Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride. Lynna Banning

They were green as the winter sea, and wary. He reminded her of a falcon her father had once trained—disciplined and powerful. He looked like one who could kill a man in a heartbeat, then fall to his knees and pray for forgiveness.

      He stood looking at her while she studied his strained, unsmiling face in silence. Never in her entire life had she wondered so about a man. His features were young, but his eyes looked old. Something about Reynaud drew her like a silver coin to a lodestone.

      ‘Why do you look so sour?’ she murmured.

      ‘I have my reasons,’ he said shortly.

      ‘I would wager you have dark places inside you that few, if any, have plumbed. Rey, I do not wish to be your enemy.’

      He took a step forwards. For all the strength of his broad shoulders and length of limb, he was oddly graceful. Would he dance as beautifully as he moved?

      A slow, delicious heat crept into her belly. She wanted to touch him. What was she thinking?

      She forced herself to look into his face. ‘You wished to speak to me?’

      Reynaud fought the impulse to reach out and drag her against his chest. His hands ached to twine his fingers through that silky hair. ‘Leonor, you need not address me as “my lord”.’

      ‘“My lord” implies no allegiance, only the respect due to a knight of a holy order.’

      ‘Knight I am. Lord, I am not. I am landless, as you well know. Adrift, as you said before.’

      ‘Landless, perhaps,’ she said, her voice soft as leaves, ‘but not bereft of prospects, I would think. There is some reason for your presence in Moyanne, is there not? Other than my father’s concern for me, that is.’

      Her candour startled him. She looked steadily into his eyes with no hint of artifice. Reynaud had forgotten how direct Leonor could be, even as a child. Then, too, she could hide her thoughts as well as he could.

      ‘You know I am bastard-born. Brought to Hassam’s house at birth in a basket of woven reeds. Prospects for such as myself are rare as roses in hell.’

      She continued to regard him with eyes soft as grey velvet.

      ‘Still…’ She paused and unconsciously rimmed her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘If it does not displease you, I will yet call you “my lord”.’

      Reynaud’s heart stuttered. Displease him! If she only knew. Desire heated his loins. A whiff of her fragrance, jasmine-sweet and faintly musky, reached his nostrils and he shut his eyes to savour the scent. He felt himself grow hard with wanting her.

      He twisted away and stared at the stone floor beneath his feet, commanding his body to obey him. He must break the spell she cast, must move away from her. He took a step backward.

      ‘Stay, Reynaud. I have offended you?’

      ‘I—no. You offend no one.’ It is I who offends. For a moment he forgot he was a Templar. A warrior-monk, pledged to celibacy.

      No, there was more to it than that. Leonor was young and happy. A joyous being, eager for life. He was shackled not only by his vows, but by bitterness and distrust. Being near her cast a shadow on her gaiety, her joy in thinking all was well with the world. He would always drag her down.

      Leonor closed the short distance between them and laid her hand on his arm. ‘You wished to talk?’ she reminded a third time.

      Ah, yes, talk. ‘Leonor, what are you about, posing as a minstrel in your uncle’s house?’ He spoke roughly.

      ‘Posing! I am not “posing”, I am performing as a troubadour. There is naught wrong in it. It has been my dream all my life, to travel and play music and see some of the world.’

      ‘It is dangerous.’

      ‘Why? Because I am a woman?’

      ‘Aye.’

      ‘Why should a woman exist only to be locked away in a prison of some man’s making? A woman is not created only to pleasure a man. A woman is created to be herself.’

      Reynaud clenched his fists at his sides. ‘That is laughable.’

      ‘That is not laughable! I love music, as you well remember. I wish to share it.’

      ‘You can share it in Granada. In the privacy of your father’s house.’

      She propped her small hands on her hips. ‘I wish to travel beyond Granada. I am curious about the world.’

      He scowled down at her. ‘You were always curious. I expected you would grow out of it.’

      ‘Well, I did not,’ she snapped. ‘I am interested in things besides pleasing a man.’

      By the saints and angels, did she not understand? ‘You are reaching for disaster. Being a troubadour is not for a woman. Especially not one such as you.’

      ‘You are wrong, Rey. Your view is jaded because of your own inner wounds. I will not let your distrust of the world spoil my dream. Besides there is naught you can do.’

      ‘Your father—’

      ‘Will not know.’

      ‘I fear for you. You do…the unexpected. You know nothing of the world.’

      ‘I am learning,’ she snapped. ‘You should be pleased for me.’

      He gritted his teeth. ‘I am not pleased.’

      ‘Is that what you wished to say to me?’

      ‘Aye,’ he said in a hard voice.

      She straightened her spine. ‘Well, then, my lord, is there a song you would hear?’

      Reynaud groaned. ‘We had no minstrels in the Holy Land. God knows, we had little cause for singing.’

      She nodded in understanding and sent him a half-smile. ‘Since you had no minstrels, your heart must be hungry.’

      He flinched as if struck. His jaw muscles tightened. No one had ever come nearer the truth.

      ‘I will sing for you three tunes in the Catalan style, and you may judge which you like best.’ She tugged him to face her and gazed up at him, her usually downturned mouth curving so deliciously he wanted to put his hand over her lips to hide them from his sight.

      ‘Do not be angry with me, Rey. I seek only to be happy in this life, as do you.’ She moved towards the doorway.

      Reynaud moved to block her way. ‘How would one such as you know what I seek in this life? Do you think making oneself happy is all there is?’

      Leonor brushed away both questions with a wave of her hand. ‘Come,’ she urged again. ‘Your songs await within.’

      At her entrance, a cheer went up. Leonor inclined her head in acknowledgement, then took up her harp. Reynaud stood off to one side in the shadows, his mind in turmoil.

      He tried to concentrate on the sound of the harp, the words of the verse half-sung, half-spoken in the blend of Sephardic and Arabic tongues known as Ladino. Something about a knight and four maidens. He glanced around him at the avid dinner guests in the over-warm hall. The men were entranced.

      She began another song, a lai in triple time, the rhythm an intricate variation of the Arab zajal. Reynaud struggled to close his ears to the entrancing sound.

      He leaned against the hard stone wall at his back, shut his eyes and steeled his spirit to listen to the seductive rise and fall of Leonor’s voice. Her final song cut deep. The heartrending melody full of longing and passion wound its way into his gut. His throat closed suddenly into an aching knot.

      And then a line of verse leaped into his consciousness. ‘Know you the silver swan?’

      Instantly, his entire body stiffened, his heart plunging into an irregular thumping. He stared across the