“Beware, lady,” he said with mock gravity, “lest I be coaxed into taming your wayward nature with my own lascivious methods. It would only take a touch or two to begin bringing you into control again. Aye, a slight caress here, perhaps”—he brushed his fingers over the tip of one of her breasts—“or better yet, right here.” This time he stroked his hand down her belly to tickle the soft curls between her legs, prompting her to squeal and twist away, laughing.
“You see? I already have you leaping to my commands,” he teased, though the laughter ebbed from his voice as she caught his hand in her own, raising it to her lips to press a soft kiss to his fingers. A throb of emotion rocked through him then, choking off any further words as he met her gaze.
“I love you, Damien.”
Alissende spoke softly, the sincerity of those words clear in her expressive eyes as she lay next to him, so beautiful and trusting. His heart swelled, the longing to tell her how he felt rising up until he knew he could suppress it no more. That the world and fate seemed aligned against them did not mean he must keep silent about what was at work inside of him right now. About what she had wrought in him with the sweetness of her love…
“Alissende, there is something I need to—”
“My lord! I beg pardon, Sir Damien, but I must speak with you!”
The voice rang out from the edge of the clearing. It was Thomas, and there was a kind of urgency in his tone that set Damien’s instincts on alert. He called for his squire to wait, even as he sat up and rolled swiftly off the blanket, murmuring to Alissende to dress quickly.
After donning the fresh breeches and shirt that he’d retrieved from the basket, Damien slipped on his boots, and after a glance back to ensure that Alissende had had time to pull her clothing back on in some semblance of order, he called out to Thomas to approach. The lad did, but he was accompanied by Reginald, who appeared distraught or, at the very least, nervous.
“Reginald—what is the matter, man?”
“Many pardons, my lord.” Reginald looked ill at ease with his mission. “I came seeking you at the insistence of a visitor to court who demands to see you.”
“A visitor?” Damien echoed, frowning. “Who is it?”
“A large man, my lord—a knight, near as broad and as tall as you. He approached me in stealth back at the stables, saying he did not wish to attract undue notice.” Reginald made a sound of irritation. “Though he asked me several questions about you, he would not give me his name, but instead handed me this, telling me to bring it to you immediately, and saying you would meet with him when you saw what it held.”
At that Reginald held out a small leather satchel, knotted at the top. Damien felt a twinge of some latent memory upon looking at it but nothing definite enough to give him an answer to this mystery. Taking the purse from his guardsman, he untied its top and eased it open, looking inside and seeing naught but what appeared to be a piece of white cloth, folded several times.
But as he pulled it out and unfolded it to look at the insignia displayed there, the faint jangling inside him rose to a clangor. He looked back at Alissende, and the strain of this unexpected development showed in her expression as well. Gritting his teeth, he clenched his fist and flicked his stare back to Reginald’s suddenly pasty face before barking an order for him to return to the castle grounds, find the visitor, and meet them back at the tent without delay.
As Reginald and Thomas left to do as they were bid, Damien opened his hand once more, staring at the rectangle of cloth that had sent a less-than-pleasant sensation lurching through him. A breeze swept through the glade, then, stirring the leaves on the trees with a rustling sound, and lifting the edge of the fabric. On it was a design he had seen many, many times before—a symbol that over the course of years had become as familiar to him as his own hands, in fact.
For resting in his grip was a rectangle of white linen, its surface embroidered with a distinctive, eight-tippedcrosspattee. It was the emblem of a Brotherhood under siege, of an Order decimated by the power of the French Inquisition…
It was the crimson cross of a Templar Knight.
Chapter 19
Alissende waited with Damien in their tent for his visitor to be brought to them, trying to quell the confusion of her emotions in the tense silence that surrounded them. She had changed into a fresh gown and she sat as if composed, but every now and again she still experienced the rippling quakes deep inside that were the lingering effects of the powerful lovemaking she had shared with him.
Briefly she closed her eyes, reliving those beautiful moments in her memory. Reginald’s interruption could not have come at a more difficult time, just when Damien had been about to tell her something important. Something about them, she was sure of it. How could it be otherwise, when they had just made love in a way so moving that it had made her nearly weep?
And heaven help her, but she had told him she loved him.
He had not answered her in kind. Nay, instead those old shadows had sifted back into his eyes, and that realization made the lump in her throat swell even tighter. Yet whatever they might have discussed would need to wait, now, until they’d dealt with this new crisis.
It promised danger for Damien, she feared, regardless of aught else, for the Templars in England had been placed under arrest eight months ago by order of King Edward; he had issued the mandate unwillingly, it was true, under pressure from his father-in-law, France’s King Philip the Fair, as well as the directive of the pope, but it was in effect nonetheless.
Because of it, any Templar found within England’s borders was to be arrested and confined for questioning. According to gossip, the interrogations were less brutal than those employed by the French Inquisition, but they could go on for years. If Damien’s visitor was a Templar, he would need to possess one of the very rare Writs of Absolution like the one Michael had forged for Damien, or else risk capture with every moment spent in the open.
They would know soon enough.
As if in answer to her anxious thoughts, a commotion near the tent flap caused Damien to stride forward, and Alissende lurched to her feet. Soon a stranger ducked into the tent, and Alissende watched Damien stiffen in shock.
“Richard?”
The man looked equally startled—and relieved as well—to see Damien. He was just as Reginald had described: tall and strong, a few years older than Damien, perhaps, and with dark hair, but clearly a man built for battle. Aye, he seemed a powerful knight, and one whose expression shifted to a look of pure joy just before he crossed the remaining distance between them to grab Damien and pull him into a back-breaking hug.
“Itisyou, man! By all the angels and saints, I had feared you dead!” he said to Damien, his voice roughened with emotion.
When he pulled away again, Alissende stepped closer, not only to study him better but also to hear what he might have to say.
