The Spymaster's Protection (3 page)

Lucien knew he should be on his way, but he had not been able
to bring himself to do so yet.

Had she not gone after the infant, she would not be lying here
now, senseless and injured. And still Lucien had not been able to account for
why her assailant had lingered behind after his fellow bandits had fled into
the hills. Only assassins worked alone like that. Lucien's gut told him the
fellow in the olive grove had not been a member of the bandit gang.

If he had been one of the Hashshashin, had the lady been his
target? Lucien's duties with the Order had long ago made him a target for
assassination, and he had enemies on both sides of the struggle for control of
the Holy Land. These were difficult times for the Kingdom of Jerusalem. But in
her own right Lady de Châtillon was every bit as much a potential target. Other
than King Guy, there might have been no other man as envied and despised as
Reynald de Châtillon.

And out of Egypt, the Syrians had brought forth a new and
vigorous leader. Year after year, Saladin's power and strength grew. At a time
when the Christian settlers needed one strong leader, they had none. Queen
Sibylla and her husband, Guy of Lusignan, sat on the throne of Jerusalem, but
they were not sitting there securely.

Setting Lucien on the task of road patrol had been his Grand
Master’s way of warning him that he was letting his allegiance slip. But on
this day, Lucien found much to be pleased about with his disciplinary
reassignment. Had he not been on patrol, he would not have been able to rescue
the lovely wife of King Guy's kingmaker.

One of the nuns returned with a tray of food for her patient.
The old crone's wrinkled face told him he was not welcome in the women's ward.
Lucien knew how disturbing one of his own dark-eyed scowls could be, and he
reveled in sending her a particularly fierce one in return.

"I would like to ask after the lady's welfare before I
leave," he growled in none too pleasant a voice.

"She is recovering nicely," the nun replied tartly.
"You are not allowed in here, frère."

"Frère? "

Gabrielle de Châtillon's soft raspy whisper interrupted the
scowling pair at the foot of her bed. Lucien stepped closer to hear the lady.
The slumberous look in her big blue eyes and the way her lips tried to form a
smile for him sent a jolt of fire straight to his groin.

"Lady de Châtillon." His tone betrayed the tear in
his normal iron control. The husky edge to his voice was surely what made the
old nun stare even more disapprovingly at him. "How are you faring
today?"

"Much better, thank you, frère."

She looked tired and pale and weak, but every bit as lovely as
yesterday. Lucien realized he had not yet given her his name. He corrected his
error.

“Brother Lucien de Aubric,” she repeated once he delivered it,
testing the sound of it as she gave him another weak smile.

Lucien felt his gut wrench. The shape of her mouth as she
pronounced his first name played havoc with his senses. It made her
rose-colored lips pucker as they might before a kiss. The sudden image that
prompted left him shaken.

"You must leave now, frère!" the wrinkled woman in
the outrageous whimple imperiously demanded once again.

Gabrielle de Châtillon lifted a hand in weak protest.
"Please, Sister Ruth, let me speak to Brother Lucien for just a moment. He
saved my life, you know."

The old crone crinkled her face into an even deeper scowl as
she stared angrily at the Templar, then finally relented with a loud huffing
sound. "A few moments then, Madame de Châtillon. Here, I have brought your
supper." Turning, she lifted a tray off a small table.

Gabrielle sat up slowly, wincing as the bandaging under her
arm and around her shoulder pulled. Both Sister Ruth and Lucien leaned in to
assist her, knocking shoulders. The nun prevailed, elbowing the man beside her
aside as she firmly shoved the meal tray into his hands. When she finished
plumping the pillow at her patient's back, she pulled the woolen blanket up to
Gabrielle's armpits, then abruptly took the tray from Lucien's hands and set it
gently where she wanted it.

Snapping the Templar a fierce warning look, she gave him a
gruff order to not trouble the lady for long, then turned and walked away, her
back ramrod straight, her wide whimple bobbing from side. Lucien wondered how
she managed to keep the outrageous thing on her head, then looked down at the
woman on the bed.

Gabrielle saw his scowl and smiled at him. "Sister Ruth
is not so bad."

"Humph," he snorted, in complete disagreement with
her kind assessment of the old crone.

Gabrielle lifted her tray with the intent of setting it aside,
but Lucien stopped her, placing it back on her lap, and in the process touching
her hands. The brief contact made him drag in a soft breath. "Eat, lady.
Regain your strength," he urged her.

"I have a question to pose to you, frère," she
began, lifting a piece of pork to her mouth.

Lucien could not drag his eyes away from her mouth as he
watched her lusciously shaped lips close over the small tidbit of meat. Not
waiting to get caught staring, he turned away and looked around for a place to
sit, finally settling on a small three-legged stool that he dragged to her
bedside.

With a sigh, she set her eating knife aside. Helplessly,
Lucien found himself staring at her long-fingered, slender hands, frustrated to
find they were no safer to look at than her mouth. Images of them lifted to his
cheek made him shift uncomfortably on his small chair.

Gabrielle lifted a hand in an imploring gesture, bringing his
attention back to her face. "I would like to hire you and your men to
escort the children and myself to Jerusalem."

"Templars are not for hire, mi'lady." Lucien watched
her dimpled smile disappear and immediately regretted his answer.

"Then may I persuade you and your brothers to perform a
Christian act of charity?" she tried again. "These children that I am
taking to the orphanage of Saint John in Jerusalem are very frightened after
all they have been through. I would spare them anymore terrifying incidents on
the remainder of our journey."

Lucien could not refuse her twice. He also had a powerful
desire to see those tiny, barely perceptible dimples on either side of her
lovely mouth emerge again. They were irresistible. Submitting to the temptation
to tease her a bit, he ungallantly reminded her of her earlier assessment of
him.

"I believe you decreed that I was not the guardian angel
you prayed for yesterday."

Gabrielle was secretly overcome by his wicked grin. It lifted
one corner of his mouth and eased the dark severity of his face to such an
extent that it literally took her breath away. His deep brown eyes sparkled
with humor for a moment, and Gabrielle knew it must be a rare thing to see him
smile or laugh. The wrinkles that bracketed his thickly-lashed eyes were surely
not put there by too much of either.

"The children are uninjured, and I am alive," she
stated with grateful conviction. "I was wrong in my initial judgment. The good
Lord did send me a guardian angel."

"I am uneasy with that presumption, mi'lady, but, aye, my
brothers and I will escort you and the children to Jerusalem."

"I may not be able to travel for a day or two."

"I intended to stay in the area and see if I can discover
who the brigands were who attacked the caravan, so a day or two is no problem.
I am troubled by the lone archer who apparently stayed behind in the olive
grove." Lucien did not want to worry her with his speculations, so he kept
them to himself.

"He may have been injured and unable to immediately
follow his comrades," Gabrielle suggested, trying to hide a yawn.

“Possibly.” Lucien chuckled. "Eat, then get some rest,
mi'lady. I will have the brothers here at the hospice inform me when you are
ready to travel."

"Brother Lucien," she called out to him as he pushed
to his feet. "Thank you."

His fist struck his chest and his head dropped in a quick nod,
but his eyes were fastened helplessly on her bow-shaped lips as they formed his
name. God's blood! They looked as if they were waiting for a kiss! Lucien left
the infirmary more agitated than he could ever remember being, aware only that
a woman had never affected him as strongly as Gabrielle de Châtillon.

+++

Two days later, Gabrielle and the six children settled
themselves into the bed of the heavy, canvas-topped wagon Brother Lucien had
borrowed from the Hospitallers. Once the children were all seated, she edged
between them to the front of the conveyance to sit behind the driver, who to
her surprise turned out to be Brother Lucien himself. She had expected his
squire to drive the wagon. No knight liked to travel on anything except a
horse.

He turned to her as his men assembled to the front and rear of
the wagon. "You may ride up here with me," he offered with a smile.
"I have procured a cushion for you."

Gabrielle was touched by his consideration. Such concern was
non-existent in her life. "I better stay with the children."

Lucien handed her a thick brocade pillow that was large enough
to support her entire back. "Then get comfortable, mi'lady. We have a
day's ride to the city."

Gabrielle was settling herself in as he flicked the reins and
shouted the order to proceed.

Compared to the little cart they had come from Amman in, this
larger wagon was well-sprung, providing a noticeably smoother, gentler ride.
With her injury, Gabrielle greatly appreciated the improvement. And she quickly
realized her driver was taking great care to avoid the bumps and ruts in the
old Roman road.

She wasn't sure what to make of Brother Lucien de Aubric. As
the youngest of the children crawled into her lap to cuddle in her arms, she
angled her body and the pillow so she could stare at his profile and uncovered
head. His hair was
ink
black, thick and completely
straight, trimmed to fall to the base of his neck, long enough to be blown into
disarray by the desert breeze. When it fell across his forehead, he swept it
back with an impatient long-fingered hand, then ignored it after that.

Sitting at a side angle, she studied his classic Roman
profile. He wore the regulation Templar beard, but he kept it cut close to his
face, not long and shaggy like most Templars. Because of its shorter length,
she could discern the square angular shape of his jawbone.

With his dark skin color, dark hair and eyes, and granite hewn
facial features, he looked very intimidating, very tough— until he smiled. Then
his stern countenance was altered dramatically. But as she had deduced before,
she doubted that happened often. She'd seen him trading fierce scowls with
Sister Ruth. It had been hard to tell who had been the more formidable.

"Are you comfortable, mi'lady?" he questioned over
his shoulder, breaking into her analysis of him.

"Unexpectedly so," she returned, shifting the
sleeping toddler in her arms to a more comfortable position.

"We will stop for a break at midday, but you must tell me
if your shoulder starts to pain you. Are you using the pillow to cushion
it?"

"Yes, I am, frère. Thank you for thinking of it."

He nodded, then turned back to the horses. Gabrielle gazed at
the children. They were all drifting off to sleep, lulled by the rhythmic
motion of the wagon and the warmth of the day. Contemplating Lucien de Aubric’s
unexpected consideration for her, Gabrielle stroked the satiny black hair of
the baby on her lap and drifted off to sleep herself. It seemed only minutes
had passed before the wagon stopped under the shade of an acacia tree.

Gabrielle opened her eyes as Brother Lucien leaped off the
wagon, then strode to the back. After opening the rear gate, he assisted her
and the children out.

"If you will sit on the tuft of grass in the shade, the
brothers and I will get out the water and food."

Gabrielle walked around the wagon, grateful to stretch her
legs before sitting down next to the children under the uneven shade of the
desert tree. To her surprise, Brother Lucien joined her, but before he did, he
passed out bread, cheese, and a flagon of blessedly cool water.

"So, mi’lady, tell me what brought you into the desert
with no armed guard and six orphaned children," he queried as he leaned
back against the tree trunk and stretched out his long legs.

"I rescue children left orphaned and homeless by this
never-ending war. More often than not, they are victims of my husband's
raiding.”

Lucien stared at her, amazed and dismayed by her revelation.
"It is not safe for any woman, Christian or Muslim, to travel without an
armed guard. How long have you been doing this, Lady de Châtillon?"

“Several years, and I usually travel with a caravan or a group
of pilgrims."

"By the Cross! You must have a guardian angel on your
shoulder!" He simply could not fathom how her husband could leave her so
unprotected. It was even more baffling how she had managed to survive such
harrowing treks across these bandit-ridden roads. "If your husband will
not protect you, what of your father, mi'lady?"

"He has long forgotten I exist."

"Who is he?"

"Armand Chaumont."

"Ah, Reynald's seneschal and castellan at Montreal."

"Aye. Have you met him?" Gabrielle sincerely hoped
he did not consider either her father or her husband friends.

The Templars were indebted to Reynald from his years as Prince
of Antioch, for he had given them a castle he had captured in Alexandretta.
Master de Ridefort, the current Grand Master, was a close friend of Reynald and
her father. They had all conspired to put Queen Sibylla and her husband, Guy
Lusignan, on the throne in Jerusalem after the death of King Baldwin and his
young nephew last year.

"I have met him. Baldwin, the Leper King, distrusted him
immensely, if you will forgive me for saying so. Queen Sibylla and King Guy
feel differently, but that is undoubtedly no surprise to you or your
house."