Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride. Lynna Banning

bony black-robed form visible in the assortment of servants, pages and peasants crowding against the far wall, waiting for the leavings of gravy-sopped bread and meat scraps.

      The words of the conversation on either side of him buzzed in his head like swarming bees. Benjamin could take care of himself, could make himself inconspicuous as an ant if need be. But Leonor?

      Never. She was far too noticeable with that mass of black hair and those large grey eyes. The scent of her hair, sweet roses with a hint of sandalwood, tormented him. He inhaled slowly, struggling to still the hammering of his heart.

      ‘What say you, Templar?’ the count shouted over the clank of cups and the din of laughter. ‘Can the Christian Reconquista succeed against the infidel in Spain?’

      Reynaud unclenched his fingers and took a deep swallow of his wine before answering. ‘Your son Bernard yet fights against the Saracen. Have you never wondered why?’

      The count leaned towards him. ‘My son is a Hospitaller. Wherever he is, he will not rest until the infidel is vanquished, in both the Holy Land and in Spain.’

      ‘God’s mercy on you, then, Henri, for he will be absent from you for a long time. It will not be a simple victory in Jerusalem or in Spain.’

      The count’s bushy grey eyebrows arched upwards. ‘Oh?’

      Reynaud directed his gaze straight into the older man’s hazel eyes. ‘It is an easy matter to take a castle, even an entire city. It is not so easy to reconquer a people. Spain has been home to both Christian and Saracen ever since the Arabs wrested the land from the Roman Goths four hundred years ago.’

      ‘You do not hate them, the Saracen?’

      ‘A few, aye. Most, I respect. Some—my uncle Hassam in Granada for one—I hold dear.’

      Just then Leonor appeared in the doorway, clothed in a silk gown the colour of sapphires, the wide crimson-lined sleeves brushing the floor at her feet. A lanky squire at her side carried her harp. She looked like a queen. A suffocating warmth filled his chest and he struggled to control his ragged breathing. Even if he could steel himself to look upon her, he was not sure he could bear to hear her sing again.

      But if she was in fact the agent he was to meet, he must identify himself to her tonight.

      Across the hall their gazes met and held, and in her soft grey eyes he read a question. Under his surcoat his heart jumped erratically. What question?

      She glided to the centre of the hall, the squire trailing behind, then lifted the carved instrument from the boy’s hands and sent him a smile of gratitude. Conversation in the hall faded to a hush.

      Blushing crimson, the youth backed into a seated knight, nearly overbalancing them both. The knight righted the stammering squire and clapped him on the back. ‘In love now, are you, Galeran? Well, perhaps it’s time. Might as well learn about heartbreak when you’re young.’

      Leonor waited until the squire had fled and the guffaws died down, then seated herself, detached her tuning key from the gold chain at her waist, and bent her head over the strings. She plucked softly, and when she was satisfied, she set the harp aside and rose to make a polite reverence to Lady Alais and Count Henri.

      Again her glance locked with Reynaud’s. Against his will, he held her eyes until his skittering pulse sounded in his ears. At last, she sent him a slow smile, and his senses exploded.

      His body burned with longing, and he closed his eyes to control the tightness in his loins. In all his thirty-two years he had never seen such a beautiful woman. Poor Galeran. He knew exactly how the youth suffered.

      She began her song and Reynaud gulped a mouthful of wine. If she was the agent sent to meet him, she would again sing of the silver swan. And if she did, he must find a way to answer with the second half of the coded message.

      He motioned to the wine server to refill his cup. Mesmerised, he watched Leonor’s slim form move subtly with the music, drinking in every nuance in her voice, the rich poetry of the verse.

      She began a second verse. Her voice floated over the melody echoed by the harp, and suddenly the words smacked into his brain. Know you the silver swan?

      He sucked in his breath.

      Over the edge of his wine cup he glimpsed a movement at the back of the hall. A black-cloaked figure stopped, then crept forwards again, advancing step by step like a cat. Closer, now. A few arm-lengths more and he would be able to make out the man’s features hidden under the loose hood.

      The stranger’s hard blue eyes studied the throng of listeners, then peered at Leonor. She drew the song to a close and raised her head expectantly, her hands poised over the harp strings.

      An odd silence descended over the hall. No one moved. No one so much as coughed or cleared his throat. The silence stretched until the humming in his brain set his teeth on edge.

      It must be now. Answer with the correct response. He should have spoken before, but he could not bring himself to believe Leonor was involved. Now, hearing the words for the second time in two nights, there was no mistaking it.

      Still, he hesitated.

       He must speak. As soon as she delivered the message to him, her task would be complete and she would be safe. Then he could leave Moyanne, leave Leonor in the protection of her uncle, and ride away from the sweet torture he endured every minute he was in her presence. Every league he put between them drew the danger away from her.

      He opened his mouth, but before he could get a word out, a gruff voice spoke from the shadows.

      ‘The silver swan, lady? It sings but once, then dies.’

      Reynaud froze, an icy hand clamping his spine. That was the correct response. But who…?

      Leonor sat without moving, her eyes on the stranger. A pulse throbbed at her throat.