Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride. Lynna Banning

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      His own mouth felt dry. Just as the red-faced wine server reached for Reynaud’s cup, he rescued it and downed the contents in two swallows. Then he turned to search for Leonor.

      He surveyed the hall, watched as a troupe of musicians tumbled in through a doorway, one carrying a gut-strung rebec and a vielle, three others with wooden flutes, a gittern and a battered tabor drum. They took up positions at one end of the hall, and the chattering crowd cleared the floor. The string players adjusted their tuning and knights and ladies linked hands for a circle dance.

      He scanned the faces of the onlookers, then searched for Leonor among the dancers, but the slim, black-haired woman in emerald silk was not among them. Surely she would not retire this early, not after such a triumphant reception? Unless…

      A thread of alarm travelled up his spine. Was she in danger? He grabbed a sloshing pitcher out of the wine server’s grasp and refilled his cup with a hand that trembled.

      Before he could lift the wine to his lips, a low voice spoke at his elbow. ‘Reynaud, do you dance this evening? Or…’ Leonor looked pointedly at the wine cup in his hand ‘…do you prefer to drink?’

      He started so violently a bit of wine spilled over the edge of his cup and wet his fingers. She moved like a cat! Her green silk tunic was girdled with gold links, accentuating the curve of her waist and hips. He worked to keep his gaze elsewhere.

      ‘I did not see you approach.’

      The grey eyes rested briefly on his, an expression of amusement in their depths. ‘I did not intend you to.’

      Reynaud drew in a careful breath. He was supposed to watch her, not the other way around. His belly tightened. She could appear and disappear like a wraith. Hassam was right—he would need all his wits to keep track of her. At this moment, the idea did not displease him as much as it should.

      ‘Do you dance, Reynaud?’ Leonor repeated.

      The thought of touching her, even linking hands, brought the blood to his brain. His senses came alive, then careened out of control. He could not risk it.

      ‘I can dance, yes. I choose not to.’

      ‘As you wish.’ She smiled up at him and his heart lurched.

      He did not wish. He wanted to hold her close, drink in her scent and let his mouth explore hers.

      This was madness! Was he not a holy knight? Never had he wanted a woman so. But now his mind reeled as if he were fevered.

      ‘You have not yet told me,’ she murmured, ‘which of my three songs you found most enjoyable.’

      Reynaud could not answer. Here in this noisy hall was neither the place nor the time to question her about the coded words.

      Count Henri approached, and she stepped to one side to accept her uncle’s invitation to join the dancing. Without a backwards glance she glided away on the count’s arm, pivoted and made a deep reverence.

      Reynaud watched her move gracefully in the circle of dancers until his eyes burned. No wonder Benjamin was enamored. Leonor was like no other woman he had ever encountered. By the time this evening ended, every man in the hall would be in love with her. Watching over her, wanting her, was pure torture.

      And suddenly he knew he could not do it.

       Chapter Seven

       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 СКАЧАТЬ