lived or died. He had only his Templar brothers. All the others had mothers, fathers, siblings who’d mourned their loss when William had returned their bodies for burial. That fact had made the pain of his failure
to keep his brothers safe that much worse. Not one soul would have missed him, yet he’d survived.

For what purpose?

He opened his eyes and sought out the crucifix that hung suspended above the altar. “Why?” he whispered. “And why tempt me now with desires I know are at odds with the vows I’ve given you? My vows are all I have left to cling to. My service to you is all I have left.”

He let his words die away into silence, and he prayed once again for that peace to fill him. The only thoughts that filled his mind were of Siobhan, the woman who needed his protection.

A calm came over him. Was that why he’d been saved? Had he been spared—not just from the battle at Teba, but from his uncle’s slaughter as well—for some greater purpose?

William paused, let the thought circle inside him. No great awareness came over him, no dawning moment. He frowned. Why did holy guidance have to be so obscure? At this moment he would prefer booming voices or raining fire—even a burning bush.

With a sigh, he staggered to his feet. He’d have to trust that God would show him the way.

After a final prayer for insight, William turned and left the chapel. He found himself drifting down the corridor of the monk’s dormitory to the room where light spilled from the doorway. Brother Kenneth had given Siobhan William’s old chamber. Leaning against the stone wall for support, he stood in the doorway.

Siobhan sat atop the bed, an oil lamp burning brightly at her side. Deep in thought, she stared down at her father’s scroll. Emotion stirred inside him at the sight of the scroll and—if he was honest with himself—the woman who held it.

Lost to her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed him. He
studied her, curious about the woman who had so easily changed her father’s dreams. Her father had abandoned everything he’d worked so hard to achieve once he’d learned his daughter was headed for the orphan home. Was there something special about this particular girl?

William pressed his lips together. Was she different from other women? The lamplight turned her red hair a burnished gold as it cascaded over her shoulders. Something inside him stirred to life. He tamped the emotion down with an acknowledgment that her pale skin, red-gold hair and delicate frame gave her an ethereal presence.

And regardless of her slight stature, she had challenged him with the swing of a branch. The corner of his mouth rose in a half smile. Perhaps she was a bit unusual, he’d give her that, but unusual enough to change the course of one’s life purpose? He doubted it.

The room itself brought back dark memories of his past. As a young boy, he’d once had a warm and loving home with his mother and father at Stonehyve Castle. Then his uncle Alasdair had murdered his parents in their bed. William had only escaped with the help of his aging nurse, who’d smuggled him out of the keep and into the courtyard and had hidden him in a pile of hay.

Too terrified to fight his uncle’s warriors, he’d stayed huddled inside the dank and musty hay as the sounds of battle raged around him. Men and women of his clan had lain dead, warriors undone by deceit, women who had tried to defend their homes, their families, slain by another bearing the same clan name. When William had climbed free of his prison of hay, even his nurse lay dead for trying to keep him safe.

William shivered, remembering the metallic scent of blood, the spatters of flesh, of bone, of sweat that had covered the ground. He had crept out of hiding, almost
praying for a blade to strike him down so that he could join his clansmen in the afterlife instead of slinking away to carry on without them.

On unsteady legs, he had stumbled to the gate and slipped into the night. Every breath had set his lungs afire as his world collapsed in upon itself. He would die apart from his people.

He didn’t know how far he’d walked or how many days had passed when he collapsed at the edge of a tree grove. He’d lain there, praying for death to claim him, when Brother Kenneth had come along and taken him back to the monastery.

“I’m here with you,” the man he’d named the Reaper had said. “You’ll not be alone in this, I promise, on my honor as a Scot, and as a Templar.”

The Reaper had nursed him back to life and filled his spirit with hope. At the monastery he’d learned writing, reading, mathematics and how to fight with a sword. The monks had become his family. But they could never replace everything he’d lost.

William had accompanied Brother Kenneth on the sacred mission to the Holy Land. Then it had been William’s turn to be the rescuer, pulling the half-dead Reaper from the battlefield and helping him get home safely.

William forced his thoughts back to the present, back to the woman who studied her father’s scroll. Determination shone in her finely sculpted face. Compassion pulsed through him. She knew what it was like to lose everything, just as he had.

He cleared his throat, signaling his presence.

Startled, Siobhan looked up.

“What are you searching for?” he asked, stepping into the room.

“Trying to make some sense of all this,” she said with a touch of frustration.

William gingerly sat down beside her on the bed.

“Are you well enough to walk about?” she asked with a slight frown.

“A few cuts can’t keep us from our goal.”

“Cuts?” Her eyes widened. “Our goal?”

“Nothing has changed.” He reached over, his fingers lingering atop her soft skin. Their eyes met and held. There was something in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. It sent an icy shiver through him. He might say nothing had changed, but something subtle had shifted between them. “We will find the Holy Lance before de la Roche. Your father will be rescued. Fear not.”

“I believe you,” she whispered, her gaze never leaving his.

The reflection of the lamplight shimmered in her eyes. The warmth of the light and the beauty of her face mixed to extraordinary effect. William drew a breath and released it slowly, feeling every one of the new wounds in his flesh.

“Look at this.” She settled the open scroll in his hands. “Do you recognize this symbol?” She pointed to a small sketch at the far-left-hand corner of the papyrus.

He turned his attention to the symbol. “It’s the head of the Spear.”

She nodded. “And this? Do you know what this is?” She pointed to a drawing of two craggy peaks rising above three others.

“The Cairngorm Mountains,” he replied. “The highest peaks in Britain. Stark, bleak, and dangerous territory.”

“The kind of place that might naturally protect a treasure of this significance?” she asked.

“Only one way to find out.” He stood.

She blinked. “Right now? Shouldn’t we let your body heal some before we—”

He put a finger to her lips, then drew her by the hands to a standing position. This close he could smell a hint of heather coming from her hair. He swallowed and took a small step back. “We are going to see Brother Kenneth. He understands the Templar coding system, and if we are lucky, he’ll be able to tell us all that we’ll need to know before we set off for parts unknown.”

He turned back to the cot and lifted the finely woven tartan that served as a covering. Grasping the fabric between his hands, he ripped off a long piece. He took the scroll from her, returned it to its protective casing, then concealed it within the folds of the wool. “’Tis best to keep the scroll hidden. Besides you and me, only Simon and Brother Kenneth should know it exists.”

Siobhan nibbled nervously at her lower lip. “You think the treasure is there, in the Cairngorms?”

He grinned. “Let’s find out.”

She gave him a bemused smile. “You’re excited about this?”

“For the first time in a long while I feel…alive and ready for something new.”

Her smile broadened. “Is that what I’m feeling in the pit of my stomach?”

Her face was alight with laughter, and he found himself caught and held by the sight. He wanted to reach out and touch her cheek, to share that joy, to immerse himself in it.

To do so would be playing with fire. He needed to keep his distance, to stay objective. His life had one purpose now, and that had nothing to do with personal ful-fillment. He couldn’t take the loss of one more person he cared about. He’d had more than enough loss in his life already. Anything more would devour him whole.

He wouldn’t dwell on that. He couldn’t. He clenched his fist and turned away without touching her face. “Come. Brother Kenneth will be in the refectory about now. He’ll have the answers we need.”

At the door of the refectory, Siobhan paused, forcing William to do the same. “What if Brother Kenneth cannot decipher the code?” Siobhan asked, suddenly filled with doubts.

William’s face was pale, but determination shone in his eyes. “Let the man attempt to read the symbols before you start worrying about the future.” He opened the door, then stood back for her to enter.

Siobhan frowned into the semidarkness. He was right. She need not borrow trouble. They already had enough with de la Roche and his troops at their heels.

With a nod, she stepped into the chamber. The savory scents of roasted mutton and onions filled her senses. A bright, cheerful fire illuminated the room, revealing several long tables with benches neatly tucked beneath them. Clean, fresh rushes covered the floor. At the far end of the chamber, Brother Kenneth sat with another man dressed in a monk’s robes. The two were bent over a sheaf of papers. At their approach, both men straightened. Brother Kenneth shuffled the papers to the side, then pressed them into the younger monk’s hands. With a quick bow to Kenneth and to Simon, who was on the opposite side of the room, the monk excused himself and brushed past them without a word in his haste for the door.

William tensed beside her as he watched the man
leave. Brother Kenneth’s voice boomed. “Good evening, milady.” The older monk turned to William with a frown. “Are you well enough to be walking about?”

“I’m quite recovered.” After another swift glance at the door, William guided Siobhan to sit beside Brother Kenneth.

At his touch, her stomach tensed. She found a place on the bench and clutched the tartan-covered scroll in her lap in an effort to settle whatever suddenly ailed her. William sat across the table from her.

Simon came to join them. “You look improved,” he said, seating himself next to Siobhan.

“Brother Kenneth, we need your help,” William said.

The old monk studied the three of them, his face unreadable. “If it takes three of you to ask me, then it must be serious.”

“Deadly serious.” William cast a glance about the room, as though ensuring that only the four of them remained. He nodded to Siobhan. She placed the tartan cloth upon the wooden table, then unwrapped the leather casing. An unnatural stillness fell between them as she removed the scroll and spread it upon the table.

Brother Kenneth sat back, his gaze moving between the scroll and William. “What are you all involved in?” He shook his head. “This is Brother John’s handwriting, his code…”

His words trailed off as his gaze came to rest on Siobhan. He searched her face, his expression dark. “You are his daughter.”

A chill chased up her arms at the mention of her father as Brother John. “I am.”

He drew a sharp breath. “De la Roche is after the scroll. That’s why he attacked you, Brother William and Lady Siobhan.”

William nodded. “De la Roche is after all the Templars
who hide in this country.” William paused before continuing, his expression grave. “He also wants the Holy Lance.”

Brother Kenneth paled. He leaned closer to the scroll. His mouth moved, but at first, no sound came forth. Finally he said, “The Spear of Destiny? Oh, Heaven help us all.”

Siobhan didn’t understand the man’s words or his fear. “What’s wrong?”

Brother Kenneth shook his head. “This is no ordinary spear that de la Roche wants. The Spear descends from the lineage of Adam, forged from a curious metal that came down from the heavens in a flash of bright light. The heavenly metal gives the Spear unique powers that can be used for either good or evil.”

“Did my father ever use the Spear?” she asked cautiously.

The old monk patted the back of her hand where it rested beside the scroll. “Be assured, milady, your father’s role with the Spear was only as its protector.”

A wave of relief washed over her. She still could hardly believe her isolated, introverted father was connected with this band of warrior monks. Had she truly been that blind to the things happening around her? Or had her father just been exceptionally clever at concealing his activities?

Siobhan turned to Brother Kenneth, studying his features. A sense of familiarity came over her. “Did you come to our house to meet with my father in the past?”

The old monk returned her gaze with a soft smile. “When you were a young girl, aye. But it has been many years, and you are much changed from that time. ’Tis why I didn’t recognize you at first glance.”

Siobhan straightened and stared at the scroll. At one corner, there was a drawing of an older man draped in robes with a crown of leaves circling his head, holding a
long spear toward the sky. Her father had drawn all these sketches for a purpose, and he had entrusted them to her. She pointed to the string of letters below the drawing. “What does this say?”

Brother Kenneth leaned toward the scroll. He tapped his finger against the line of letters. “Your father’s usual code was something along the lines of every second letter, then the seventh, every third letter, then the seventh, every fourth letter, then the seventh, over and over again. Let us see what happens when we use that method.”

Slowly he read, ‘Whosoever possesses this Holy Lance and understands the powers it serves, holds in his hands the destiny of the world for good or evil.’

“My father would have wanted the Lance to be used for good,” Siobhan said.

“Agreed,” Simon and William said at the same time.

Siobhan shifted her gaze to the center of the scroll, which looked like a map. “Did my father leave directions for us to find the Holy Lance?”

Brother Kenneth frowned as he studied the text. “‘The mother cradles the Spear of Humanity.’”

“And over here.” Siobhan indicated the light text that appeared more like the ripples in a river than actual words.

The old monk startled. “How did you see that, milady?”

She shrugged. “All of a sudden it just stood out.” The monk narrowed his gaze and pulled the single tallow candle on the table closer to the scroll. After a slight pause, he read, “‘Only with faith and might can one leap the divide to part a mother’s tears.’”

Siobhan frowned. “What does it all mean?”

“A riddle,” William said.

Simon’s gaze darkened. “Why could it not have read, ‘Go here and you’ll find the Spear’?”

William raised an eyebrow. “When has anything to do with the Templars ever been simple and straightforward?”

“Never,” Simon replied, without a hint of humor.

“How do we decipher the meaning?”

William leaned back and grimaced, pained by his wounds. “We go to the Mother’s Cradle and figure it out.”

“Where is that?” Siobhan asked.

William’s gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “There is a cave in the Cairngorms known as the Mother’s Cradle. Seems like as good a place as any to start our search.”

“What if we are wrong?”

“Then we will know it when we find nothing there,”

William said without expression.

“My father—”

“De la Roche will not kill him,” William interrupted. “He needs your father to find the Spear.”

The thought did little to comfort her.

“We’ll leave at first light.” William stood, grimacing as he did.

Siobhan stood as well, noting the lines of tension around William’s mouth and eyes. When had she become so familiar with the expressions on his face? “Are you well enough to travel?”

“We must get to the Spear before de la Roche does. So, aye, I am well enough. Besides, I’ve no wish to see the monks here endangered by de la Roche.” William reached down and curled the scroll up. He placed it in its case, then handed it back to Siobhan. “We leave in the morning.”

Simon stayed seated along with the older monk. “You two find your beds. We will make certain you have all the provisions you need by morning.”

William nodded. He offered Siobhan his arm. “Come, milady.” He guided her out the door and down the long hallway.

Siobhan glanced at the man beside her. “Do you really think we have a chance of finding the treasure in the Cairngorms?”

“We’ll find it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I have to find it.”

“To save my father.”

He didn’t answer.

She stopped walking and turned toward him. “Why are you helping me? The real reason.”

His features hardened. He looked off in the distance, refusing to meet her gaze. “I’ve pledged to you my sword and my life until your father is safe.”

The look on his face told her she would get no further explanation. She didn’t understand why, but the realization hurt her. When she’d first accepted his help, she had done so because she’d had no other choice. She still had little choice but to accept what he offered.

But somehow she had hoped for more.

“I accept your sword, but I will never ask you to give your life for mine. The wounds you suffered today will be your last on my account.”

She strode off alone to her monk’s cell. Inside the room, she dropped down onto the simple cot, setting the scroll between herself and the wall, then stared at the ceiling.

A soft knock sounded on her door.

“Siobhan?” William called softly through the wooden barrier.

“Go away,” she groaned, not wanting to continue any conversation with him whereby she would end up with even more doubts.

The door opened. William stepped inside. His gaze traveled from her tousled hair to the flowing linen of her plain, homespun gown to her half boots. Instead of irritation in his sherry-colored eyes, she saw a fleeting
moment of heat. She was suddenly acutely aware of the confined space. How alone they were.

She sat up, smoothing her skirts down over her legs. “I’d like to be alone.”

“You’re not responsible for my injuries or my pain,” he said in a soft voice. He came forward, then sat on the bed beside her. “That is no burden I wish you to carry.”

She closed her eyes, trying to shut out not the pain of his injuries, but her own loss. It had been easy to forget about the fire and her father while she’d been worried about William. Now that he was safe, her pain returned tenfold. “So much has happened,” she admitted, opening her eyes. His hand rested by her leg.

“Aye.” As though sensing her gaze upon him, he laced his fingers through hers, his grip strong, warm, excruciatingly intimate.

“Why did they burn the house?” she asked. “They had already taken my father.”

“I—don’t know.”

“They wanted me to know they could hurt me, too—take everything away from me unless they got what they wanted.”

His hand tightened on hers. “No one can take away the things that are truly important, Siobhan.”

He understood. She could see it in his expression, feel it in his touch. He knew what it was like to lose everything.

“Tomorrow we head for the Cairngorms. And we
will
find the Spear.”

She swallowed, feeling fragile, vulnerable. “Everything is happening so fast.”

“Change usually does.” The pain they’d shared a moment ago shifted, took on a different tenor as his touch softened. He leisurely rubbed his thumb back and forth across her sensitive flesh. Her pulse accelerated.

She looked up at him, unable to pull her gaze away from those rich amber-colored eyes. She could feel her heart beat faster, her skin warming as the blood quickened in her veins. “It scares me.”

He leaned closer. “I’ll protect you.”

She swallowed. Who would protect her from him?

His lips were mere inches from hers. She could see the pulse drumming in his temple and watched the feathery curve of his dark lashes as they came down to hide his eyes. She caught the faint scent of sandalwood.

She willed herself to breathe slowly, to think of something to say that would end this tension between them.

The warmth of his breath caressed her throat. She began to tremble. The man was a monk, a man of the cloth. What did all of that truly mean? The way he looked at her, touched her…she could almost imagine he cared. But could he? Could he go beyond a look and a touch?

Could she?

Siobhan pulled her hand out of his grasp and brought her fingers to her cheeks to hide the flush she could feel burning there. “I’m safe enough here tonight,” she breathed.

He stood, his lowered lids still veiling his eyes. “Aye, you are safe within these walls.” When he lifted his gaze to hers, his eyes were cool. All evidence of what they’d shared had vanished.

How did he do it? He’d been as aroused as she only moments ago. She had seen the flare of his irises and noted the sudden shift in his breathing. Now he acted as cool as though he’d never touched her. She released a pent-up breath and was grateful for the distance between them. It gave her time to gather her composure. As her heartbeat almost returned to normal, she reached for the scroll.

“Will you sleep tonight?”

She shrugged. How could she sleep, knowing he slept
nearby? “I’m going to study the scroll for a while, see if anything looks familiar to me.”

He nodded, turned, then closed the door behind him.

She hadn’t lied. She was frightened. But suddenly she wasn’t sure what scared her more, the thought of de la Roche finding them or of William’s continued presence by her side. Siobhan stared at the door.

What had passed between them had only been a momentary madness, best forgotten by them both. The man was celibate. Nothing could ever come of her desires.

William had evidently succeeded in forgetting his momentary passion. She must, too.

Lucius Carr hid in the shadows of the hallway outside Lady Siobhan’s chamber. He pressed himself to the wall, trying to disappear into the darkness, as Brother William left the chamber to go into his own across the hall.

As William closed his chamber door, Lucius released his breath. He hadn’t been detected, but he’d heard everything he needed to know. The Spear had to be in the Cairngorms. Why else would they go to those desolate mountains?

Lucius’s heart pounded in his chest, and his skin prickled with a cold sweat. Could he do it? Could he betray his Templar brother? Would his need for revenge justify such deceit?

An explosion of rage and loss consumed him as it had the moment he’d seen Peter’s charred body. He closed his eyes and tried to control the shudders that wracked his body. He would never get that vision out of his mind—Peter strapped to the stake, flames at his feet.