Читать книгу Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride - Lynna Banning, Lynna Banning - Страница 14

Leonor smiled at her uncle, hoping he would not notice she had again missed a step. Guided by the rhythm of the beaten tabor, she quickly shifted from her left to her right foot and caught up. Keep count! she reminded herself. If she could not think clearly, at least she could keep track of the beats.

But she found herself ignoring both the pattern of the steps and her uncle’s rambling conversation as her gaze roamed about the hall. Servants scurried in and out of the kitchen; ladies on the sidelines, gowned in gay silks and sarsenet, nodded their heads together as they gossiped. Her uncle’s knights and the nobles of his court, dressed in richly embroidered tunics, argued about horses and tournaments.

And then there was Reynaud. Tall and dark-haired, he stood near the wall, his raised foot resting on a bench, talking with Aunt Alais and another lady garbed in grey silk. A wine cup rested in his hand. As she watched, he raised it to his lips.

Over the coiffed heads of the two women his eyes scanned the hall as if casually viewing his surroundings. In the next moment his glance locked with hers, and her heart stopped. He had been searching for her!

‘My dear niece, you are counting under your breath,’ her uncle whispered.

‘Your pardon, Uncle.’ She closed her eyes to shut out Reynaud’s penetrating gaze from across the hall, struggled to concentrate on the count’s continuing tale of a ship bound for Cyprus. When she opened her lids again, Reynaud had disappeared.

Just as suddenly he appeared at her side, his sea-green eyes burning. Without a word, he disengaged her hand from her uncle’s and took his place beside her.

‘That’s the way, my boy.’ Count Henri clapped Reynaud on the back. ‘Claim her, and welcome.’ Chuckling, he headed back to the head table and his wife.

Reynaud’s throat felt thick and hot. ‘My lady?’

‘My lord, I thought you would not dance?’

‘So I thought also.’

Her eyes shone with amusement. ‘And now?’

Now? In truth he could not bear to watch another man—even her uncle—lay his hand on her. Now, for a few stolen moments, he would dance with her. Touch her. Ask her about the message.

He looked down into her eyes and she fell silent until the droning of the rebec ceased and the dance ended. Reynaud lowered their clasped fingers until they stood facing each other, jostled by retreating dancers. Slowly he drew her into the protective shadows of the far wall.

He closed her hand in his and held it down, near his thigh. In silence he twined his fingers in hers and gently tucked her arm behind her back. Unable to help himself, he drew her towards him.

What was he doing?

He had but two choices. He could hold her in his arms, as he ached to do, or he could walk away.

‘Reynaud,’ she said quietly, ‘you are hurting my hand.’ Instantly he disengaged his fingers from hers and slid his hand up to encircle her wrist. ‘Your pardon. Being close to you is…difficult.’

‘Then,’ she questioned gently, ‘why do you not release me?’

He could tell she was smiling, though he could not bring himself to look into her face. He could not answer over the hot ache in his throat. He swallowed hard and tightened his hand about her slim wrist. ‘I fear you are in danger, though you may not be aware of it.’

Her eyes flared. ‘I am aware. I sought it.’

‘Then have a care, Leonor. Trust no one.’

She hesitated half a heartbeat, and a soft light kindled deep within her grey eyes. ‘Not even you, Reynaud?’

He pressed his arm across her back, lowered his head to hers and spoke near her ear. ‘Hear me, Leonor. I fear for you.’ And God help me, I fear for myself when you are near.

‘You need not fear,’ she said with a laugh. ‘You are a Templar. And my cousin. I would trust you with my life.’

‘Then,’ he whispered, ‘you are indeed foolish.’

Her smile faded. ‘Ah, no. I think not,’ she said quietly. ‘You are the friend of my childhood, Rey. I know you disapprove of what I do, but you are still my friend, are you not?’

‘I am that,’ he said, his voice rough with emotion. As a Templar, he could never be more than her friend. He opened his lips to ask about the words of her song, but Henri appeared and whisked her off again. He waited an hour, but she did not return.

At supper the next evening Reynaud sat curling his finger around the base of his wine cup until his knuckles ached. Another of Count Henri’s snail-paced evening meals, and still Leonor had not made an appearance. He had glimpsed her earlier in the day, walking in the south garden with Benjamin, their heads bent together. He wondered what they had been discussing so intently. He had tried to find her that afternoon, to no avail. If she were indeed the messenger from his Grand Master, he would need to find out from her where he was to deliver his Templar gold.

Why was she not present at the evening meal?

Benjamin was also nowhere to be seen. That did not surprise him; except in Granada, few Jews, even respected scholars, mingled with the dinner guests in a Christian household. But neither was Benjamin’s bony black-robed form visible in the assortment of servants, pages and peasants crowding against the far wall, waiting for the leavings of gravy-sopped bread and meat scraps.

The words of the conversation on either side of him buzzed in his head like swarming bees. Benjamin could take care of himself, could make himself inconspicuous as an ant if need be. But Leonor?

Never. She was far too noticeable with that mass of black hair and those large grey eyes. The scent of her hair, sweet roses with a hint of sandalwood, tormented him. He inhaled slowly, struggling to still the hammering of his heart.

‘What say you, Templar?’ the count shouted over the clank of cups and the din of laughter. ‘Can the Christian Reconquista succeed against the infidel in Spain?’

Reynaud unclenched his fingers and took a deep swallow of his wine before answering. ‘Your son Bernard yet fights against the Saracen. Have you never wondered why?’

The count leaned towards him. ‘My son is a Hospitaller. Wherever he is, he will not rest until the infidel is vanquished, in both the Holy Land and in Spain.’

‘God’s mercy on you, then, Henri, for he will be absent from you for a long time. It will not be a simple victory in Jerusalem or in Spain.’

The count’s bushy grey eyebrows arched upwards. ‘Oh?’

Reynaud directed his gaze straight into the older man’s hazel eyes. ‘It is an easy matter to take a castle, even an entire city. It is not so easy to reconquer a people. Spain has been home to both Christian and Saracen ever since the Arabs wrested the land from the Roman Goths four hundred years ago.’

‘You do not hate them, the Saracen?’

‘A few, aye. Most, I respect. Some—my uncle Hassam in Granada for one—I hold dear.’

Just then Leonor appeared in the doorway, clothed in a silk gown the colour of sapphires, the wide crimson-lined sleeves brushing the floor at her feet. A lanky squire at her side carried her harp. She looked like a queen. A suffocating warmth filled his chest and he struggled to control his ragged breathing. Even if he could steel himself to look upon her, he was not sure he could bear to hear her sing again.

But if she was in fact the agent he was to meet, he must identify himself to her tonight.

Across the hall their gazes met and held, and in her soft grey eyes he read a question. Under his surcoat his heart jumped erratically. What question?

She glided to the centre of the hall, the squire trailing behind, then lifted the carved instrument from the boy’s hands and sent him a smile of gratitude. Conversation in the hall faded to a hush.

Blushing crimson, the youth backed into a seated knight, nearly overbalancing them both. The knight righted the stammering squire and clapped him on the back. ‘In love now, are you, Galeran? Well, perhaps it’s time. Might as well learn about heartbreak when you’re young.’

Leonor waited until the squire had fled and the guffaws died down, then seated herself, detached her tuning key from the gold chain at her waist, and bent her head over the strings. She plucked softly, and when she was satisfied, she set the harp aside and rose to make a polite reverence to Lady Alais and Count Henri.

Again her glance locked with Reynaud’s. Against his will, he held her eyes until his skittering pulse sounded in his ears. At last, she sent him a slow smile, and his senses exploded.

His body burned with longing, and he closed his eyes to control the tightness in his loins. In all his thirty-two years he had never seen such a beautiful woman. Poor Galeran. He knew exactly how the youth suffered.

She began her song and Reynaud gulped a mouthful of wine. If she was the agent sent to meet him, she would again sing of the silver swan. And if she did, he must find a way to answer with the second half of the coded message.

He motioned to the wine server to refill his cup. Mesmerised, he watched Leonor’s slim form move subtly with the music, drinking in every nuance in her voice, the rich poetry of the verse.

She began a second verse. Her voice floated over the melody echoed by the harp, and suddenly the words smacked into his brain. Know you the silver swan?

He sucked in his breath.

Over the edge of his wine cup he glimpsed a movement at the back of the hall. A black-cloaked figure stopped, then crept forwards again, advancing step by step like a cat. Closer, now. A few arm-lengths more and he would be able to make out the man’s features hidden under the loose hood.

The stranger’s hard blue eyes studied the throng of listeners, then peered at Leonor. She drew the song to a close and raised her head expectantly, her hands poised over the harp strings.

An odd silence descended over the hall. No one moved. No one so much as coughed or cleared his throat. The silence stretched until the humming in his brain set his teeth on edge.

It must be now. Answer with the correct response. He should have spoken before, but he could not bring himself to believe Leonor was involved. Now, hearing the words for the second time in two nights, there was no mistaking it.

Still, he hesitated.

He must speak. As soon as she delivered the message to him, her task would be complete and she would be safe. Then he could leave Moyanne, leave Leonor in the protection of her uncle, and ride away from the sweet torture he endured every minute he was in her presence. Every league he put between them drew the danger away from her.

He opened his mouth, but before he could get a word out, a gruff voice spoke from the shadows.

‘The silver swan, lady? It sings but once, then dies.’

Reynaud froze, an icy hand clamping his spine. That was the correct response. But who…?

Leonor sat without moving, her eyes on the stranger. A pulse throbbed at her throat.