The Heat of the Knight (6 page)

Maud's machinations should have warned her off. How, she wondered, did Maud manage to get sick on cue? It was as if the conniving girl spent all of her waking hours plotting against her. Still, ridiculing Beckett held allure. Though he wouldn't recognize her beneath the costume, being the one to place that fool's cap upon his head would give her a measure of sweet revenge.

“Well, lass, we haven't all day. Are you game or not?” the performer held out the headdress.

After a few more moments of hesitation, she snatched it from his hands. Quickly knotting her hair, she tucked it into the velvet snood. She obscured the rest of her hair beneath the wide headband. The mask was made of cheap material and frayed on the edges. Only a few sorry sequins adorned it. Inside the performer's tent, she stripped to her chemise. The dress was a façade that was slipped into from the front and fastened in the back. One of the female servants helped with the laces. The woman must have been given instructions to tighten the bodice until it barely contained her—Christiana's breasts were balancing on a precipice. One wrong move and her nipples would be exposed.

Her father had told her that originally a male had clothed himself in feathers and satins and pranced and pursed his lips, all to the hilarious acclaim of his audience. But when a particularly goatish de Saxby ascended to the lord's seat, he insisted on having a female don the revealing costume. She supposed Beckett's wenching ways were an inheritance from that ancestor.

Christiana gulped down another cup of mead as she waited for the performers to go through their well-worn repertoire. She spotted her victim, as always head and shoulders above the crowd. His arms crossed over his chest, he appeared more than bored; he looked as if he were asleep on his feet.

Suddenly, it felt as if a starling had taken up residence in her stomach. She was quickly losing her nerve. True, his high-handed ways infuriated her, yet how could she put that ridiculous hat on his head? Another swallow of the honeyed drink for courage.

She would simply walk over, plop the thing on his head, and then plant a chaste kiss—on whom? That part she hadn't considered.

The opportunity for retaliation suddenly took on an interesting dimension. Colin was standing very near his cousin. His tousled blond hair gave him a boyish quality. Her gaze shifted to Beckett. There was nothing boyish about him. He was all hard masculinity.

Christiana was so mesmerized by him, she twirled languidly around. Suddenly, she sensed the performers circling her. Theatrical throat clearing jolted her into action. She felt as though a million eyes were trained on her in her borrowed gown. The overlong skirt dragged through the dust, and the sleeve slipped off her shoulder. She tugged it back up. Though she took great care to keep her pace slow, her breasts jiggled. Beckett no longer seemed to be in a daze. He'd lifted his heavy lids and was now staring unblinking at her bouncing breasts.

A mead induced notion occurred to her as she approached. Who would she really like to kiss? This was her chance to taste him while she was concealed.

Of its own volition, her body moved through the crowd until she stood before Colin.

Her whole body trembled. He quirked a quizzical brow, but he bent his neck so that she could set the humiliating crown atop his head. She could hear the jeers of the performers and the surprised muttering rolling through the crowd.

Beckett laughed. “Suits you, cousin. Perfect fit,” he chided.

The lute player's lyrics could barely be heard above the noise of the crowd. She picked out the few words that cued her to the second part of her act.

Beckett's laughter stopped immediately when she curtsied deeply before him. Her arms were shaking as she stood on tiptoes and interlaced her fingers around his neck. His stiff, stubborn neck was as rigid as iron. His gaze skipped from her lips to her breasts and back again. She knew that lifting her arms had exposed slivers of her nipples to his eyes alone. He was refusing to kiss her, refusing to follow the ancient storyline.

Feeling the heat of humiliation flood her cheeks, she started to loosen her grip.

Startling her, he suddenly dipped his head at the same moment that his hands made a shelf beneath her bottom, lifting her so that her feet barely grazed the ground. The starling had flitted upward from her stomach and seemed to lodge in her heart, its wings beating furiously. His big hands molded her bottom, pulling her hard against him as his mouth covered hers with a fierceness that made her gasp. His tongue plunged into her mouth. Warm and thick, it felt alien yet completely delicious.

The crowd began to cheer him on. She was caught fast in her own trickery and enjoying every exhilarating second. Unable to remain passive, she captured his tongue and began sucking gently on it. Her bold move seemed to shock him. He released her suddenly, and she wobbled a bit as she landed on her heels. His apparent bafflement did not prevent him from acting the protector as he pinched the sides of her bodice and yanked upward to cover the tops of her nipples.

Quivering from head to toe, she ran and hid in the tent. Relieved to find it empty, she quickly shed the ancient costume. The canvas opening was pushed aside. Beckett ducked beneath the tent's ceiling. His chest heaved as he stared at her.

“Woman, you are driving me to madness.”

“You knew it was me all along.” Somehow that made the whole thing easier to bear.

He wasn't just kissing anyone with such fervor.

“Finish what you started, Christiana. Or are you just a tease?”

His challenge shocked her. She took several steadying breaths while she fastened her belt at her hips. “Since it seems I will never be allowed to know the touch of a husband,” she said pointedly, “and I am not suited for the life of a nun.” She shrugged. “I will finish what I started, but I want my freedom in return. Have your way with me, then I will be on
my
way.”

His eyes narrowed at her sharp words. The muscle in his jaw worked, and the set of his mouth was grim. He clearly wasn't pleased with her unenthusiastic acceptance, but it didn't stop him from saying, in a very dictatorial manner, “Go up to my chambers and make yourself naked. I expect to find you waiting for me.”

She pressed her hands together and bowed in the manner she imagined of an obedient harem girl. “Yes, my master.”

“Quit the charade, Christiana. You haven't been subservient a day in your life,” he growled and flung aside the canvas door.

Leaving the noise of the faire behind, Christiana chose a narrow path seldom traveled that followed the riverbank. She feared meeting one of the performers. She had no wish for a scolding or ribald comments.

The exotic scents of wild roses and jasmine permeated the air. She took a bracing breath. Would she really allow herself the sinful experience of sharing a bed with the master of Dareford? Had it been her desire for independence, or had his kiss emptied her head of all sense? Why on earth had she agreed so readily to his demands?

Christiana stopped to pluck a wildflower and heard a rustle in the bushes. There was a shout followed by cackling laughter, and then she was knocked to the ground, her face pressed into the dirt. She tried to buck her assailant off her back, but the person dug a knee into the base of her spine and yanked hard on a handful of her hair. She attempted to strike sideways at her assailant's thigh, but another person took hold of her wrists, bending her arms and pinioning them to her upper back. A piece of cloth was stuffed into her mouth, muffling her cries. The sickening sound of her hair being sawed off made her weep. Her tears turned the ground beneath her cheek to mud.

Christiana pulled the cloth from her mouth, but she lay without moving long after her attackers had disappeared. Finally, she heaved herself to her feet, staggered to the river, and contemplated her fate. The setting sun glimmered on the surface of the river.

Kneeling on the mossy bank, she peered into the water, but she couldn't make out her reflection. She drew her fingers through the tufts of her hair and cried some more. She imagined she could hear her tears hitting the water. Mayhap, she should thank Maud and her accomplice for helping make her decision for her. It wasn't to Beckett's or any man's bed she would be going to tonight. It would be back to the servant's quarters for her.

Christiana splashed the icy water over her face and scrubbed away the dirt. She had a fleeting thought of running away, but knew she wouldn't survive. From her leather purse, she took her linen head-wrap to cover her shame and trudged toward the castle.

Exhausted and heartsick, Christiana navigated through the keep, stepping gingerly over men slumped against the benches and strewn among the rushes. It was hardly necessary to be so careful, considering that their brains were probably soaked in spirits.

The smell of sour ale and vomit made her gag. She pressed a hand to her mouth.

Someone roused at the end of the room, and she hurried her pace fearing that a man might take advantage of the situation and leave his knightly honor behind. A big hand wrapped around her wrist, and she looked up to find Beckett glaring down at her. The embers of the fire reflected in his black eyes.

“Did you get lost on the way to my chamber? Allow me to show you the way.” She let him lead her up the winding stone steps to his bedroom. She tripped at the landing, but he did not slow his step.

His booted foot thundered against the door, throwing it wide. Once inside, another kick slammed it shut. The brilliant flames in the massive hearth illuminated the solar.

“I believe I mentioned something about you being naked,” he said, surveying her from head to toe.

Christiana could not move.

“Disrobe,” he ordered and began tugging off his own clothing.

Still she stood frozen.

“So, you are a tease? Just as I suspected.” His anger seemed to vibrate through the vast room.

A sad laugh escaped her lips. She swept off her head-wrap.

“Do you think this a clever ploy?” Stepping closer, he lifted a lock of her hair. “You will go to any means to thwart my wants. Anything to avoid coupling with me, eh Tiana?”

“Do you honestly believe I did this to myself?”

She drew her hand over her neck and showed him the blood on her fingers.

His nostrils flared. She watched him flex his fingers before curling them into hard fists.

“It seems your attention to me has provoked your concubines into jealous action.”

“Maud,” he guessed easily. “She has a venomous temper. I should have had you better protected. Anyone who is responsible will be banished.”

He flung open the door and bellowed for his guards. She had never once heard him shout like that before. It was such an intimidating summons that, even in their semiconscious states, men came galloping to do his bidding. His anger echoed off the walls.

His boot spurs clanged as he paced the stone flooring. She could hear the drunken mumbles of the guards quickly turn to coherent words as Beckett's rage increased.

With anger still hardening the features of his face, he reentered the room. After dipping a corner of his tunic in a tankard of ale, he swiped at the blood on her neck. She winced at the stinging sensation.

“I will take my shorn locks and bid you goodnight,” she said, pulling away from his ministrations. She felt quite confident that it would be safe to return to her cot. Her nemesis would certainly be apprehended before she'd made it to the servants' quarters.

“What does the length of your hair have to do with fucking?”

His wicked statement brought a heated blush to her cheeks.

“You are utterly bewitching.” He combed his fingers through her massacred hair.

“You look like a snow fairy. A sugar-sweet pixie.” He took a tuft of hair and curled it around his finger. “No more games. No more excuses. Stay…or leave, but don't play with me anymore, Tiana.”

In answer, she began removing her leather garters. As she slowly slipped off her woolen stockings, she stopped and flicked her hand to shoo him away. Muttering an oath, he moved to a corner of the room to shed his own clothing. With predatory intuition, he seemed to realize when she'd completely bared her body. Instantly, he turned to face her, his dark eyes glinting from the shadows. She covered her breasts with her forearm and held the other hand over her blond curls. Naked from the waist up, he stalked across the room.

Rather roughly, he removed her hands from her body. “I believe you did not hate me so much once.”

“True. I liked you very much. I was young and foolish and under the illusion that you and I were equals. Now I see the truth. You are my master.”

“Tiana, if you are determined to play the servile wench, then I intend to take full advantage of my power.” There was a raw catch in his voice. She'd meant to wound, but her words only served to tempt him.

“I want no consequences from this evening's play.”

“Understood,” he said. The slight downturn of his lips betrayed his irritation.

He scooped her up and plunked her atop the table. He cupped her breasts and lifted them. “More than a generous handful.” Even his big hands could not contain them completely. “This perfect rose nipple is mine.” His tongue rubbed roughly over the entire areola. A shiver of delight raced up her spine. With a single stroke of his tongue, she felt in danger of yielding to his every command. “Mine, as well.” He tasted the second nipple.

His gaze drifted downward, his long lashes shadowing his cheeks. He watched as his fingers petted the triangle at the apex of her thighs. “As soft as down and nearly as pale.”

Bashful, she covered herself again.

“Enough.” He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

Grabbing her ankle, he dragged her to the edge of the table then wrapped her legs around his waist. Christiana felt a wave of dizziness and took hold of his massive arm. He dipped his head so that his mouth hovered over hers. She raked her free hand through his hair, letting the satiny strands glide through her fingers. His lips parted, but he did not lean in to kiss her; instead, he plunged a finger into her tight sheath. Awed by the invasion, she tightened her grip on his powerful arm. She felt herself get wet as he smoothed his finger in and out. His long finger was now drilling deep and deeper still, until her breathing rapidly increased. She was panting into his mouth.