Tatiana March - Surrender To The Knight

The newcomer would help her secure her future.

Then he could leave.

And he would leave.

Those not born on the remote edges of the land could never tolerate the loneliness, the shrill winds that blew in from the sea and the lack of daylight during the winter months, or the monotony of the meager meals the harsh climate could produce.

Behind her, the knight led his big stallion inside and slammed the door, shutting out the remains of the dull winter daylight. She turned to study him in the glow of the fire from the massive central chimney. He was broad-shouldered and lean at the hip, and no more than medium height. From the way the armor fit his body, she could tell it had been made for him.

She’d already seen that his eyes were pale green. Now, he pulled off the heavy gauntlets and raised his hands to lift away the steel helm that covered his head. Tingles raced along Brenna’s skin at the sight that met her. Straight nose, square jaw, smooth, pale skin. The firm set of his finely curved mouth hinted at a determined nature. She could not have imagined such features. Elegant yet masculine, strikingly male despite their beauty.

The horse butted at the knight’s side, and he turned to soothe the animal. When he bent his head, the golden locks that skimmed his shoulders fell forward. The light from the chimney set the strands alive with fiery glints. As a child, Brenna had once traveled to Edinburgh, where she’d seen paintings of saints, some of them with a halo just like that.

Don’t be a fool, she told herself. He’s not a saint, just a man greedy for lands.

“Where do you keep the oats and hay?” the knight asked, his hands busy on the flanks of the bay destrier, stripping the load from the animal’s back.

“This is all we have.” She pointed at the dwindling stores in the corner. The knight followed her direction, his expression searching, until he accepted that there was nothing more than a single barrel of grain and a half dozen bundles of hay.

Brenna hurried past the central stone chimney, enjoying the wave of heat from the flames. She scooped oats from the barrel into a wooden bowl and returned to give it to the knight.

“Thank you.” He took the bowl from her and said nothing more.

A fence made of birch saplings penned the animals into one end of the room. Ramsey, the workhorse, stood like an emperor in the middle, flanked by the pair of milk cows, Trudy and Sally. The dozen sheep had no names. Brenna didn’t like naming creatures she might have to eat.

The knight had opened the gate to the enclosure and guided his horse inside. The sounds of the animals filled the silence. The horse drank with blustery slurps from the bucket on the floor. The others tried to push in for a share of the oats, erupting into a noisy protest when the knight ushered them back.

Unsettled by his quiet presence, Brenna edged toward the ladder that rose in the corner of the shadowed room. She ought to change out of her father’s old armor, put on a gown and kirtle to honor the occasion of her betrothal. Hesitating, she lifted the foot she’d already set on the bottom rung of the ladder back down to the floor and stole another glance at the knight attending to his horse.

Why bother wearing a gown? Why not start the way she meant to go on, without feminine trappings, without any pretense that she was entering their union with anything but reluctance? She’d dressed like a boy most of her life and didn’t plan to change her ways just because a husband was forced upon her—even if the husband might look like the golden prince of a fairy tale.

Bending forward at the waist, Brenna pulled off the helm that sat like an upturned bucket on her shoulders. She lowered it to the earth floor, straightened and wriggled out of the chain mail hauberk. Beneath the armor, she wore a pair of thick woolen hose and a doublet long enough to protect her modesty.

She brushed off a streak of mud from her bodice, then loosened her hair and arched her back, raking her fingers through the curls to untangle them. She possessed no mirror, but those who remembered her mother had told her she’d inherited her mother’s Norman looks—hair as black as midnight, brown eyes that could shine with merriment or glisten with tears, and a slender body that despite its air of fragility could outlast many men on a ride across the moors.

An inarticulate, rough sound startled her. Brenna whipped around. In the flickering firelight, she could see the knight staring at her. His gaze roamed her body, gliding up the length of her legs, past her waist, settling on the swell of her breasts.

An odd sensation curled in her belly, a bit like when she crept up to the bottomless gulley near the sea and looked down into its depths. Her nipples tightened, the way they sometimes did when the cloth of her chemise chafed against them.

The knight continued his scrutiny, now studying her face. Heat swamped her skin beneath the wool and linen. Her breathing grew shallow, her heartbeat rapid and uneven. Instinct seized her to flee, to seek solitude, so that she could regain her mental balance.

“Come,” Brenna said, turning away. “I’ll show you to the guest chamber upstairs.”

She climbed up the ladder, moving fast and not looking back at him.

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