The Heat of the Knight (8 page)

The garden gave her almost more pleasure than the golden hair band Beckett had surprised her with. Though, with its glittering emeralds the color of the pond in the copse, it was by far the most beautiful thing she had ever beheld. She fancied that it even enhanced her spiky hair. Pity, she thought, she could not wear the jeweled band while plucking weeds. She got to her feet and shook the dirt from her skirt. A thrill ran through her as she thought of wearing the band and nothing else for Beckett upon his return.

A soft rain started, sprinkling the soil. Her furry companion crawled under a nearby cart and curled himself into a giant ball of hound. “Keep an eye out for garden nibblers, Sir Rascal.”

With each day, the rain seemed to increase in force. The soaked grounds turned the color of swill, and the moat rose, over-spilling its banks. And still, he didn't come. How was he hunting in this chilling deluge?

Christiana settled herself before the blazing fire and pulled one of Beckett's tunics from her basket. When she'd started on the garment, she'd only meant to fix the embroidery that had come loose at the hem. In her loneliness, the embroidery had gotten away from her. Fanciful tendrils climbed up the garment and wrapped around each sleeve.

A fist battered against the door, and Christiana startled, pricking her finger with the needle. She tucked the garment into the basket and answered the knock. Servants entered carrying a large wooden tub, which they set before the fire. Agnes followed, puffing hard, her hands full of fresh bathing sheets and cakes of soap. She hastily directed the boys with steaming buckets of water.

“The lad's home.” Her ruddy cheeks glowing from exertion, she gave Christiana a knowing wink.

He did not have his usual powerful step. His boots seemed too heavy for him.

Beckett plucked at his clothes, but they stuck to his skin. There were dark patches that looked far too much like dried blood.

Slipping into the room was one of the women she'd first seen arrayed on his bed.

With a defiant look, she dared Christiana to dismiss her. Instead Christiana moved away from the fire to the edge of the room. The woman set a shallow bowl of oil beside the tub.

Oil to rub over the silken skin of his overdeveloped shoulders—and other parts, Christiana was certain. The woman smiled, as though gloating, and waited eagerly to serve him. He was going to undress completely before this woman without a thought.

Perhaps, he would even couple with her right in front of Christiana.

When the girl kneeled at his feet and began unfastening his spurs, Christiana clenched her teeth against the jealous pain and moved toward the door. She chanced a sideways glance as she slid past. His heavy lidded eyes were following her.

“Why do you lurk in the shadows, woman? Come here; I've missed you.”

“You appear to be in good hands, my lord. I thought I'd leave you to your bath.”

She watched as he bent over the attendant and removed her hands from his body.

The woman laughed softly and reapplied herself to tugging the spurs loose.

“Leave off,” he said, now sounding wholly frustrated. He rubbed his face with his hand.

With a toss of her brown hair, the woman stomped past, shooting Christiana a slaying look.

“Splendid, I've made yet another friend in the castle,” Christiana said.

Beckett did not seem to hear her comment. He swayed like a massive tree in a gale.

Christiana smiled to herself. He really was asleep on his feet. “I suppose I am now left with the challenge of bathing you, my lord?” She strode over to him.

“'Tis a challenge, is it? Most of my bathing girls consider it a treat.” He threw his arms heavily around her as if sotted, toppling her against his chest. Curiously, he did not smell of spirits. “I wager you're sorry to have me home so soon.” Christiana had never seen him so exhausted.

She gently pulled the adhering tunic from his skin. The bruising along his side made her wince. Her fingers grazed over a pattern of circular shapes indented in his skin, indentations so deep that blood had pooled near the skin's surface. They resembled the links of chain mail. Obviously, he had sustained an injury for his hauberk to have left marks even through the quilted gambeson. Why, she wondered, would he be wearing chain mail to hunt?

With a groan, he lowered himself into the tub. As he steeped in the hot water, his eyes drifted shut, and his head lolled forward, the tips of his black hair soaking up the water. She stroked the black stubble defining his jaw line. He probably hadn't taken a blade to his face in over a week. The rough beard made him look completely untamable.

She feared it suited him too well, a man no woman could hope to domesticate.

With tender care, she moved the soap over his battered body. His hand flew to his shoulder as she smoothed the sudsy water over his muscles. Oddly, no bruising marked his skin there. Then she recalled how his shoulder would ache after a long day of longbow practice.

Hoisting the half-asleep giant from the tub took effort. She was wetter than he by the time she had accomplished the monumental task. With care, she dried his battered and bruised skin with a soft cloth, then pointed him in the direction of the bed. A loud sigh echoed through the room as his body hit the mattress, the bed creaking under his dead weight. She reached for the coverlet and pulled it across him. As she turned to leave, his hand shot from under the cover and grabbed her waist. Before she had time to be startled, she was under the cover, her back tucked securely against his body. He meshed his fingers with hers, spreading her fingers far apart. It made her think of opening her legs sinfully wide for him, so wide that her muscles would tremble, and having his fingers part her labia to expose her moist, pink folds to his piercing, dark gaze.

When he kissed the back of her neck, a tingle of delight tiptoed up her back. “I have seen hell, Tiana. Now I need heaven,” he whispered, his lips so close to her ear she could feel their softness in contrast to the bristle of his beard. His hands slid up her legs gathering up the skirt of her kirtle. When his fingers reached the naked skin of her thighs, she instinctively pressed her bottom against his hardness.

He groaned. “You want me.” He said it as if it were a revelation.

Roughly, he yanked up her skirt so that it bunched above her hips. She squirmed, but he grabbed her hips with both hands and pulled her buttocks toward him, plunging inside of her before she could take a breath.

His tight grip softened, and one of his hands trailed down her stomach to the eager nub between her nether lips. He massaged it gently, all the while slamming his pelvis against her with powerful thrusts. His long, achingly hard cock reached deeper than ever as she pushed her bottom against him.

In a daze, she twisted her upper body and glanced over her shoulder at his face. His eyes were slightly open, and he stared down at the space he'd made between them, watching his hardened erection stroking in and out of her. Christiana rested her head on the pillow and clutched at the side of the mattress for leverage. Her thighs squeezed the big fingers trapped between her legs, and she rubbed her pussy brazenly against them.

The thumb of his other hand drew a rough circle around her untried, puckered hole.

When it pressed suggestively at the entrance, she stiffened, impaled on his formidable shaft. She could not move as waves of incredible pleasure pulsed through her. And then his thrusts came harder and faster. He drove into her with such fierceness that she stifled a scream. His body shuddered behind her as he found release outside her body. As he relaxed his hold, he nuzzled his face into the back of her hair.

Suspicions took root. Had he really only been hunting? The leader of the pack of armored riders that patrolled the forest wielded a longbow. Rumor said the man's skills were matchless.

“Revynwyll has been torching the countryside again. The sky was thick with smoke,” she said.

“Luckily, my path did not take me past that worm's carnage.”

“Agnes said there were heads spiked very near Baron Pikhorn's estate.” She shivered and he curled his body tighter around hers.

“This is a curious conversation to be having after love-making.”

“Does it not matter to you?”

He yawned, his warm breath ruffling her hair. “And what would you have me do about it?” It was the lazy drawl of a sated nobleman, not the response of a warrior.

“What of the hell you spoke of? Did you find your favorite brothel shuttered?”

“Careful, Tiana, I could mistake that for jealousy.” He cupped her pussy, his middle finger nestling snuggly in her slit, as though he intended to sleep that way.

When his breathing slowed, she turned in his arms to face him. The harsh weariness she'd seen as he'd stepped into the bedroom had all but vanished as he slumbered.

“Blacksmith,” she whispered. His eyes flickered, but did not open. She chided herself. She was as fanciful as those gossips at the fair, swooning over the possibility of Colin being the legendary ebony knight. Did she wish Beckett to be a romantic hero because she had expected such great things from him and had been disappointed?

Relinquishing her fantasy, she laid a soft kiss on the massive shoulder of his firing arm.

* * * *

Beckett gritted his teeth as his advisor entered the empty dining hall. Clement was more ferret than man, forever finding those who did not wish to be found. Beckett swallowed a curse against his father; Clement and his unwanted advice had been as much an inheritance as the Dareford title. How he wished he were still abed with his nose buried in Tiana's sweet-smelling hair. Why had he been fool enough to agree to sword practice with Colin?

Beckett slid a mug of ale toward Clement as he took a seat. After taking an unenthusiastic sip, Clement fastidiously smoothed his damp moustache. “The villeins are atwitter about your new paramour.” He took another taste of his ale and then fussed with his moustache again. “I doubt Baron Pikhorn will find your choice of lover quite so intriguing. You take a chance that he will reject you as suitor for his daughter because of your common tastes.”

Fighting the urge to throttle the man, Beckett rose from the bench. “Tell me, Clement, when was it I appointed you keeper of my heart? If you wish to match-make, choose another victim. Colin, for instance, would make a perfect subject.”

Grateful that for once he'd left the man speechless, Beckett strode out of the hall.

“Sluggard,” Colin greeted him under his breath. “'Tis nearly noon.”

Beckett rejected the wooden sword Wat thrust at him. “No toys today.” He took the battle-scarred steel sword from his squire.

“So we are to have an audience,” Colin said, eyeing the crowd.

Beckett's men were sprawled atop the splintered benches, while Colin's companions had taken seats on the stone wall. Those who had overturned broken wheelbarrows and carts teetered precariously atop their makeshift chairs.

“Most of these men were nurslings when last I saw you lads training.” Arnulph had been waiting in the sun long enough for his face to take on clusters of new freckles.

Beckett laughed aloud at the all too serious expression on Colin's face. “Cousin, your face is as tight as a virgin's pussy. Draw a breath, or you will keel over before we even have a chance to meet swords.”

“Don't waste your pity on me, Beckett, just be prepared to defend yourself. Christiana would never forgive me if I accidentally sliced off an important appendage.”

Their swords arced through the air and met high above their heads with a resounding clang. Colin was thrown slightly off balance. He stepped back and, with a wince, gave his arm a rub. “Christ, I can feel the vibration to my toes. I'd forgotten that battling you was like standing up to a mountain of stone.”

Beckett taunted him with a pretended yawn.

“Amusing.” Colin took up his position again and their swords clashed in a fury of lightning fast encounters. Sparks flew between the two blades as they moved across the practice circle. The tip of Beckett's blade caught Colin under the chin. A thin but steady stream of blood flowed from the cut.

“You aren't going to let him get away with that?” Colin's personal retainer shouted from his perch on the back of an empty wagon.

Colin glanced back at the thin, scraggly-bearded man. “What a pair of iron ballocks you must have, John. Mayhap, you should be in this circle. No? Then shut your mouth, you bloody arse.”

Colin reached up and pressed on the gash with his glove. “You wouldn't be harboring any ill will toward me, cousin, would you?” The blood sprinkled a pattern of red on the quilted gambeson.

“Ill will toward you? Never. It is only that you fight as well as a court jester.” A flash of silvery white twinkled in the sunlight. Tiana was making her way across the yard holding the end of a long stick. The large hound she'd befriended held the other end in his teeth. She dragged the giant dog with her as he refused to release his hold.

“Shall I guess who you watch so intently?” Colin looked over his shoulder. “Christy, of course. Are we going to continue this, or has your concentration completely evaporated at the sight of her?”

With effort, Beckett pulled his gaze from her. “Notice how my sweet angel doesn't even spare me a glance?”

“She's preoccupied with her new pet.”

“Now who is pitying whom?” Beckett asked.

Colin lifted his sword and planted his feet to secure his position in the sand. Beckett rested the blade of his sword against Colin's. He tried to put his heart back into the mock combat, but Colin was right, his concentration had vanished. None of his moves or blows had any value at this point. From the side of his eye, he still followed Tiana's movement.

Damn. The portcullis was up, and Tiana raced after the dog as it loped across the courtyard toward the bridge. Colin's blade landed against Beckett's shoulder with a sickening thud. Beckett stumbled sideways.

The men were wide mouthed and silent.

“Holy hell, Beckett, why'd you let down your guard? Have I cut you?”

The chain mail had broken, slicing through the thick gambeson as well as his skin.