A Knight In Her Bed

Copyright © 2013, Evie North

KINDLE EDITION

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A KNIGHT IN HER BED by EVIE NORTH

(KNIGHTS OF PASSION
)

There were five of them, boys, whom Stephen the would-be-king had gathered together for safety. Their fathers were his strongest supporters, lords and barons who had been killed in the battle for the throne between Stephen and his cousin Matilda. He placed them in an orphanage connected to a monastery and there he trained them to grow into knightly warriors. The tattoo upon their arms proclaimed their allegiance to the king and each other, and their determination to win back their destiny.

A KNIGHT IN HER BED

1151AD

Juliet
was hungry. She’d gone without food for three days now and her body was weak, her head spinning. There had been times before when she did not eat but that was when she was younger. Tougher. The softer life she’d been living, travelling with a band of minstrels and staying in grand castles, had made her lax.

A campfire burned brightly in a space between the torched houses. What had once been a village was now ash and despair, and the destroyers were feasting in the middle of it.

Dark eyes narrowed she crept closer, watchful, knowing her life depended upon her fleetness of foot. The men were drunk, laughing, some of them curled up to sleep wherever they fell. She knew she should wait longer, until they were all asleep, but her belly was rumbling and her head light as air, and she thought if she waited any longer she may collapse where she stood.

It was time.

Juliet took a step and then another. Slowly she approached the campfire, finally getting down on her belly and inching forward. She had her sight set on a haversack just beyond the light of the campfire. The men had been removing foodstuffs from it and her mouth watered with anticipation as she crept across the uneven ground.

Cautiously
she edged forward, until her hand was on the haversack. She began to tug it backwards, slowly, slowly, her arm trembling at the weight of it.

“Hey! Thief!”

The accusing voice was very loud. The men were lurching to their feet, glaring around, fumbling for weapons with drunken hands. The one who’d given the alarm was moving toward her and his mouth looked ugly in the firelight.

Juliet
jumped up.

When t
hey saw it was a woman they stopped, but she knew it wouldn’t be for long. In war torn England women alone at night were good for one thing only. She must surprise them and give herself time to get away.

She gave
a loud clap of her hands and then she began to turn cartwheels. Over and over, her legs in the air, her skirts and long dark hair tumbling about her, as she wheeled back the way she’d come. Into the safety of the shadows.

The
only view she had of the men, as she spun, was their surprised faces. As soon as she reached the shadows she jumped to her feet and began to run. She knew that in a heartbeat they’d be behind her, baying like hunting hounds.

But
Juliet had overestimated her physical strength. Legs wobbling, head spinning, heart pounding, she stumbled against the blackened wall of a building. She knew in a moment they’d be on her and she wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it.

When the hand grasped her arm she thought it was one of them and turned to face him, determined to fight to the last.

“Very clever, mademoiselle.”

His voice
stopped her. It was soft and husky, and she saw at once that he wasn’t one of the men from the campfire. There was enough light from the moon and stars to show her his fine clothing—his jewelled sword-belt and leather gloves—although his bowed face was in shadow. This was someone important.

A lord then
. A gentleman. Although in Juliet’s experience they were often worse than their underlings.

“Let me go,” she
said quietly, more of a command than a plea.

Soft laughter.
“I don’t think so.” He caught her as she tried to escape, swinging her back into his arms, his hand momentarily covering the swell of her breast.

They both froze,
then his hand automatically tightened and Juliet felt dizzy. Not from pain but from something unexpected. Desire. Perhaps it was because of the life threatening moment she was in, and the way his voice sent shivers down her spine. But it was definitely desire. Her nipple tightened, stabbing his palm. She became aware of the steady beat of his heart against her back, and then the sigh of his breath. And just for a moment his hold turned into a caress, his thumb brushing over the hard bud, turning her knees to water.

“She’s here, she’s here!” The hound pack
came roaring around the corner and comically slathered to a stop when they saw who was with her. “Sir, we didn’t know . . . she was stealing our food . . .”

Their leader waved a dismissive hand. “I have her. Go to sleep. We ride out early in the morning.”

Slowly they gathered themselves, staggering back the way they’d come, a few glances over their shoulders and a few muffled sniggers. And then she and her rescuer were alone again.

“What is your name?” he said
quietly.

Juliet
tried to pull away but his grip on her arms was too strong. Play along then, she thought. Pretend to be a willing victim. If he wants your body then say yes, but take the chance when it comes to run away. She’d done it before.

“
Juliet, my lord. I was travelling to my sister but I got lost. And frightened. There is much destruction.”

He said nothing for a moment. “You are hungry, I think,
Juliet. I am hungry too. Come with me to my tent and we will eat.”

She
considered him, listening for any double entendre, but he seemed to mean exactly what he’d said, so she nodded, allowing him to lead her along in the darkness. He was a big broad shouldered man, and tall, but his steps were barely audible. She shot little glances at him, wondering what he wanted from her and whether she would be able to talk her way out of it. Ahead a torch blazed in front of an impressive tent and a couple of guards straightened up, watching her approach with narrowed eyes.

“Bring food,” their lord
told them. He brushed aside the canvas flap of the tent door and strode through, tugging her after him.

Juliet
took a moment to inspect her surroundings. There were furs piled on a mattress on the floor, to make a bed, and a colourful rug with armfuls of cushions for sitting upon. A table looked to be covered in rolled parchments as well as a silver goblet and a wine jug. A scuffed wooden trunk that had seen much travel had been flung open and she spied a richly embroidered tunic and breeches tossed carelessly into it.

Here was a man
, she thought, who was used to living on the march. A soldier. But all the same he demanded certain standards; he refused to live rough.

She turned to him to say something amusing
about his cushions, and instead found herself struck dumb.

His face was handsome, or had been, but a savage blow with a
sharp weapon had cut through the muscles on the left side. The wound had healed into an ugly scar and his expression seemed twisted, frozen. Until she met his eyes. They were bright and alive, and full of mockery at her reaction. It was as if he had expected nothing else, and she was irritated with herself that she could not have surprised him.

“Are you King Stephen’s man, or do you fight for Matilda
and her son Henry?” she asked blithely, sitting down on a cushion.

He snorted a laugh. “Does it matter to you?”

“Not really. They both rampage over the country without caring who they hurt.”

He poured wine into the goblet and held it out to her where she sat. Cautiously she reached for it, making sure to smile sweetly into his eyes. The wine looked pleasant and a sip told her it was sweet, not the thin sour stuff she was used to. Great lords in their castles did not waste their best wine on the entertainment. She took another sip, watching him as he removed his sword, laying the belt and scabbard over the trunk.

“You are an acrobat?” he questioned, turning to observe her.

“Among other things. I am one of a band of travelling minstrels,” she explained. “I was, that is. My troupe was . . . well, lately I have been travelling alone.”

“To your sister’s?” he remembered.

She nodded, took another sip. The wine was good but she must not drink any more, without any food in her belly it was swiftly going to her head and she needed all her wits about her with this man.

The tent
door opened and one of the guards carried in food on a platter, cold meats with bread and more wine. Juliet’s mouth watered and she had to physically stop herself jumping up and cramming the meat into her mouth. After a moment of silence, that husky voice she was beginning to know, said, “Will you eat, Juliet?”

She opened her eyes. She had shut them to block out the sight of the food. He was watching her with a faint twist of his mouth, a smile on the good side and a grimace on the other. She thanked him gravely and took
some of the meat and tore off some of the coarse bread, trying not to bolt it down like a hungry animal.

“More wine?” He was holding out the jug, and she realised with surprise that she had
emptied the goblet. He filled it and went to sit at the table, not eating himself, just watching her.

It occurred to her that he wasn’t behaving
as she’d expected. True, he wasn’t a common soldier; she could already tell he was a man of some education, breeding and refinement. But in Juliet’s experience that meant little when that man was alone with a young and not unattractive woman in a tent. He hadn’t pounced on her or forced her down onto the bed; he hadn’t made suggestive remarks or offered her coins for her body. He’d been kind and gentlemanly and his behaviour was having a disturbing effect upon her, and even more disturbingly
she kept remembering where his hand had held her breast and the firm brush of his thumb over her nipple.

She
’d had lovers, the latest being one of the other travelling minstrels, but that was nearly a year ago and since then she’d been chaste. Henry had been a little rough and too eager, attacking her body like a juicy slab of beef, but all the same she missed the closeness, the feel of a body pressed skin to skin with hers. It had made her feel alive, and suddenly she wanted to feel that again. She wanted to touch and taste a man’s skin.

This
man’s skin.

Startled at her own thoughts,
Juliet looked up and found his eyes upon her. They were pale. Blue? No, grey, silver grey. She wondered whether his mouth would be rough against hers, where the scar crossed it, and whether he would be eager like Henry, or practised and bored, having had so many women.

Suddenly it didn’t
matter.

She was alone and lonely and he was well made and generous. She could take what she wanted and be on her way, with a few pleasant memories to take with her. It wouldn’t mean anything. It wasn’t as if he could touch her heart
.

“Will I have to pay for my meal?” she said, her voice
sing song from the wine, but she wasn’t drunk. Rather the wine had made her see her life for what it was, and her loneliness was suddenly acute.

He sipped from his goblet and for a moment she swore his hand was shaking
. But it could not be; it must be a trick of the light. “The food is free, Juliet, but if you wish to stay
longer . . . ?”

She stood up,
smoothing down her dull green skirts. Her dark hair was loose about her shoulders and she twisted it and tossed it back, out of the way. Juliet was a small woman and curvy in all the right places. She had admirers, many of them, but she was choosy. She could count her lovers on one hand and there had never been a man who captured her heart.

Slowly, watching him, she made her approach. He sat perfectly still, observing her, but there was a gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
Standing before him, she hesitated a moment, suddenly doubting herself. Perhaps he didn’t like women. There were men like that. But as soon as she placed her hand lightly upon his shoulder he pulled her down onto his lap, and she forgot everything in the heat of desire.

His mouth was bumpy where the scar crossed it, but she hardly noticed in the
bolt of hot lust his kiss produced in her. Her blood burned, her heart pounded, and she felt completely alive for the first time in a long time. He was clasping her hip and as she moaned and pressed closer, he pulled her around so that her thighs straddled his on the chair. Now she was facing him directly, and he ran his fingers through her escaped hair and held it back from her face, so that she had no way of hiding her expression from him.

“You are sure?” he said.

Juliet laughed and kissed him again. Her hands went to his breeches, tugging at the ties but he was there before her, opening the flap so that she could delve inside and find his cock, already hugely erect and eager for her attention. He was tugging up her skirts, hands gliding over her thighs, fingers seeking between them and finding her wet and hot. She pushed against them, rubbing her sex against his fingers, making little satisfied sounds in her throat.

Juliet could have stayed like that, pleasuring herself against his calloused hands, kissing his mouth.
But he was impatient. Abruptly he took hold of her buttocks and dragged her forward, his cock sliding into her pussy and not stopping until he was deep inside. She knew her eyes were wide, her lips parted in a soft gasp. He was a big man.

“
Juliet,” he said in that sexy husky voice. Just her name and nothing else.