Lynna Banning - Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride

Reynaud rose to escape from the table, but the count turned to him. ‘Stay, man,’ he commanded in an undertone. With a hand heavy as a mace, he pressed Reynaud back into his seat at the linen-covered table.

The clatter of eating knives and drinking cups ceased. Quiet descended over the crowded hall and Reynaud clamped his teeth together. Without discourtesy to his host, he could not escape.

Leonor adjusted the tuning on one peg, idly strummed her slim fingers once, twice across the strings in a seemingly spontaneous melodic pattern. A tune gradually emerged, and then a countermelody bloomed underneath it.

Her long fingers floated over the harp strings, her slender hands like winged birds in motion. Her hair, dark as midnight, fell forwards to obscure her features, and when she brushed it back in the quick, unconscious gesture he remembered, something tore at his gut.

She was seven and twenty now, and she took his breath away!

The last notes of the song resonated off the thick stone walls, and Leonor lifted her head and met his gaze. Beneath the dark, arched brows her smoke-grey eyes sent him a challenging look.

His throat closed.

‘So, my friend.’ Count Henri chuckled. ‘I wager you did not recognise her at first. She is a feast for the eyes, is she not?’

Reynaud sat without moving, unable to speak.

‘My lord?’ Leonor’s low, clear voice at his side jerked him to attention.

‘Since you have lately returned from the land across the sea, is there some music you would hear? The count asks it in your honour.’

Reynaud flicked a glance at Count Henri, who was grinning at him over his wine cup. Damn the man. The count bobbed his head as if to say, Well? Does she not make an exquisite troubadour?

Reynaud swallowed over a lump the size of the juggler’s apple. ‘I do have a request.’ He watched Henri settle his bent form back in his chair, his lips twitching in anticipation.

Leonor’s grey eyes lifted to his. ‘And that is?’

He leaned towards her and lowered his voice. ‘I wish to talk with you. In private.’

Count Henri choked out, ‘Talk?’ He eyed Reynaud in exasperation.

Reynaud nodded. ‘Talk,’ he repeated. He shot the count a swift look. ‘I mean no discourtesy, my lord,’ he murmured. ‘For the moment, might I have your indulgence?’

A frown creased Count Henri’s ruddy forehead. ‘Indulgence?’ In the next instant his eyes brightened. ‘Oh! Yes, I see now. You young cousins would be private, of course! Forgive my slowness.’ He tapped his skull with one beringed finger. ‘My age, you know. Go now, and talk.’

Leonor’s eyes widened. ‘But, Uncle—’

‘Whsst, child. Do as I say. You will be glad for it, I promise you.’ Henri waved her away. ‘Go! Go ! Shoo !’

Leonor reached across the table and patted the old man’s hand. ‘Never before have I been allowed to be private with a man, Uncle. Thank you!’

At Henri’s startled look, Leonor sent him a dazzling smile. ‘I am sure the experience will greatly further my education.’

Reynaud suppressed the laugh that rose in his throat. A man stood little chance against that one.

Leonor beckoned. ‘Will you follow me, my lord?’

In the narrow passageway just off the great hall, Leonor turned to face him. ‘We are private now, my lord. What did you wish?’

His face betrayed no emotion save for an odd tightness about his mouth, but his eyes spoke volumes. They were green as the winter sea, and wary. He reminded her of a falcon her father had once trained—disciplined and powerful. He looked like one who could kill a man in a heartbeat, then fall to his knees and pray for forgiveness.

He stood looking at her while she studied his strained, unsmiling face in silence. Never in her entire life had she wondered so about a man. His features were young, but his eyes looked old. Something about Reynaud drew her like a silver coin to a lodestone.

‘Why do you look so sour?’ she murmured.

‘I have my reasons,’ he said shortly.

‘I would wager you have dark places inside you that few, if any, have plumbed. Rey, I do not wish to be your enemy.’

He took a step forwards. For all the strength of his broad shoulders and length of limb, he was oddly graceful. Would he dance as beautifully as he moved?

A slow, delicious heat crept into her belly. She wanted to touch him. What was she thinking?

She forced herself to look into his face. ‘You wished to speak to me?’

Reynaud fought the impulse to reach out and drag her against his chest. His hands ached to twine his fingers through that silky hair. ‘Leonor, you need not address me as “my lord”.’

‘“My lord” implies no allegiance, only the respect due to a knight of a holy order.’

‘Knight I am. Lord, I am not. I am landless, as you well know. Adrift, as you said before.’

‘Landless, perhaps,’ she said, her voice soft as leaves, ‘but not bereft of prospects, I would think. There is some reason for your presence in Moyanne, is there not? Other than my father’s concern for me, that is.’

Her candour startled him. She looked steadily into his eyes with no hint of artifice. Reynaud had forgotten how direct Leonor could be, even as a child. Then, too, she could hide her thoughts as well as he could.

‘You know I am bastard-born. Brought to Hassam’s house at birth in a basket of woven reeds. Prospects for such as myself are rare as roses in hell.’

She continued to regard him with eyes soft as grey velvet.

‘Still…’ She paused and unconsciously rimmed her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘If it does not displease you, I will yet call you “my lord”.’

Reynaud’s heart stuttered. Displease him! If she only knew. Desire heated his loins. A whiff of her fragrance, jasmine-sweet and faintly musky, reached his nostrils and he shut his eyes to savour the scent. He felt himself grow hard with wanting her.

He twisted away and stared at the stone floor beneath his feet, commanding his body to obey him. He must break the spell she cast, must move away from her. He took a step backward.

‘Stay, Reynaud. I have offended you?’

‘I—no. You offend no one.’ It is I who offends. For a moment he forgot he was a Templar. A warrior-monk, pledged to celibacy.

No, there was more to it than that. Leonor was young and happy. A joyous being, eager for life. He was shackled not only by his vows, but by bitterness and distrust. Being near her cast a shadow on her gaiety, her joy in thinking all was well with the world. He would always drag her down.

Leonor closed the short distance between them and laid her hand on his arm. ‘You wished to talk?’ she reminded a third time.

Ah, yes, talk. ‘Leonor, what are you about, posing as a minstrel in your uncle’s house?’ He spoke roughly.

‘Posing! I am not “posing”, I am performing as a troubadour. There is naught wrong in it. It has been my dream all my life, to travel and play music and see some of the world.’

‘It is dangerous.’

‘Why? Because I am a woman?’

‘Aye.’

‘Why should a woman exist only to be locked away in a prison of some man’s making? A woman is not created only to pleasure a man. A woman is created to be herself.’

Reynaud clenched his fists at his sides. ‘That is laughable.’

‘That is not laughable! I love music, as you well remember. I wish to share it.’

‘You can share it in Granada. In the privacy of your father’s house.’

She propped her small hands on her hips. ‘I wish to travel beyond Granada. I am curious about the world.’

He scowled down at her. ‘You were always curious. I expected you would grow out of it.’

‘Well, I did not,’ she snapped. ‘I am interested in things besides pleasing a man.’