The Heat of the Knight (10 page)

“What goes on here?” a voice boomed.

Giants encircled them, and Christiana actually drew closer to her captor.

“Utter a sound and I shall slit your throat,” he hissed at Christiana before standing upright. His hand moved to the hilt of his sword. “My errant wife needed a lesson. Spread her thighs for my groomsman. I thought I'd let her experience the full
thrust
of my disapproval.” He punctuated his suggestive comment with a lewd laugh that sounded less than genuine. Christiana heard the faint vibration of fear.

“If your wife finds your visage so repellant that you need wear a mask, perhaps you cannot blame her for enjoying the groomsman's favors,” one of the terrifying knights said. “Hail, fellows. What fate awaits this knave?”

There was the creak of metal as the helmets turned in unison, focusing on one rider, the tallest of them all. He was outfitted in ebony metal.
The Blacksmith.
They awaited his verdict.

“Kill him.” The voice coming from within the black mask was deep and pitiless.

The man who held her captive jumped to his feet. “Now hold a minute. I have done nothing against any of you.”

Could she trust that she would be safe with this band of warriors? The leader had already been made myth, the self-appointed king's enforcer. But what if he was a greater rogue than the villain who had captured her?

With her abductor's attention drawn from her, she chose to flee rather than wait for the Blacksmith to decide her fate. Holding her bound arms in front of her, she pushed through the low-hanging branches. Too soon, she could hear pounding footfalls crunching twigs and leaves underfoot. The man with the hawk mask raced up beside her and slapped his hand around the back of her neck. His painful grip compelled her to keep up with his rapid pace. He screamed suddenly, his hand falling away from her. Their pursuer had taken precise aim. A dagger protruded from a gap in the kidnapper's armor.

Blood dripped down the shiny metal plate at his elbow. Clutching his arm, he broke into a crooked run.

The horse's breath was hot against her back. Without breaking the horse's stride, the knife thrower scooped her from the ground and plunked her atop the horse. For the third time that day, she was a pawn of an arrogant bastard. Her seat was precarious, and she grabbed a handful of the man's black tunic with her bound hands.

A gruff, low voice echoed beneath the hood of the helmet. She had to tilt her head to hear him properly. Rather than topple out of the saddle, she continued to cling to the man.

“Clearly, you were not so eager to be rescued.”

“To say that, you can't know, sir, what a fearsome sight you present.”

“Who was that man?”

“I am not on intimate terms with my abductor.”

“Was it a ransom he was after?”

She laughed. “There would have been little chance of his success.”

“There is no one you belong to?”

These questions were starting to have a sting to them. “Only my body, not my heart, sir,” she lied and experienced a soul deep ache.

That brazen admission silenced the man for a time.

When he spoke again, she could hear the sneer in his voice. “If you preferred not to be parted from your abductor, perhaps you were hoping to enjoy the man's punishment. Mayhap, you will show me the same consideration.” He pulled off his glove and trailed his fingers through her hair. Her body reacted in the most shocking way: it tingled at his touch. Only Beckett's touch had ever produced such a sensation. Suspicious, she watched as he took the reins with his bared hand. The long, handsome fingers, the squared nails.

She was quite certain that those fingers had caressed her intimately just last night.

“The townspeople say you are a hero,” she purred seductively. She hoped to distract him with her flirtatious tone as she placed her hand atop his sleeve and inched it up. She held her breath until she saw the familiar birthmark. S for sin, as Colin often teased him.

S for secretive, more fittingly. Even the white blaze of his destrier had been obscured with black paint or grease.

He had never had any intention of sharing his shadow life with her. “You've quite the reputation.”

“Truly?” The single word resonated inside the helmet.

“I wish I could think of a way to repay you, but I'm penniless. I have only myself to offer.”

He lost momentary control of the horse. She slid in the saddle, and he caught her roughly around the ribs. He reined in to a hard stop, whisked her off the saddle, and set her down on the ground. Agile even with all his armament, he soon stood towering beside her. With a sweetly sly smile, she held up her hands for him. With impatience, he unknotted the binds.

Without being asked, she dropped onto all fours on a nearby patch of wild grass. He shed some but not all his armor. “Keep your face forward, woman,” he commanded. His helmet landed with a clink atop the pile. He dropped to his knees behind her and shoved her skirt above her hips.

She was a little fearful that she'd unnerved him, yet she felt a measure of satisfaction.

She would let him stew a bit, then she would tell him she'd guessed all along. She was already wet in anticipation. He rubbed his cock against the cleft of her buttocks. She bucked when he moistened her tight puckered hole with a finger he must have wet with his mouth.

Her hand moved to refuse him entry. He was testing her, to see if she would offer a stranger what she had yet to give to him.

“Not as obliging as I'd hoped, my sweet maiden.”

He took her in the usual fashion. She sensed his frustration. His hands steadying her hips were actually shaking. And there was a fierceness in the way he rode her. Her spine tingled to think that this powerful, dangerous man she'd offered herself up to was actually the love of her life.

As the days and then weeks passed and Beckett did not return, the need to explain her rash behavior had become so desperate that Christiana found it impossible to sleep or eat. Why had she done such a chancy thing? She was certain Beckett thought her a whore who would twitch her bottom for any stranger. She winced as she recalled his quiet fury.

After taking his pleasure, he’d used the cover of darkness to outfit himself once again as the Blacksmith, and then ridden like a man possessed to drop her at the castle gates.

After a month had crawled by, the Dareford estate finally came alive with shouts and laughter, and she knew the master's arrival was imminent. She opened the wooden shutters and watched him cross the bridge. He was no longer in the guise of the Blacksmith, nor was he alone. Accompanying him was a large, elegant entourage. A woman atop a sleek roan sat proudly by his side. The red hair for which the Pikhorn family was famous fluttered in the breeze. She could not have sat more erect in the saddle if she had a broomstick up her backside, Christiana thought uncharitably.

As night fell, Christiana was still ensconced in the great chamber, awaiting her eviction. On this last night, when she still had the right to summon a servant, she had a roaring fire prepared. After bolting the shutters to keep out the celebratory noises, she shed her clothing. From the sewing basket, she pulled his tunic and donned it. She brought the sleeve up to her nose and inhaled deeply. She blissfully imagined that his masculine scent still lingered. Wrapping herself in furs, she stretched out before the hearth with a generous mug of wine. When the door opened behind her, she did not turn her head to acknowledge his entrance. She tossed back some of the wine.

“You appear to have survived your kidnapping ordeal well.”

She viewed him over her shoulder. His face looked ashen, and the skin beneath his eyes was so dark it looked bruised, as if he hadn't slept in weeks.

“All due to the Blacksmith.”

His black brows raised. “The smithy, Old Dodd?” he asked, apparently unaware of the nickname the villeins had given him.

“Not the actual blacksmith. The hero who forges a riotous path for the king. Certainly you know of the man's exploits. His metal is gleaming black or is it matte? 'Twas hard to tell in the near twilight.” She shrugged.

“Bastards wanted a ransom, no doubt.”

She giggled. “Though they insisted it wasn't gold they were after, I believe the fools actually thought you cared enough to pay to get me back.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. “A sentry at the gate saw Thomas leading you out.”

“Do not blame the boy. They'd beaten him, I'm certain.”

To calm herself, she shut her eyes for a moment and concentrated on the pine scent of the wood fire.

“You are reprieved. Your services are no longer necessary.”

Her eyes snapped open. “I've already anticipated that.” She pointed to the bundle of garments she'd tied together. “I saw you arrive with your lady-wife,” she said. The wine she'd used to fortify herself blunted the pain of the expected dismissal. But her body was restless. It did not accept her new fate so easily. She squirmed beneath the coverlet. Her body craved the attention he once lavished on her.

“Lady Pikhorn is very tall. I believe she suits you. You will breed Amazons and giants. Children with her vibrant red hair or your beautiful black eyes.”

After another emboldening swallow of the wine, she peeled away the furs. “I had been hoping we could have one last night of it. But I see that's quite impossible.”

His eyes flickered. Was he surprised to find that she'd been nearly naked beneath the covers? He seemed particularly fascinated with her bare calves.

She drew the tunic over her head and tossed it back into the sewing basket. His wolfish gaze hungrily stroked her bared body. “I'd been thinking all week of what I wished to do to you,” she said. “I wanted to kneel at your feet. To take each of those deliciously heavy sacs and lave them with my tongue before taking turns cupping each in my mouth. Then I'd lick away the cream that would have formed at the tip of your cock.”

Though her body was rosy from the heat, her nipples puckered at the thought of servicing him.

Beckett's gaze drifted to her breasts, plainly focusing on the manifestation of her desire. She wet her finger and swirled it around one of her aroused nipples, then did the same for the other, making them glisten.

His eyes gleamed with a predatory light. Unsettled, her voice quavered as she continued. She showed him that her hair was now long enough to wrap around her fist.

“You could have had a nice grasp on my locks, and be quite demanding. Make sure I took as much of you in my mouth as I possibly could.”

He stalked to the window, worked the bolts loose, and flung open the shutters. They clapped against the stone wall. The night poured in. His nostrils flared as they drew in the frigid air.

He turned back to face her, his entire body held tensely. “Put your damn clothes on,” he thundered.

She nearly unbalanced herself with a curtsy, and said, “Your command is my wish, or some such obedient nonsense. The Blacksmith has a rather masterful manner, as well.”

“Swoon over your phantom hero outside my hearing.”

“I do hope he comes around again, so that I may offer him more of my gratitude.”

With her head swimming, she donned her garments, stopping now and again to take a steadying breath, lest she found herself tossing up her wine-filled stomach all over the floor.

“And how is it you show your gratitude?”

“On my hands and knees, of course, with my bottom bared.”

“Faithless witch.”

Giddy from the wine, she bit her lip to stop from laughing. Could the man actually be jealous of himself? Mayhap, his heart wasn't completely armored against her. “I felt, in our fleeting time together, that I could sense his soul.”

“While he fucked you on all fours?”

She bowed her head as if chastened. “You have made me see the error of my ways. I shall devote myself entirely to him. Body and soul.”

“Well, we know what your devotion is worth, don't we?”

“Pray, do not lecture me. How many women have you enjoyed since you first took me to bed?”

A slight breeze stirred his long black hair. “A man does not stray if he has all he wants.”

A lump formed in her throat. She suspected she'd actually wounded him with her impulsive actions. But she needed only to think of his new bride to keep her mouth shut on the truth. What matter if he thought her a disloyal bitch? She snatched up her bundle of clothes. “Where is it those who are banished go? I believe my mother's people are still in Yorkshire. Mayhap, I would be welcome. Or shall I become an outlaw in the forest as my lover is?”

His face shed all its color at her last provocative statement. “Leave the grounds and I shall come for you.”

She did not doubt his threat. “You would hunt me down? I remind you that we were once friends.”

“Now we are only master and servant. Conveniently for you, Lady Pikhorn has requested an attendant.”

“I'd rather not be a maid to your new bride.”

“You have no choice, my false-hearted wench. 'Tisn't Blanche Pikhorn you will be tending, it will be her mother.”

“
Pikhorn?
Not wed yet?” Unreasonably, she felt a measure of relief. “Mayhap, when the glad day arrives, you will take pity on me and allow me the privilege of marrying as well.”

“To whom? The Blacksmith?” His dark eyes glinted with anger.

From her bundle of clothes she plucked the jeweled headband he'd given her. “In future, I shall remember to beware of knights bearing gifts.” With a jerk of her wrist, she sent the glittering band spinning across the room and watched as he snatched it out of the air.

Lady Pikhorn lifted her milky blue eyes from the sampler she was working on as Christiana eased into the room. “Lord Dareford has sent me, my lady,” Christiana said with a curtsy.

The old woman's countenance grew instantly bitter, the skin puckering around her lips. What had likely been brilliant red hair was now the translucent white of a spider web. Wisps of it peaked out from the wimple she wore on her head. “Start by untangling those skeins. And light more candles.” Her eyes narrowed to lizard-like slits. “Your master can afford it, so do not dare give me that look, or I shall clout you one.”