Lyn Stone - The Knight's Bride

Their eyes locked at close quarter and she felt trapped in a green sea of anguish. Slowly, the lashes dropped over the emerald orbs and his lips descended again, this time open and probing. Here was a kiss, not of peace, but of raging need and dark promise. Her insides melted like butter on a hot scone.

Honor stumbled back, breathless, when he released her. At least he was not gloating. In fact, he looked as astonished as she felt. Her mouth throbbed, tingling with the taste of mint and something wild and uniquely him. Unsettling did not begin to describe how she felt.

Thoroughly disconcerted, Honor looked away, unable to face him longer. The crowd around them seemed stunned, or scared to death for her.

She was frightened for herself. What in the name of heaven had she done, wedding this wild Scotsman? She could as soon control the tides, or a tempest force wind as to order this knight about.

Honor jerked back instinctively as he lowered his mouth near her ear. He only meant to speak, she chided herself, gathering false calm like a cloak around her. “What is it, sir?” she whispered.

“Could we eat now, do ye think? I’m fair starved.”

She laughed a little, as much with relief as at his earnest inquiry. His kiss had shocked her, but perhaps he meant no harm by it.

Upon reflection, she realized Alan of Strode had done nothing underhanded, nothing sly at all since the moment he had arrived. So far as she could tell, he said what he thought, made clear his needs, and did what he felt was right even when it went against his own wishes. Could any man be that simple, she wondered?

Only time would reveal his true nature. At least she grasped a fighting chance to keep what Tavish had left her. More of a chance than she’d had yesterday.

Pushing aside her worries, Honor nodded toward the dais. “Our feast, such as may be, awaits. You must understand, rations are shortened with winter coming, and we had not expected a wedding. Roast hare is the best we can offer this night.”

“Tomorrow I’ll hunt,” he promised with a grin. “Have ye neeps?”

She rested her hand on his as they stepped up to the dais and took their seats in the carved chairs. “Turnips? We do, and in great supply. Also mutton for slaughter when the weather cools more. Our location was protected from the armies, thank God.” But not from the neighbors, she thought. Time enough later for him to realize that burden. Pray God he proved as fierce to her enemies as he had first looked to her.

The meal revealed that what few knightly virtues she had credited to Sir Alan of Strode did not extend to his eating habits. Honor fair lost her appetite watching him devour everything within reach.

His pleasure in the meal seemed almost wicked in its intensity. Little groaning noises of pleasure escaped his throat as it worked to swallow with gulps the steamed turnips. She looked away to hide her reaction.

Honor heard the slurping of ale go on as though he never meant to stop. The tankard thumped down on the table accompanied with a tremendous belch. “God, ’tis good brew, that!” he exclaimed.

She ventured a sidewise look and saw him rubbing his flat stomach with both hands. “Just how long since you last ate, sir?”

He grinned and pushed away from the table. “Like this? Oh, nigh on a year. Not since I left Malaig. Afore that, I canna say. On the march, we made do wi’ oats, most times dry when we couldna light fires to heat water. Some small game, half-cooked and wi’ no salt. Grubbed up wild tatties when we found ‘em. Picked a few greens here and there. Fish when we could tickle ’em out.

“Ahh,” he crooned, stretching one arm full length above his head. “Nothing like a full belly! I’m for bed an it please ye, lass. Sore tired, I am.”

He rose and held out a grease-filmed hand.

Honor took it gingerly. “Your bath awaits, husband.”

He threw his head back, affronted. “I had a bath this day!”

“You need another!” Honor retorted, risking his wrath. “You reek like—”

“Soldier?” he offered with a wry twist of his lips. He plucked at the surcoat. “Aye, ’tis this garb here. English. The gambeson was a bit gamey when I donned it, I will admit.”

Honor snapped her mouth shut and appraised what he wore with a careful eye. “English?”

He nodded, wrinkling his nose. “Took at Bannockburn. ‘Twas this,” he ran a hand down the front of his chest, “or m’ breacan. That’s still wet from th’ wash I gave it in the burn.”

“Come,” she ordered, feeling much like a mother with an errant child in tow. “We’ll see you to rights.”

Aside to Nanette who stood waiting, she instructed, “Unload his packs and have all the clothing cleaned.” Then she called to Tate, the priest’s assistant. “You, come and help Sir Alan off with his hauberk. Sand scrub it and dry it well so it does not rust.” To Father Dennis, she bade good-night and tugged her new husband into the solar.

So far, so good, Honor thought with satisfaction. He followed her suggestions like an overgrown lamb. Would he always be so docile? Dare she push him further? Not tonight, she decided. Tomorrow would prove the true test. When he had rested and realized that he, by law, ruled where he roosted, she would know the full extent of her folly.

For safety’s sake, Honor allowed Tate to complete the knight’s disrobing and get him settled in the tub of steaming water. Meanwhile, she retired behind her dressing screen to ready herself for bed. When the splashing stopped, she reappeared wearing her long woolen robe. He was asleep in the tub, his knees drawn up to his chin and his wet head lolling forward.

She ventured a soft prod to one heavily muscled shoulder. “Sir? Sir Alan? Wake up. You cannot sleep in the bath. The water cools. Come now!” She poked again, this time harder.

“Hmmph,” he grunted, sitting bolt upright and sloshing water over the edge. “Och, sorry, lass! Stand away.” Hefting himself to his feet, he stepped out and fumbled for the toweling draped over the stool.

Her breath caught in her throat. She tried to force her eyes away from the massive body that looked twice as large unclothed. Smooth sun-browned skin reached to just below his waist. Resuming downward at knee level to include his huge, well-shaped feet. His nether cheeks gleamed almost white, as did the muscled thighs, which were dusted with golden hair.

Honor thanked God he was turned away from her. If he proved anywhere near as generously proportioned in front, she was not ready for a glimpse of that! A shiver of apprehension rippled through her middle.

With an industry to make any housewife proud, Honor busied herself turning back the coverlet and shaping the pillows. Anything to keep her eyes from straying near the bath.

“I’ll take th’ floor,” he said, so near her shoulder, she jumped with fright.

“No, do not!” she shrieked before she could stop herself. The words were meant to stop his advance, but he obviously misconstrued.

“All right, then,” he said. “If ye insist. I only thought ’twould make ye a mite shivery to sleep beside me.”

Still not daring to look at him, Honor heard the rustle of the mattress stuffing as he climbed into bed. She finally ventured a peek and saw about a third of the wide bed vacant and waiting. His strong back glistened with droplets of bathwater.

What should she do? Take to the floor herself? Were she more spritely and not heavy with child, she might. But there was nothing to sleep upon unless she rolled up in her robe and lay on the hard wooden boards. The cold window seat boasted only a few thin cushions. Where would she rest?

Soft, intermittent snores drifted up from the pillow, drawing her attention to the man in her bed. Honor quirked a brow. He appeared harmless enough for now. All she had to do was lie down and then wake before he did. He would never even know she was there, fatigued as he was. Gingerly, Honor stretched out beside him, carefully not touching.