The Heat of the Knight (14 page)

But they would present no protection if the king were bent on bringing Beckett to justice.

Roger Pikhorn walked purposefully across the room and insinuated himself between the envoy's retainers to stand beside Lord Treshingham.

“Can you tell me of Revynwyll's fate?” Treshingham inquired.

“He died by my hand.” Beckett's men shifted threateningly. A second row of men had formed behind his dedicated warriors. They were guardsmen who were clearly puzzled by the situation.

The envoy held up the palms of his hands in a placating gesture. “Do not agitate yourselves.”

“My retainers were under my orders. I will not have them held accountable,” Beckett insisted.

Christiana felt as if the ground were sinking beneath her. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She sniffled once and the noise caught Beckett's notice immediately. He gazed at her for a moment, and the tears rolled faster. Then he returned his attention to Lord Treshingham.

The envoy smoothed his hand over his whiskers. It seemed an unsuccessful attempt to suppress a smile. “Mayhap, you should let your men decide that. They may prefer to share in your good fortune.”

Beckett picked up the black helmet and contemplated it. “Which do you fancy, men, the gallows or the dungeon?”

“His majesty wishes to show his appreciation in less lethal ways.” From his wallet, the envoy removed a parchment and tossed it atop the table. “Revynwyll's holdings are yours. We have culled the traitors from the estate. Those who remain have pledged their fealty to their king and their new liege lord.”

A shriek of elation came from the direction of the two Pikhorn women. Lady Pikhorn smothered her daughter in an embrace. “My dearest child, now you will be lady of two great estates.”

Christiana swayed with relief. To prevent herself from collapsing, she clutched at Colin's sleeve.

Lord Treshingham reached for the helmet. “May I present this to the king? It may help to discourage traitorous instincts.”

“'Tis yours and good riddance. I'm retiring that guise.”

“Hopefully, if your king requires your help again, the Blacksmith can be resurrected.”

“As always, I'm at his service.” Beckett filled a goblet with wine and handed it to Lord Treshingham. “I'd be honored if you joined us at table.”

Pikhorn made a disgusted sound, and Lord Treshingham gave him an impatient nod and moved in closer to the table. “I've another matter to discuss. It involves Pikhorn.”

Only those atop the dais were now privy to the conversation. Christiana sensed the rest of the gathered people straining to hear.

“I'm afraid I owe Pikhorn a favor for retrieving the Blacksmith's armor and leading me to its rightful owner. He found your treatment of him last night somewhat heavyhanded. Some compensation for his humiliation might set the thing aright.” He tugged on his beard and winked. “Let him have his dalliance with the girl.”

Christiana peered around Colin's arm. Lord Treshingham's shrewd eyes scanned the faces in the crowd. Christiana's pulse raced as his gaze stopped on her. His lips curled into a smile more suited to a brigand than a courtier.

“Dareford,” he addressed Beckett again. “A rut might make Pikhorn more appreciative of your hospitality.” Lord Treshingham opened his hands wide, gesturing munificence. “I hear you are to wed his sister. Bad blood between kin is not the way to begin a new life.”

“True words, Lord Treshingham. Bad blood is no way to begin a marriage. And I don't know when I have ever met any family with worse blood than this brood of Pikhorns.”

Coarse laughter erupted from Beckett's guardsmen and quickly infected the entire crowd.

Pikhorn cursed, and the envoy laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Let it rest, sir. There is nothing more to be gained here.”

Lady Pikhorn pushed herself from the table, her face blotched with fury.

Beckett's voice boomed, as if he wished to drown out any of Lady Pikhorn's objections. “I had intended to fulfill my father's wish, but it proved impossible. I made no pledge, which I am certain Blanche Pikhorn will attest to.”

With a sullen nod, Blanche reluctantly acknowledged Beckett's statement.

Lady Pikhorn hurled a goblet to the floor. The ring of metal on stone caught the crowd's notice. “That silver-haired witch has ensorcelled him,” she shrieked as she pointed a knobby finger at Christiana.

Feeling exposed and alone, Christiana was desperate to escape. She circled behind the broad backs of the retainers. Even in her distress, she did not fail to notice an odd ripple of movement passing through their ranks as though they were exchanging an object.

Once in the empty hallway she hugged herself against the chill. The sound of her shallow breaths ricocheted off the walls.

She started as Arnulph suddenly loomed around the corner. He winked his lone eye and shoved something into her hand. She took a surreptitious peek at the ring she now held. This is what she had seen the guardsmen transferring from hand to hand. Curiosity brought her back to the entryway of the dining hall.

Beckett acknowledged her with a flick of his eyes. “I must ask, Treshingham, it has been a long while since I visited the king's court, but has it become customary for a man to favor his guests with a tumble with his betrothed? Because if it has, I can assure you I am not that generous of a host.” Beckett handed the man a drinking vessel.

Christiana soon became the target of Lord Treshingham's keen gaze. She pretended to fiddle with the little pouch at her belt. Blushing, she produced the de Saxby's heavy signet ring. Beckett was studying her carefully.

She felt certain that the envoy wondered why a de Saxby was throwing away the chance for a profitable alliance to marry a girl of lowly birth. After all, it would have been simple enough for Beckett to install an ill-tempered wife in one of his homes that he rarely visited.

With the ring resting on the palm of her hand, Christiana stepped forward. “'Tis a love match,” she said as way of explanation. Beckett blinked as though surprised by her revelation.

The envoy looked from her to Beckett.

Beckett pushed the documents deeding rights to Revynwyll's estates across the table.

“I'd prefer the king's consent to marry as reward. I will see that my men are compensated from my own treasure.”

Christiana's heart started beating wildly. Was Beckett in earnest about the betrothal?

The envoy stared hard at Beckett as if gauging whether he had all his senses.

Christiana's hopes plummeted. Of course, it would be madness for a lord to marry a serving wench. What a risk he took lying to the king's man just to rid his house of the Pikhorns.

“I pray I never find myself so lovestruck.” Lord Treshingham grinned like a goat.

“Because of your service to the realm, the land and the girl shall be yours. I see no difficulty convincing Edward of the rightness of the union.”

“And what of me? What sort of satisfaction will I be accorded?” The Fox made a great show of clamping his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

“Pikhorn, you will have to work that out with your host. But do wait until I am out of earshot if you please. This is no business of mine.” Lord Treshingham seemed to flinch at the intent he glimpsed in Beckett's eyes. “My advice, Pikhorn, do not tangle with the Blacksmith in his lair.” He gripped Roger's shoulder in a gesture of warning and then strode purposefully away.

Roger Pikhorn blanched as he stepped off the dais, nearly tumbling into the lap of his mother.

“Swords, Pikhorn?” Beckett asked. “What type of weapon do abductors of maidens prefer?”

“Mayhap, your mother could lend you her dainty dagger?” Arnulph suggested.

Pikhorn's skin had turned as gray as aged linen. “Dareford, your barbarism knows no bounds.” He turned on his heels and shoved his way through the crowd, the guardsmen's raucous taunts following him.

With a signal, Beckett's men scattered, and then, with a crooked smile, he beckoned Christiana.

Christiana curled her hand so as not to lose the ring. “I will not give this back,” she whispered, mindful that the envoy was still present.

With a hand on her elbow, he whisked her out of the hall. Once alone, he cornered her.

“I was only teasing. I really wouldn't have kept it.”

“You will keep it.” His hand wrapped hard around hers, the big ring biting into her skin. “Keep me. Marry me.” His beautiful black eyes burned into hers.

“You are my ultimate weakness.” She stroked his face. “And my ultimate strength. I feel as though I've loved you forever, Beckett de Saxby.”

He pressed his mouth to her furled fingers. “And I've loved you longer than that.”

The End

Scottie Barrett has an affinity for a hero who is a bit of an outlaw. Preferably a bad boy with a sardonic wit, a formidable physique, and beneath all that hardness a surprisingly tender heart. She tries to include at least one arrogant English lord or one cocksure cowboy in every book she writes. It is her belief that life without chocolate, alpha males, and…chocolate would be very boring indeed. She invites readers who have a taste for ultra-sensual historical romance to take a peek at her website
www.scottiebarrett.com

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