only the click of the closing door alerting Elizabeth to the fact her companion had departed. Gathering Rosie close to her, she ran her hands through the spaniel’s long, silky coat.
“I won’t sleep tonight,” she whispered to the dog. “Damn him, he’s robbed me of another perfectly decent night’s sleep.”
Rosie made a little growling sound as she struggled to get comfortable. Despite the blackness that shrouded her, Lizzy turned to face her bedroom window. Beyond the glass, she could see in her mind’s eye the black, sooty grime of London. The town houses and the spire of churches and the dome of Saint Paul’s—all memories from when she’d possessed sight.
She saw a field covered with a thick white blanket of frost, and tendrils of mist hovering over the ground. In the breeze, wool greatcoats flapped, and she heard pistols fire, the shots cracking through the silent air, leaving grey smoke twirling upwards from the barrels.
She imagined the scene a hundred different times in those long hours she lay silently in bed, but it was always the same. The colour of blood had swum before her eyes, and the prone body of a man was revealed with the parting of the crimson.
It was Alynwick. And despite her attempts to deny it, her heart ached at the very thought.
Unable to withstand the images she saw in her head, she felt around her nightstand, searching for the drawer pull. Finding it, she opened the drawer and lifted out the little leather journal that lay hidden inside.
Opening the cover, she allowed her fingers to trace over the brittle vellum page. She had found the diary of her notorious ancestor Sinjin York years ago, while playing in the attic of her family’s country house. She hadn’t understood what it was until she was older.
Once she discovered that it was a very detailed account of Sinjin’s illicit affair with an unknown woman whom he called “My Veiled Lady,” Elizabeth had been on a quest to discover the woman’s identity.
She had lost her sight before she could, and now she was left with only the memories of passages she could no longer read.
But tonight, for some reason, she took comfort in the feel of the familiar brittle pages, which she knew held Sinjin’s flowing script. And words that had captured not only her imagination, but aroused her womanly needs—needs she had always imagined sharing with one person.
4th May, 1147—Carpathians.
I have taken up the cross for my kingdom in the fight to protect Jerusalem and all of Christendom. My army is amassed, and a truce, however tenuous, has been reached between myself and the French king, Louis VII, whose army has joined with mine. We will march to Bucharest, where we will meet with the German emperor. Then on to Byzantium, where I pray we will be allowed a peaceful crossing. I have received a missive from the Byzantine emperor, Manuel I Comnenus, who will guarantee our safe passage.
We leave on the morn, the 6th of May, the feast day of Saint George. The priest that travels with me will not hear of crossing the woods and mountains on the eve of Saint George. For at nightfall on this day it is believed that all things evil have full sway. The priest is old and superstitious, but I relent for the peace of my men, who are swayed by the tales of village peasants and gypsies, who fill their minds with talk of unnatural creatures that roam unseen around us.
I must remind myself that the Carpathians are a wild and untamed place, far removed from my beloved England. If I close my eyes I can still see the rocky coastline of Yorkshire, smell the brine of the North Sea and taste the salt on my tongue.
My memory turns to Isolde, whom I treasure above all things on earth. She was fearful of my leaving; however I allayed my lover’s fears by telling her to remember me—my voice—for it will comfort her in the months ahead when she is alone. I assured my beloved Isolde that God will not forsake me on the field of glory, for which I fight for in His name. I shall return to her, the Crusades won, my heart still beating for her. I cannot help but wonder what she is doing, if she is sitting beneath the night sky thinking of me, as I am thinking of her….
Elizabeth had memorized that passage, just as she had all the other thrilling pages that followed. At first she had thought the diary merely an account of Sinjin’s travels from England to Jerusalem, and the events of the Crusades. And perhaps in the beginning that was the intention. But she had no sooner turned the page and read the next entry, than she’d been drawn into Sinjin’s private world of love, lust, obsession and sin….
17th May, 1147
Entered Constantinople. Reached an amicable arrangement with the Seljuk Turks. The men are nervous, fearing an attack from the Seljuks, who have been known to make alliances with the infidels. Spirits are low, especially now that it seems our priest has gone mad, possessed by some unseen thing, rambling about an unholy aura that follows us. He claims he sees that aura hovering over me—a warning, he claims, of temptation and sin. The man is mad, and I have dispatched him with four men to Sighisoara, where he will embark on a journey back to England.
The men believe the priest’s ramblings, and it is more and more difficult, what with the constant fatigue and heat and very great thirst, to appeal to their rational minds.
Tomorrow we leave for Edessa, where we will rest for a few days and regain our strength. Then I shall follow my Templar brothers, who will bring us to the Holy City and our fate—the fight to keep Jerusalem in Christian hands.
—Addendum; early dawn. I dreamed of a woman. Not Isolde, but a temptress, covered in jewels and a veil. She whispered to me, beckoned to me in my sleep to a land of exotic pleasures. I awoke with the memory of the priest’s wild eyes as he gave his dire warnings to me. Some sinful temptation was following me, and it would be my ruination.
My brethren must never find out about Isolde, nor must they ever discover my dreams of the woman, for I have taken my Templar vows of chastity. But I am only a man. Man was not made to be celibate. The Dukes of Sussex were born to love women, to pleasure them with bodies honed by fighting. And I have my fair share of desires. Even now, my body is hard and aching, with images clouding my judgement. Not images of beautiful Isolde, but the mysterious woman of my dreams.
I cannot help but think that this journey to the Holy City will change everything I have ever known—everything I am. I suspect it will not be the war we wage that does so, but instead, the woman of my dreams, whom I know awaits me in Jerusalem. Perhaps I am cursed as the mad priest claims, but no curse could prevent me from moving heaven and hell to find her.
No power on earth to prevent him from moving heaven and hell to find his beloved … Elizabeth wished she could find a man who felt that way about her. Silly, naïve dream, she thought as she clutched the diary to her breasts and allowed herself to slip into sleep. She owed it to Sinjin to discover this Veiled Lady. To reward his passion and devotion by learning their story, and perhaps one day recounting it to her nieces and nephews. For she did not dare think of her own children. She would not have a story like Sinjin and his lover. She had long ago given up that dream.
Move heaven and hell … She thought of that, heard it whispered in a dark, velvety, caressing voice, and saw the eyes of the devil himself. If only he had thought that way all those years ago.
CHAPTER FOUR
“NOW, LARABIE,” Black growled as he came to his feet behind Alynwick. “This is uncalled for. Allow us to emerge from the carriage, and your second and myself will commence with officiating this duel—utilizing the proper rules.”
“Why should I?” Larabie snarled as he kept the barrel of the pistol raised to the spot between Alynwick’s eyes. “The bastard has never played by the rules before. Defiling a man’s wife,” he grunted. “I should shoot off your bollocks instead of your head.”
“Larabie,” Alynwick drawled, “let us see if you’re man enough. Pull the damn trigger.”
“I