The Highlander's Touch (32 page)

L
ISA SHOOK HER HEAD AS SHE EXITED THE GARDEROBE
. Very civilized. Now that she knew where it was, she couldn’t believe she’d bypassed it while she’d searched the castle for the flask, but the entrance gave the impression of a servant’s door, so she’d not given it a second thought. The garderobe was not what she had expected; it was larger than most modern bathrooms, and spotless. It was obvious that the laird of Brodie prided himself on tidy garderobes. Fresh herbs and dried petals were scattered amid the hay piled inside the chamber—medieval toilet paper.

She resolved not only to bathe Eirren the next time she saw him but to dunk him a time or two as well for all those miserable chamber-pot moments.

Slipping from the small room, she was surprised to encounter Armand Berard loitering in the corridor.

“Milady, are you enjoying the festivities?”

“Yes, I am.” Her feet were still tapping from the cheery music and she was eager to return and perfect her steps. But she hadn’t seen Armand for over a month and had rather missed the opportunity to get to know a real live Knight Templar. She frowned, eyeing his somber attire.
Circenn had told her the Templars would stay in their garrison and not join the revelry. “I thought your Order did not hold with feasting such as this.”

He shrugged. “Some of my brothers are more rigid than others. A few of us have accepted that the Order is destroyed, bitter though it is to admit that you have pledged your life to something that no longer exists.”

“I’m sorry,” Lisa said, feeling awkward. Before her stood one of the legendary Knights Templars and she couldn’t think of one thing to say to make him feel better. “Are your men hunted, even here in Scotland?” she rushed on. She was intensely curious about the Templars, their legendary powers and myths.

“It depends on who encounters us. If it’s an Englishman, he might try to take us across the border. A Scot is far less inclined to do so. Most of your people care little for the edicts of France, England, or even the Pope.” He uttered a harsh laugh. “Your own king was excommunicated by the Pope for the murder of the Red Comyn in the church at Dumfries. Your land is a wild one. When a country is fighting merely for the right to survive, they are less inclined to be judgmental. Come.”

He offered his arm, and she looped hers through it. Within moments, she was so engrossed in their conversation that she paid no heed to where he was leading her.

She listened, fascinated, while he spoke of the Order, of their residence outside Paris, of their lifelong commitment to their vows. His expression grew bitter as he recounted how the papal bull
Pastoralis praeeminentiae
, issued on November 22, 1307, had ordered all monarchs of Christendom to arrest the Templars and sequester their lands in the name of the papacy. He skimmed over the persecution, the interrogations, and the torture, unwilling to give such detail
to a woman, for which she was grateful. There were some limits to even her curiosity.

He explained how, in 1310, six hundred of their brothers had agreed to mount a defense against the unjust persecution, and Pope Clement had finally agreed to postpone the Council of Vienne for a year while they prepared. Then, Philippe the Fair, desperate to crush the Order and line his coffers before it was too late, circumvented the Pope, reopened his episcopal inquiry, and had fifty-four Templars burned at the stake outside Paris, silencing the remaining Templars’ protests. In 1312, the papal bull
Vox in excelso
was issued, forever suppressing the Order.

There were many questions she wanted to ask him, and this was a rare opportunity to explore history from a Templar’s perspective, but her first question was patently twenty-first century, brushed by a bit of romanticism.

“What
is
the secret of the Templars, Armand?” So many rumors abounded: that they had protected the Holy Grail, that the Grail was really the genetic bloodline of Christ, that the Templars had uncovered a personal alchemy for the transformation of the soul, that such alchemy could manipulate time and space. She didn’t really expect him to answer, but since she had her arm through the arm of a Templar, there was no harm in asking.

Armand’s smile made her shiver. “Do you mean what could we possibly possess that would make a king and a Pope fear us so greatly they would use every weapon they had to destroy us? Are you a religious woman, Lisa MacRobertson?”

“A bit,” she conceded.

“What might the Pope and king want from us?”

“Gold?” she guessed. “Religious artifacts?”

His laughter sent a chill up her spine. “Consider this:
What if the Templars had discovered something that would tear asunder beliefs that had been held for centuries by nearly every land in the world?”

Now he really had her curiosity going. “You
must
tell me,” she breathed.

“I didn’t say that we had,” he prevaricated. “I merely postulated the possibility.”

“So, is it true then?” she asked, fascinated. “Does your Order possess such knowledge?”

He didn’t answer. His face was averted, so she didn’t see it contort with rage, hence she was completely unprepared when he grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back, arcing it up between her shoulder blades, forcing her to double over in an effort to escape the pain.

He shoved her against the wall and pressed a knife to her side.

Lisa was so stunned that she made no sound. One moment she was strolling with a perfectly sociable Templar, indulging her incessant curiosity, teetering on the brink of stunning revelations, and the next her life was being threatened. It had happened too swiftly for her to grasp, and, in shock, she had wasted precious seconds during which she might have fought back.

“Give me the key,” Armand growled into her ear. “And if you so much as whimper, I will kill you.”

“The key to what?”

“Circenn’s chambers.”

“I don’t have one!”

“You lying little—” Hooking a thick forearm around her throat, he patted her body, searching for a key ring. “Then it is in your room,” he accused.

“He has never given me one!”

Armand tightened his arm around her throat, cutting
into her windpipe. His arm was an unrelenting band of steel, and Lisa felt her air supply being cut off. Her cheek smashed against the stone wall, and she grew dangerously light-headed.

“We can play as rough as you like, lass,” Armand murmured into her hair. “Where is the key?”

Lisa closed her eyes and reached for Circenn.

*   *   *

Circenn crushed his metal goblet in his hand, spraying half a dozen villagers with wine. He glanced about, his eyes wild.

Lisa.

Danger. Frightened. Can’t breathe
.

But where?

He raced up the stairs to the garderobe, feeling for her with his heart, reassuring her he was coming.

Pain
.

He cursed the emotional bond by which he could share her feelings but not obtain words or a hint of her location. Where would she have gone? How could she be in danger? Who could possibly wish her ill?

He ranged the corridors like a maddened beast, fighting an urge to bellow for her, aware that that would only alert whoever was threatening her. He paced up the south corridor, then back. Every ounce of his intellect was absorbing her fear, sponging it up, and it was rendering him senseless. He plunged down a hall, then stopped abruptly.

Brash fury would not serve. He must be logical. He should check his room and hers, then other areas she had been inclined to attend. Perhaps the chapel. He pivoted sharply and raced back down the hall. He flew through the castle and into the east wing.

As he neared his chambers he slowed, alerted by a soft murmur and a strangled sound. Drawing to a halt, he slipped stealthily around the corner.

Armand had Lisa pressed up against the wall outside his chambers, his thick forearm choking her to unconsciousness. Circenn labored to draw slow, silent breaths when his lips begged to roar. She was going limp in the Templar’s arms, giving up the fight as she lost her precious breath.

A flicker of silver flashed in the dim glow from the rushlights mounted on the walls. The Templar had a blade. Circenn didn’t wait to see more. He drew on his unnatural abilities and moved like the wind, stopping behind the Templar, who had no warning that Circenn stood a breath behind his heart.

“The key, you stupid bitch,” Armand muttered. “Don’t pass out on me.” He shook her. “Where does he keep the hallows?”

Circenn’s mouth twisted. So that was what this was about. A rogue Templar, turned on his Order. Armand wasn’t the only knight who’d lost his faith. Circenn had heard of others who, believing that God had abandoned them, had turned mercenary and faithless.

In an instant of blurred space, Circenn disarmed the knight and flung him across the corridor, where he struck the stone wall with a sharp crack of his head. He slumped to the floor. Circenn spared no regret that the attack had been unfair. When in the past he’d suffered guilt over using his enhanced abilities, he now felt grim satisfaction. He towered over the fallen knight and raised his sword for the fatal blow.

“Stop!” Lisa cried.

Circenn’s jaw locked, his face contorted with fury. His arm suspended at eye level, the point angled down, ready
for one swift thrust into Armand’s heart. When he plunged down, it would be with such anger that the force would likely shatter his blade against the stone beneath the knight’s back. He spared her a glance, and from her horrified expression he realized that she was feeling his internal landscape: barren, bleak, and murderous. Hot. Hellishly hot. He would never understand—not even should he live to be five thousand—why women consistently protected villains. It was simple in a man’s mind:
Kill the man who tries to harm your own
. But women made it much more complex. They held out hope that evil could be redeemed. A foolish hope, to his way of thinking.

“Don’t kill him, Circenn. He didn’t harm me.” She touched her throat with gentle fingertips. “I will be fine. A few bruises, nothing more. You found us in time.”

“He touched you,” Circenn snarled. “He planned to harm you.”

“But he didn’t succeed.” She appealed to his logic: “Question him, determine what he is after, then banish him, but please …”

She trailed off and he stared helplessly at her.
Damn her
, he thought. She was deliberately flooding him with mercy, forgiveness, and the cool wind of logic. All those feminine things, they tumbled like snowflakes upon his masculine heat.

Dousing it.

Loath though he was to admit it, she was right. By killing Armand swiftly, he would never know his motives. He needed to uncover the Templar’s purpose, determine with whom he was in collusion and if there were other corrupt knights in his employ. He needed information first. Then he would kill him. He lowered the sword with a low growl of unsatisfied rage.

*   *   *

Lisa crept down the stairs. She’d tried to wait in bed for Circenn to come up, but had been unable to stand it any longer. It had been hours since Armand’s attack, and although Circenn had promised not to kill the Templar, vowing angrily that he would turn him over to his own brothers, Lisa still felt his murderous fury. Their bond was frazzling her nerves. She had no idea why the knight had turned on her. Perhaps she shouldn’t have questioned him. Perhaps it was simply too upsetting for him to speak of the atrocities he’d endured.

The feast was still under way in the Greathall, the villagers oblivious to the bitter events of the evening. Circenn would keep the problem quiet, resolve it, and no one would suffer for it. She admired his methods. He was a laird who would not trouble his clan with dissension that he could resolve alone.

Moving stealthily, she slipped down the corridor to the study. The door was ajar and she peered in cautiously. He was there, as she’d suspected, with Duncan and Galan.

A dozen grim-faced Templars filed before him, and from the light misting of rain on their robes, she deduced that she’d missed their entrance by mere minutes.

“It is done, milord. We have finished our interrogation,” Renaud de Vichiers said wearily.

“And?” Circenn growled.

“It was worse than we feared. He was doubly a traitor, both to his own brothers and to Scotland. His plan was to abduct your lady and sell her to the English king for his weight in gold, plus titles and lands in England.” Renaud shook his head. “I do not know what to say. It grieves me. Armand was a Commander of Knights in our Order, and
highly regarded. We had no idea. I swear to you upon our Order that he acted entirely alone.” Renaud directed his gaze to the floor. “We await your decision regarding the rest of us. We understand if you decide you must send us away from here.”

Circenn shook his head. “I will not hold the rest of you responsible for his actions. You have been loyal to me for years.”

The Templars rustled with murmurs of gratitude and repeated vows of loyalty. “You have been good to us, milord,” Renaud said. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, it was with such fervency that his words sounded stilted. “We do not wish to jeopardize your goodwill in any way. We look forward to a future in Scotland. What can we do to restore your faith in us?”

“It was never lost,” Circenn said, rubbing his jaw. “If Armand hadn’t been acting alone, you likely would have succeeded in taking her. I do not underestimate the powers of your Order, Renaud. I know what you can do when you pit multiple Templar wills against a problem. An attack from multiple brethren would have peacefully lured her where you wished her to go. You do not use violence. You use … powerful persuasion.”

Renaud looked abashed. “I hadn’t considered that, but it’s true. We could have taken her as a group. I forget you know so much about us.” He bowed, a posture of abject apology. “Milord, we would never harm your lady. We shall protect her as our own.”

Circenn inclined his head. “What of Armand?”

“As a show of our allegiance, we resolved that matter. He will trouble you no more.”

Lisa leaned a bit closer to the door. What had they done
to him? Banished him? Would they drive him across the border for the English to catch?