Michelle Willingham - Forbidden Night With The Warrior

He wore chainmail armour this morn, and his brother Rhys came up behind him. ‘Are you wanting her to watch, Brother?’

He turned and saw the knowing smile on Rhys’s face. ‘It matters not if she is there.’

‘I’ve seen the way you stare at her.’ Rhys handed him a quarterstaff. ‘Spar with me a moment. I’ll make you look good.’

‘Her father would be furious if he saw her here. It’s dangerous with so many men about.’

‘That is her risk to take. And she does want to watch you.’ Rhys grinned. ‘I think we should show her more.’

He had no idea what his brother was talking about. Then Rhys stripped away his chainmail hauberk and tunic, until he stood bare-chested. ‘If she’s going to look, shouldn’t you give her something to look at?’

He wasn’t at all certain of this, but Rhys was already reaching to help him with his hauberk.

‘I’ll wager her gaze is upon you this very moment,’ his brother said in a low voice.

‘This is foolish.’

‘Not for quarterstaffs,’ Rhys argued. ‘You don’t need heavy armour.’

He was right. Although Warrick felt awkward about it, he stripped to his waist. Just as Rhys had predicted, he caught Rosamund eyeing him. She gave a secret smile and continued sewing.

At that moment, Rhys lunged at him, and Warrick deflected the blow out of instinct. His brother was merciless, striking with speed and strength. Warrick dodged a blow and followed up with a hard strike to his brother’s ribs.

Rhys grunted and retaliated by slicing the quarterstaff at Warrick’s knees. He jumped out of the way, only for his brother to strike his back and knock him to the ground. He rolled away and caught his brother across the ankles, tripping him. ‘I thought you were going to make me look good.’

His brother cursed and got to his feet just as Warrick did. ‘I lied. But even so, she’s watching you.’

Warrick turned his head and moved out of the way at the same time. His brother’s blow missed him entirely, and Rosamund smiled.

He struck Rhys’s quarterstaff over and over again, moving with speed and intensity, until his brother was forced to retreat. He lunged hard, about to knock his brother to the ground, but Rhys dodged the blow, laughing.

‘Go and talk with her.’ His brother clapped a hand on his back, half-pushing him towards the beautiful maiden.

Warrick gripped his quarterstaff, pausing a moment. Rosamund remained on the stairs but set her sewing down. Her face softened at the sight of him with the hint of another smile. God above, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He couldn’t think of what to say to her, for his tongue tangled up.

The sparring match had ignited his desire for this woman. When he crossed the inner bailey, she stood to meet him. A faint blush stained her cheeks, but she never took her gaze from his. He stood two steps below her, and glimpsed the fallen sewing. It was like nothing he had seen before, with all the colours of the sky and clouds blended into a scene. It reminded him of a stained-glass window, with all the colourful pieces creating the whole.

‘You fought well,’ she said quietly.

Her face was so close to his, he could imagine sliding his hands through her thick dark hair and bringing her mouth to his. She was the sort of woman men would fight for, hoping to win her as a conquest.

Warrick wanted to tell her this or to compliment her sewing. But the words were caught in his throat, stifled by his own awkwardness.

Rosamund reached over her shoulder to pull a ribbon free from her braid. Her green eyes studied him with interest as she ordered, ‘Hold out your arm.’

He obeyed, and she tied the ribbon to it. The light touch of her fingers against his bare skin evoked a searing ache. He wanted to press her back against the stairs and kiss her until she could no longer stand. But he was aware of the others watching over them.

When she had tied the ribbon, she let her hands linger a moment before she lowered them to her sides. The small scrap of silk was a visible binding to this woman. In a low voice she murmured, ‘Now you have my favour.’

Warrick reached for her hand and held it a moment. His thumb brushed over the centre of her palm, and he answered, ‘Just as you have mine, my lady.’

A blinding smile crossed her face, and she gripped his hand in answer. Several seconds passed before she released his palm. ‘I should go now. My father will be looking for me, as will my mother. Or my sister Cecilia.’

Before he could speak a word, she grasped her skirts and walked down the stairs past him. ‘Farewell, Warrick.’

Only after she had gone did he realise that she’d left her sewing behind. He picked it up, not knowing whether to follow Rosamund and return it.

He studied it, and his brother approached. ‘Are you thinking of picking up a needle yourself, Warrick?’ Rhys’s tone held a teasing air.

‘She dropped it,’ was all he could say.

‘Did she? Or did she leave it on purpose, to give you a reason to see her again?’

The thought hadn’t occurred to him, but it was possible. He was about to pursue Rosamund when Rhys caught him by the arm. ‘Not yet, Brother. Wait another day.’

Warrick reached for his tunic and pulled it over his head. ‘I’ll give it to one of the servants to return to her.’

‘Why would you? She deliberately left it to you.’ His brother shrugged. ‘Claim a kiss from her as thanks.’

He wanted nothing more. But he was also a man of reason. ‘Her father would never allow a match between her and a man like me.’

‘You desire her. Just as she desires you,’ his brother answered. ‘At least one of us might have a good marriage.’ Tension slid over his face, the tension of a man who welcomed execution over his own betrothal.

‘Lianna MacKinnon is a beautiful woman.’

‘With a heart of ice,’ Rhys finished. ‘She despises the air I breathe, and with good reason.’ He shrugged. ‘Were it possible, I would take her to Scotland and leave her there. That would make her happy.’ But then he masked his frustration. ‘One day, you will understand what it is to be powerless to command your own life. God help you then.’

* * *

Later that afternoon, Rosamund stood still while her maid braided her hair and tied it up with a new ribbon. Her mother shook her head in exasperation. ‘Really, Rosamund, how could you lose a hair ribbon?’ She chided her about being more careful, but Rosamund paid her no heed.

She hadn’t forgotten the sight of Warrick sparring without his tunic. His skin held a darker cast, and every muscle appeared carved from stone. A sheen of perspiration had beaded upon his chest, and she had been spellbound by him. Though he spoke little, his eyes had burned into her as if he’d wanted to kiss her again. She had never experienced a kiss like his, and perhaps it was a sin to long for it again.

‘Did you hear me, Rosamund?’ her mother demanded.

‘Of course,’ she lied.

‘Now remember, if you are among the women chosen for the game, you may grant a cake as your favour, but nothing more. And Cecilia may not be chosen. Even if she begs it of you, tell her no.’ Agnes de Beaufort sent her a strong look of warning.

Rosamund mumbled her assent, though she had no idea what game her mother was speaking of. She was accustomed to games of skill like archery or swimming, but nothing involving a favour. It might be a game that was meant to kindle the courtship between Rhys de Laurent and his bride, Lianna MacKinnon. She knew that something had caused hatred between the pair of them, but could not imagine what it was.

‘You look beautiful,’ her mother pronounced, and took her by the hand to lead her from the chamber. ‘And by this time next summer, you will be celebrating your own wedding to Alan de Courcy. He will make a fine husband for you.’