Blythe Gifford - Captive of the Border Lord

She glanced at Carwell and swallowed. ‘No, he’s—’

‘It’s a day for celebration, Your Grace. Even the sun emerges to honour your glory.’

James frowned, but two squires hovered, holding armour. The red-and-gold surcoat with the royal arms was waiting, flapping in the wind. The King looked up at the uncertain sky. ‘We begin within the hour.’ He looked back at Elizabeth. ‘Who carries your favour, milady?’

Her eyes flickered, uncertain. ‘My favour, Your Grace?’

‘In the lists. Your kerchief. Your scarf. The token of your affection.’ The King’s smile was too smug, his eyes too eager.

Carwell stepped forwards. ‘I do.’

Beside him, Elizabeth’s eyes widened. Fortunately, she kept her mouth closed.

Carwell took the King’s frown for her.

‘Don your armour, Carwell. You, and your men.’ And he turned his back and stepped into the tent.

Carewell bowed and backed away, dragging Bessie beside him.

She pulled her arm away. ‘You carry no favour of mine.’

‘But the King was about to ask for it. He can collect all the favours he wants. And when he wins, he would want to collect from you.’

‘Collect? I’ve nothing to give him.’

How was this woman to survive here? ‘You have what every woman has and every man wants.’

The heat in his eyes left no doubt of his meaning. And left a cloud of pink on her cheek. Something he had not seen before.

‘What if he does not win?’

‘The King always wins.’

‘So you think to save me?’

He had, but now, he could think only to have her. The door of temptation had opened and he struggled to shut it against the vision. Even those lips, so plump and rounded. Such a soft contrast to the rest of her. A woman who told the truth or stayed silent.

‘I think,’ he said, finally finding his voice again, ‘that you do not want to anger him if you hope to help your family.’

‘Aye,’ she said. Those impossibly beautiful lips curved into a smile. ‘And refusing to give him his expected reward would anger him.’

‘It would indeed.’

‘And if I refuse you? Will you be angry?’

Bessie watched his eyes darken. Anger? No. Something more. The hunger she had seen in his eyes at the stream when he saw her—

Why had she asked such a daft thing?

His control returned quickly. Feelings disappeared. ‘First I will have to win. Then you would have to refuse me. Let those things happen and then we’ll see.’

His gaze drifted to her lips. Her own hunger rose.

He stepped away. ‘But before any of that, you must give me a favour.’

A favour. She looked down. How was she to give him a favour? She was in a borrowed dress, without even a handkerchief of her own. And she would not honour the man by allowing him to carry the Brunson blue and brown.

‘Don your armour,’ she said. ‘By the time you are ready, I will have it for you.’

All she needed was a moment alone and a pair of scissors.

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