The Heat of the Knight (12 page)

Their swords clashed as Beckett forced Revynwyll to back up across the field. Sweat blurred Beckett's vision. Revynwyll's blade struck Beckett's arm plate, and the tip shattered. Seemingly unnerved, Revynwyll hacked ineffectively, stirring little more than the air. Soon the blade barely rose before falling with a heaviness that proved his weariness.

Beckett, too, was bending beneath the weight of his sword. They took one step back from each other and gulped the air like water-starved fish.

“However will I treat your wench to a passionate fuck, if you exhaust me so?” The drawling voice had lost its richness.

With a roar, Beckett lunged, slicing his sword in a great arc, cleanly separating the man's head from its body.

In the kitchen, Agnes eyed Christiana with pity. “Poor thing, having to deal with that old crone.” She cut a thick slice of bread. “Is it her hip paining her again or another one of her many ailments?”

Christiana could take no pleasure in gossiping about the old lady's tyrannical ways.

Her days since Beckett's dismissal of her had been lived in a daze. “Lady Pikhorn would like some treacle spread atop. A little…”

“I know, I know, a little thicker,” Agnes finished for her. “She'll be miraculously healed by dinner, I wager.”

Thomas appeared with a vat of honey, which he set hurriedly atop the table beside the loaves of bread.

Balancing the tray laden with wine, bread, and sausages, Christiana left the kitchen.

In the corridor, Christiana could hear Thomas's skipping step behind her. “I've brought you something.”

From the sleeve of his tunic he pulled two candles. They were stubby, crooked things. Obviously, he'd molded them himself. He untied the pouch strung from his belt and removed a small sack speckled with juice. She noticed that his fingers were stained red as well.

She accepted his gifts, the sweet smell of berries making her smile. “You shouldn't leave the village to collect those. 'Tisn't safe.”

“Needn't worry about it. Revynwyll is dead as dead can be. The king's men are scouring the countryside looking for his slayer.”

“Do they know who killed him?” she croaked out the question. She prayed it wasn't Beckett they hunted.

Thomas shrugged. “The duke had only enemies. Could be anyone. But Revynwyll was a lord, and, no doubt, they will hang the killer. Though all folk in these parts would choose to give him a hero's parade.” Thomas's wide grin revealed his teeth up to his pink gums. “If you ask me, it was the Blacksmith did the deed.”

* * * *

As instructed, Christiana stood behind Lady Pikhorn's chair at dinner, ever ready to carve the woman's meat into even smaller pieces. Because of her lame leg, Lady Pikhorn had refused to climb the step to the high table. Lord Dareford had sent men to carry her to her seat. But she'd clubbed them both over the head with her fist. So now she sat at a specially constructed trestle table facing the dais, setting her apart as a personage of exalted status. Roger Pikhorn, who had arrived with trumpets blowing that very morning, had chosen to dine with his mother. For the hundredth time, his crafty eyes flitted to Christiana.

“Sit, beauty.” The abruptness of his demand startled Christiana. He patted the bench at his side.

“Do your whoring when I am not present if you please.” Lady Pikhorn shoveled a greasy piece of duck into her mouth and took no notice of the drip sliding down her doubled chin.

“Hush, you old battleaxe.” The churlish man snapped his fingers, and Christiana reluctantly obeyed.

Scooting on the bench, he moved in cozily, his thigh pressing against hers. He removed a knife from his wallet. When he smiled, his pointy beard tilted upward. His hair was nearly as red as his sister's, but his beard was a match for the gold braiding on his tunic. His coloring and the rather sharp features of his face gave him a fox-like quality.

He'd doused himself in flower water. The cloying smell overpowered the aroma of the dishes placed before them. They were to share a trencher, and the implications that he would be feeding her from his own utensil struck her.

Lady Pikhorn scowled at her son. “'Tis an outrageous insult. Do you expect me to dine with a chambermaid?” Finally aware of the grease on her chin, she swiped at it with the back of her sleeve.

“God knows it would take more than a wee serving wench to keep you from stuffing your face.”

The old woman grunted something unintelligible and dove back into her trencher with both hands.

For the first time Christiana looked toward the dais to find Beckett glowering down at her. She could feel the power of the man from across the room. Christiana wished he wouldn't always stare so boldly. It made the Pikhorn women even nastier to her. And, of course, their kinsman's fawning attention to her would only serve to infuriate them more.

Roger Pikhorn speared a piece of duck and lifted it to her mouth. She placed her fingers over her lips and shook her head no. Somehow to accept food from this stranger would be akin to cheating on Beckett, and, though he was done with her, she was not yet ready to betray what they'd had.

“So pleasingly shy,” he remarked, but it seemed like an accusation. A taut smile thinned his lips.

Without tasting, Christiana fed herself a few morsels of food.

Leaving Beckett's side on the dais, Blanche Pikhorn walked stiffly toward her brother. She bent low to address him. “Must you dally with the strumpet right under Dareford's nose?” she hissed.

“'Tis a wonder you have not asked for my ballocks to hang 'round your neck.” Her brother slid the point of his knife under her dangling necklace so that the pendant rested on the blade. There was menace in the act. “Betrothed, yet? I did not think so. Mayhap, if you were less a shrew, the man would not be so repelled.” He hooked her necklace with his knife tip and tugged so that the chain dug into the skin of her neck. “The trick, dear sister, is to entice not repel.” His gaze shifted to Christiana. He boldly lapped up her appearance with pale, wicked eyes. “Then you could have Dareford panting as I'm certain this silver-haired lovely must.” He now appraised his own sister from head to toe.

“Although it does seem an impossible task from this vantage point.”

Blanche's face grew red. “Mother! Do something about your vile spawn!”

Frowning, Lady Pikhorn wrapped her gnarled fingers around Roger's wrist. He dropped his knife back to the table. “Roger is correct. You must be more agreeable.”

Roger smirked at his sister. “Take heed, dear sister, the man watches you at this very minute. At least make an attempt at being feminine.”

Blanche straightened, making sure to push her breasts out, all the while sucking in her round belly. Casting a flirtatious smile at Lord Dareford, she tipped her head demurely in his direction.

She spun back around to the family. “But Mother, you told me to set my demands early lest the man think he has the upper hand.”

“Do you think a man of Dareford's brute nature will be gelded?” Roger asked.

Blanche leaned closer to Roger. “The only man I wish to geld is sitting at this table. And when I am Countess Dareford, I will have your ballocks, but not to wear around my neck. I rather imagine them swimming in a nice gravy.”

Christiana smothered a giggle with her hand. What a perfectly wretched argument.

There was nothing redeeming about this entire family, and Beckett would have to contend with them until his dying day. A day he would probably pray for once he was wed.

Cold fingers grabbed Christiana's arm. Blanche made a point of pressing her long nails into Christiana's skin. “You! Aren't you supposed to be waiting on us? Remove yourself from this table at once.”

“Gently there, sister, the master looks ready to jump the table.”

Blanche released her grip as if she'd only just realized she held a hot poker.

Christiana glanced up toward the dais as she slipped off the bench. His feigned concern was more than she could bear. A man that cared for a woman did not kick her out of his bed and shut her out of his life. She hurried away from the bickering Pikhorns and Lord Dareford's unnerving stare.

Roger followed her out into the corridor. He had the quick agility of the cunning beast he resembled. He mirrored her movements. She made the mistake of pressing closer against the wall to avoid him. That was when he struck, placing his fisted hands on either side of her head, effectively trapping her. The heavy perfume he wore did little to mask the sweat of unnatural excitement. A shudder of recognition snaked up her back. Hadn't the man who kidnapped her had a similar bestial scent? She turned her face and noticed for the first time the signet ring with the boar's head.

“Awful high and mighty for the master's slut.” His beard tickled her face. His breath was sour as he leaned over. Roughly, he pinched her chin and turned her face. When she struggled, he ground his mouth into hers knocking her head against the wall.

He was suddenly whipped off of her. Beckett, his face ferocious, lifted the man by his throat. Pikhorn dangled like a rag doll, his feet occasionally taking an ineffective kick at his captor.

“I can't decide whether to snap your scrawny neck in two or watch the breath choke out of you,” Beckett said.

“I would opt for the second idea. It's much slower and sounds vastly more entertaining.” Colin was suddenly standing at Beckett's shoulder.

“You are only allowed to make that decision if
you
are the one who actually caught the vermin, but since you were late as usual, I had to perform the task.”

Pikhorn grunted out several choice curses and then coughed. He tugged feebly at Beckett's big hand as he struggled for air.

“Oh yes, I see what a magnificent job you are doing taking care of Christiana,” Colin snapped. “I, for one, intend to take her out of this misery once and for all. Tomorrow at daybreak, she and I ride out to her mother's people.”

“You two are arguing about my fate as if I am not present!” She smacked Beckett across the arm. Her hand stung from the impact, but Beckett only glanced down at her with curiosity, as if a butterfly had landed on him.

“Drop the beast,” she demanded.

Now she turned to Colin. “I will do anything to get away from this place. Anything!”

Her words cracked out of her throat as though she had been the one suspended from Beckett's hand.

Beckett let go reluctantly, and the man slid to the ground. With his shoulders squared into a tense line, he stalked out of the room without another word.

A chill ran up Christiana's spine as the eerie jangling noise rang out in the hallway again. She threw off the scratchy blanket and quickly clothed herself. She held her breath as she opened the door. If Lady Pikhorn were to wake, no doubt she would think of something for Christiana to do for her. It would be more pleasant to meet with a ghost than confront her mistress.

The hallway was as black and cold as a tomb. All the rush lights had recently been doused. She could smell the oily smoke. She took one step and then gasped. Her bare toes had trod on what she was certain was a boot.

“Quiet. 'Tis me. Christ, do not rouse the witch.” Though said in a gruff whisper, the voice was instantly recognizable, but the misery that resonated in it was new.

“I thought it was a phantom pacing outside the door. What do you here, my lord?”

she asked.

Her eyes could not even pick out shadows. But she felt his presence, the size of him, and the heat that radiated from him.

“You are finally getting your wish.”

“Pardon?”

“Leaving me.”

'Twas you who left me, when you brought that woman home
, she thought.

“I want—I need one last night with you.”

Dumbstruck, she stood staring into the darkness. She was only now beginning to make out his hulking form.

“Be warned, I shall drop to my knees and beg if need be. I've no shame when it comes to you.”

She reached for him. Her fingers clutched at his tunic, and she yanked him forward.

Their mouths clashed in a fierce kiss. He scooped her up, cradling her bottom in his hands. She instantly wrapped her legs around him and jolted as something ice-cold pressed against her skin.

“Keys,” he said, which explained the jangling metallic sound. “I was this close to bursting through the door.”

Once inside his chamber, he did not set her down. As he pressed her against the wall, he dropped his breeches and entered her, hard and swift. His mouth devoured hers as he drove into her. She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled, forcing his head up.

“Slower, Beckett. I want to feel you deep inside of me all night.”

He was panting. His warm, sweet breath mingled with hers. “Take pity, I'm a starving man.”

She could feel the muscles in his arms tense as he tried to control his movements.

But the driving thrusts did not slow much. Moans escaped her lips as she was lifted with each thick stroke. Her fingers bit into the muscles of his shoulder. She could feel the rough stone through her garment. She had a hard time determining which was harder, the man or the wall.

With a groan, he pulled out of her and came to a shuddering climax. “See what an obedient lad I can be? I've spilled my bastards.” He'd attempted to be amusing, but his frustration was evident.

After shedding the last of their clothing, they crawled into bed and drew the bed hangings shut, closing themselves into their snug little world. Beckett reached through the slit and grabbed the pitcher of red wine that sat on the night table. Christiana pushed herself to a sitting position and took a loud gulp from the pitcher. A trickle of wine ran from the corner of her lip, and she flicked her tongue to catch it. The wine sloshed as she handed the pitcher to Beckett. The wide mouthed vessel caused Beckett to dribble the red liquid as well. He plunked the pitcher back on the table. With a mischievous smile, Christiana leaned forward and licked the wine from the coarse black stubble of his jaw line.

Beckett took the opportunity to cup her naked dangling breasts. Settling on her knees, she tugged the fur off him. He watched her, his dark eyes glittering in the faint moonlight. She smoothed her hand over the strong muscles of his thigh and then lifted and weighed his heavy sacs in her hands. She proceeded to lavish kisses and licks on each one. His cock rubbed against her cheek, and soon she was lapping at the dot of cream that clung to its silken head. Her tongue swirled around the fleshy tip.