To Tempt a Knight
G
ERRI
R
USSELL
LEISURE BOOKS 
NEW YORK CITY
“Feel the motion,” William instructed. “Make the sword an extension of your arm. Extend your stroke all the way out to the tip of the blade. Let the sword do the work.”
She swallowed at the feel of his hard body against the softness of her own.
“I’ll move you through the basic motions. Keep the balance of your weight on the balls of your feet.”
She took each movement into herself, feeling as though they were dancing, not fighting.
“That’s it. Let your body flow.” He leaned more intimately against her. Her heart beat harder. “Get in close. Stay inside.” Then he changed his motions, moving in tight irregular steps. “Confuse your opponent. Focus. Stay balanced.”
Siobhan followed his every move. The two of them flowed together as the sword came up, then down, blocking their imaginary opponent. Behind her, she could feel his breath against her ear—short, sharp bursts that changed with the intensity of their swordplay. His body brushed against hers, then retreated. She tried to concentrate on the sword in her hand.
The long, hard muscles of his body pressed against her back, and the heat of him enveloped her. She swayed back against him, overwhelmed by her own desire. How could he continue to stand, when her own legs felt as though they would dissolve beneath her?
For Nancy Northcott.
What a treasure of a friend you are.
The Spear of Destiny was born of a white-hot bolt of lightning.
So legend has it…
The Spear of Destiny wields the power to alter the destinies of men and of entire nations.
So legend has it…
But legend, like history, can fade with time, be robbed of the truth and distorted. It is the gift of imagination that breathes new life into legend, giving it wings once more.
Scotland, 1331
The sound of thunder filled the air as twenty armed Knights Templar rode toward the town of Douglas at a breakneck pace. Peter had been captured. No matter how useless the world considered their Order, Peter was still one of them—a Templar hiding in a dangerous world.
Anger erupted, hot and primitive, in William Keith as he pushed his horse and his body to the limit. They were still so far away. Too far. William bent low against Phantom’s neck, praying for more speed.
Someone had discovered Peter’s connection to the Templars, that he had been the squire to James “Black” Douglas. That connection could very well cost him his life if they didn’t hurry. William cast a quick glance at the man who raced beside him—Simon Lockhart, his longtime friend.
Simon responded with a look that said “Hold steady.” That was Simon. So filled with hope, despite the danger and desperation.
The party of armed men rounded a bend, and the town of Douglas came into view. A reddish aura rose into the sky as a slender column of choking gray smoke coiled above the town square. Pain cut through William at the sight of the flames licking a pile of burning wood. The scent of burning flesh filled the air, and for a moment his stomach roiled as he made out the human shape within the cruel bonfire.
Too late. They’d arrived too late.
Please, God, why am I always too late
…?
His stomach knotted with shame. He squeezed his eyes shut waiting for the agony to abate. It only intensified. William sucked in a desperate breath, forcing himself not to gag. “
Damn you forever
, Pierre de la Roche.” What right did a Frenchman have to dispense such horrendous justice on Scottish soil?
William choked back his pain, took a deep breath and focused on the flames that engulfed Peter. He knew the answer to his own question. With a child king on the throne, it seemed anyone who wanted to enforce his own brand of justice in Scotland, could.
“Fly, Phantom, fly,” William coaxed his horse. He put his heels to the beast’s flanks, encouraging even greater speed. He couldn’t save Peter, any more than he’d been able to save the others. But he could retrieve what was left of the young squire for burial. De la Roche might have taken another Templar from this world, but he wouldn’t win this fanatical war he’d started, not if William could stop him.
The Frenchman had arrived in Scotland only a sennight ago, and already he’d hastened twelve—nay, thirteen—Templars out of hiding and to their deaths. He’d tortured or burned them all.
William crashed Phantom through the village square and the crowd that gathered there. Two slashes of his sword took down the guards closest to the flames. Two more guards advanced. Simon and the other riders guided their horses into place, taking up their swords.
The battle raged all around them as William reined Phantom a hairsbreadth from the flames. He knocked the burning branches away with his sword until he could reach Peter’s body. Another slash released the bindings at Peter’s wrists. He grasped Peter’s arm before he
could fall, and with a tug, William caught the ravaged, sooty body in the folds of his thick cloak. Pain twisted his chest at what remained of the youth. William’s only comfort was the thought that Peter was beyond pain now.
“Give me my brother,” Lucius Carr demanded, bringing his horse alongside William’s.
William recognized the pain and desperation in the young monk’s eyes. “Nay, Lucius.”
“He’s dead?”
At William’s nod, Lucius’s face hardened. “De la Roche will pay for this.”
With as much gentleness as possible, William wrapped his own cloak about Peter’s body. “Revenge will come, Lucius, but not here or now. We mustn’t risk anyone else’s capture.”
“Too late for that,” a foreign voice drawled. De la Roche, along with a contingent of men, emerged on horseback from behind the billowing smoke. He looked straight at William, an odd smile twisting his mouth. “Kill the others,” de la Roche shouted over the raging battle. “This one is mine.”
William gazed into a pair of pale eyes. “What is it you want? Peter can give you nothing more precious than his life.”
A bitter laugh sounded over the clang of steel upon steel as the Templars and de la Roche’s men engaged. “I’m doing what no one else has done here. I’ll rid the world of your kind. Heretics don’t deserve the holiest relics of the world.”
“You care nothing for religion. You’ve proved that today. You’re after the treasure.”
De la Roche drew his sword. “And now I know where to find it.”
Peter would have never revealed the secret of the treasure. Would he?
A shiver of uncertainty crept over William at de la Roche’s triumphant grin.
“The Spear of Destiny will be mine.” De la Roche’s grip tightened, his sword raised slightly.
Before de la Roche could charge, William jerked his horse back out of reach. He tightened his hold on Peter’s body. His task was not to fight, but to deliver the young Templar to the monastery and his eternal rest.
Simon moved in on horseback to engage de la Roche and cover William’s retreat. With a tug on Phantom’s reins and a thump of his heels against the horse’s flanks, William turned his horse. He surged through the village square, heading once again for the mottled shadow of the woods.
“You will not escape me,” de la Roche roared. “You’ll be next to burn, Keith.” Heavy hoofbeats followed in rapid pursuit.
Phantom soared over a fallen tree that lay across the path and came to earth again, flinging clods of grass and mud helter-skelter in their haste. Spiteful twigs plucked at William’s legs and clawed at the flapping cloak that held such ravaged cargo.
At the sound of hoofbeats behind him, William twisted back. De la Roche was close on his heels.
William urged his gelding on. Swiftly they flew among the thinning trees. An open field lay ahead, well lit by the afternoon sun and raggedly cloaked by drifts of mist. The open territory held the promise of an easier path where his horse could be urged into its fastest gait.
He pressed his heels into the horse’s side. Phantom responded with a surging bound, lifting his hooves to clear a low spot where the mists had gathered. William
headed for a fallen tree that sat five feet above the ground. Phantom, William knew, could easily clear the blockade with room to spare. The gelding took flight.
William had heard tales enough about de la Roche to know the man would attempt to clear the blockade. Pride would never allow him to slow down and find a way around the obstacle. A heartbeat later, a bellow and the shriek of a horse sounded behind him as de la Roche’s horse failed to clear the fallen tree. “I’ll find you, Keith. When I do, you’ll meet a bitter and painful end. On that you have my word. I know all the Templars who yet remain.”
Plunging ahead, William drew comfort from the knowledge that he had left de la Roche and his horse behind. The world swam, swirling around William as his eyes focused on the lifeless form in his arms. A bitter, painful end was what Peter had endured.
For what reason? He had served his king and country well, and in return he was labeled a heretic and hunted by vigilantes like the fanatic Frenchman who had taken his life. William had sworn to protect the young squire. As he’d sworn to protect all of the survivors who’d returned from their failed journey to the Holy Land. A last mission for their revered king Robert the Bruce had gone very wrong.
William’s chest tightened, making it difficult to breathe. He drew a shuddering breath. He forced his thoughts away from the pain in his soul and focused on strategy, on what could be done to keep his fellow Templars safe.
Had they not already suffered enough since that fateful day in 1307 when the Templars were arrested, tortured into confessions as heretics and burned at the stake in France?
William turned his horse to the northeast, heading
for Crosswick Priory. He forced his attention to the road that would lead them home. In truth, he had no home. The monastery was the closest thing to one he’d had in years.
The Brotherhood of the Scottish Templars was his family. It was up to him to keep them alive. He was known as the Guardian for a reason. Whether at war or at peace, it was up to him to protect those who remained. He would find a way to stop the villainy and take de la Roche down.
Rain. Miserable rain. William turned his face up to the sky. Gray clouds billowed overhead, bathing the world in a strange half light. He always felt caught somewhere between this life and the next in the kirk yard.
Rain pressed against his cheeks, rolled down his neck beneath the heavy monk’s robe he wore. William stared up into the falling water. Why could it not have rained before the flames had engulfed Peter’s body?
With a sigh, he lowered his gaze to the stone tomb where he’d placed what remained of Peter. Angry water drummed against the rough-cut sides of the stone as a frigid wind swooped across the kirk yard.
“Finish your good-byes, William, before too much rain seeps inside,” Simon said from the opposite end of the grave.
“I am done. Help me with the lid.” William bent down and grasped the stone lid. He would commission a marker for the squire later. With luck, the pain that threatened to choke him would be sealed along with Peter in his grave. The heavy stone grated against William’s skin as he and Simon heaved the lid into place.
Simon stepped back from Peter’s final resting place and flicked the rain from his brow. “Why do you blame yourself for what happened? Not just to Peter, but to all
our Templar brothers?” he asked, studying William from across the top of the tomb.
The rush of a thousand failures washed over William. How could he make Simon understand the emptiness that lingered in every part of his being since their return from the Holy Land?
A gust of wind leapt up to tangle William’s long monk’s robes around his legs. He’d failed the Bruce. He’d failed his country. He’d failed his fellow Templars. There had to be a reason why all those failures had brought him back to Scotland.
“What’s next, William?” Simon asked, coming to stand beside him. “Are you ready to give up? To let de la Roche and men like him have their way?”
Anger took the place of pain. “Of course not.”
“Then fight back.”
William shook his head. “The Templar Order has been abolished. We would risk everything, if we continued to operate in the open.”
“Then we will stay hidden, as we have for years.”
William narrowed his gaze on Simon. They had known each other since they were children. Simon’s parents had sent him to the monastery to study. William had been there because he’d had nowhere else to go. And they’d become instant friends.
They had gone off together to the Scottish court as young men who were full of themselves and determined to make something out of their lives. And they had. Together, they’d proven their skills as warriors and had joined the Bruce’s elite guard. Their lives had been intertwined for years, as they were now that they’d both chosen to return to the monastery after their survival in Spain.
Daily life at the monastery brought order and simplicity back to their world. Or it had, until de la Roche had arrived on Scotland’s shores.
William balled his hands. “De la Roche claims Peter told him about Sir John Fraser and his connection to the Spear.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed. His intense gaze spoke volumes. William had seen the look before on the field of battle, moments before Simon took the enemy down. “Can you—?”
“No need to ask. I ride out at first light.” The moment the words left his mouth, a heavy weight slid from his shoulders.
Action. He needed action to move past his failures. He needed the distraction that doing something would bring. Thinking about what had happened was getting him nowhere. The beginnings of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Aye, action would be good. He tipped his head back, allowing the rain to pelt against his flesh.
Simon frowned. “De la Roche may know nothing.”
“Or everything,” William countered, bringing his gaze back to his friend’s.
After a final blessing at Peter’s graveside, they hurried through the kirk yard to the monastery. “What are the chances of de la Roche getting the Spear?” Simon asked.
“Fairly good, unless we get to Fraser first. De la Roche has enough men to challenge what remains of our forces.”
William opened the door at the back of the monastery that led to the refectory. He and Simon hurried inside, out of the driving rain. They made their way across the crowded chamber to the hearth. The monastery’s resident monks conversed at long tables over their evening meal. A cheery fire that did not match the emptiness in William’s chest glowed in the grate, casting a yellow-gold light across the busy room.
A pool of water started to form at William’s feet from his wet robe. With one hand he untied the rope belt at his waist. With his other he jerked the garment over his
head to reveal the plain muslin shirt, dark breeches and the scabbard and sword he wore beneath. He hung the dripping robe from a hook near the fire.
Simon followed his example. When they were through, they each scooped a ladle of pottage from the iron kettle that hung before the hearth into a wooden bowl, then took their seats with the others.
William frowned down into his bowl. “The Spear is dangerous in the wrong hands. History has proved that anyone who controls the Spear has the power to conquer his enemy. We need to go to Sir John immediately.”
Simon nodded as he chewed a spoonful of lamb thoughtfully. “You can do nothing until the rain lets up.”
William pushed back from the table. “I cannot afford to wait either. Perhaps the rain will also slow de la Roche and give me the advantage.”
Simon made to stand. “I’ll come with you.”
William stayed him with a hand to his shoulder. “One of us must stay and protect our brothers. De la Roche could decide to attack here instead of heading for Fraser. We can’t risk it.”
Simon’s expression grew serious. “You’re right. We cannot lose anyone else to that madman.”
William’s hand slid to the hilt of his sword. With a brief nod to Simon, he left the chamber behind. In no time at all, he’d assembled his saddlebag and dressed in his mail as he had so many times before while fighting for the Bruce. He donned a cloak and headed for the stables.