Suzanne Barclay - Knight's Ransom

She wanted to scream for Oscar, but feared she’d be sick if she opened her mouth. She wanted to run, but her body was weighted down by the crushing burden of all she’d endured these past few days, the humiliation, the rejection, the…

“Well, what say you?” Archie demanded.

“Nay,” Cat whispered. “Nay, I…” She swayed, dizzy and very much afraid she’d either faint or vomit.

“How dare you malign the lady with your filth?” growled a deep, horribly familiar voice. A dark figure detached itself from the shadows to the right of the trellis and walked into the light cast by a nearby torch.

“St. Juste!” Archie leapt up. “This is a private conversation. I must ask you to leave.”

“Begone before I run you through.” Gervase took her hand, drew her to her feet and tucked her arm through his with a proprietary gesture. “It grows late, Lady Catherine, and we have yet to discuss what colors we will wear for the processional.”

“Colors? Processional?” Cat said weakly. The only thing keeping her upright was his hold on her arm.

An indulgent smile lifted the corners of his mouth; his eyes fastened on hers, hooded, intimate. “ ’Tis customary for a knight and his fair lady to be garbed in matching colors when she leads him into the tourney ring.”

“His lady!” Archie roared. “Never say you’ve allied yourself with this…this French nobody,” he shrieked.

Of course she hadn’t. But at the moment she’d have thrown in with the devil to put Archie in his place. Raising one brow in fair imitation of the queen at her scathing best, she said, “To me, he is not a nobody.” To Gervase she gave her most dazzling smile. “I’d say black would best suit your coloring and my reputation, sir knight.”

“Harlot!” Archie swore, and strode off into the night.

The moment he was gone, Cat tugged her hand from Gervase’s arm. “Now leave me alone.”

“What, no thanks for getting rid of him?”

“You made him think I am your mistress.”

“I am sorry for that, but at least it will put a stop to the pursuit by wretches like him and Malkin.”

Cat’s fingers curved into claws she longed to sink into his handsome face. “You have made good your threat to ruin me.”

“Nay, I did not tell anyone.” Torchlight flickered over his features, stripping them bare of pretext. “I traced the origin of the rumor to Clarice. She must have followed us last night and overheard my remarks. I…” His eyes were dulled by the first hint of uncertainty she’d seen in him. “I did not tell a soul about your Henry. I learned of him quite by accident. ‘Twas desperation and wounded pride that made me use the information to force you to me.” He sighed heavily. “My only excuse is that I was furious you returned my…my interest, yet would not spend time with me because I am no wealthy Englishman.”

“ ’Twas not that at all.” Cat reflexively laid a hand on his arm. The tremor that shook him shuddered into her own body. The shiver of mingled delight and dread set her pulse racing with possibilities. “Knowing what you do of my…my background, you must see why I am cautious of men. Once before I allowed my heart to fool my brain into thinking a man could love me for myself, not my father’s wealth.”

“I assure you, I am interested in you despite your father,” Gervase said cryptically. A muscle in his cheek twitched as he flexed his jaw, and the predatory light was back in his eyes, making them glow like banked embers.

Cat’s breath caught as an answering flame kindled inside her, making the blood leap in her veins. “Very well. I will appear with you at the tourney processional, then we will see.”

“Aye, then we will see.” He stared deep into her eyes, luminous gray burning into wary purple. The rustle of the wind through the trees, the murmur of other lovers walking in the gardens faded. There was only the stirring presence of this tall, lean man whom she wanted beyond anything she’d known before.

Pray heaven she was not leaping from the pot into the fire.

The day of the tourney dawned gray and cool, but Cat didn’t let that dampen her enthusiasm as she prodded a sleepy Etta from her pallet and sent Gamel to ready the horses. The castle was barely astir when she harried her escort over the drawbridge and on toward the field that would soon host the pageant.

Sir Philippe didn’t share her excitement. “Only think what your mother will say when she hears of this,” he wailed, pacing before one of the silken tents flying the Sommerville colors.

Cat rolled her eyes and struggled for calm. “I thought we had settled this last eve. Mama would have approved of my putting Sir Archie in his place. Do stop wringing your hands. You’re getting your gauntlets in a snarl.”

The knight’s hands dropped to his sides. His eyes closed briefly in his own bid for patience. “But to ally yourself with a knight who is a stranger to us…”

“You trusted him enough to sell him Thor.”

“Thor is a horse. You are milord’s firstborn. His beloved daughter. His—”

“His greatest trial.” Cat grinned. “Come, what harm can there possibly be in accompanying Sir Gervase as he and the other combatants enter the lists? He’s hardly likely to try and ravish me before the hundreds of spectators.”

Philippe gasped. “Has he tried to…to seduce you? Is that the reason he came to your defense? Because he thought…?”

“Thought I’d be an easy mark?” Cat finished for him. “Nay. I admit I, too, feared that at first, and kept Gamel or Garret near whilst he and I made plans for the processional. But Sir Gervase has not done or said anything improper.” Indeed, he had made no improper suggestions. His gaze did not stray down her body as most men’s did, never lingered overlong on her breasts or sought to divest her of her clothes.

Perversely, she found his restraint unflattering and annoying. She knew he still desired her, for hunger burned in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. Something held him back. Guilt for having accidentally ruined her reputation? Regret for the differences in their stations? Mayhap he sought to go slowly, to assure her of his respect before wooing her. Or win a fortune in tourney prizes, then court her more openly, more as an equal. ‘Twas an oddly pleasing notion.

Philippe grunted. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in it. He could hardly carry you off before a throng of spectators. But…” His frown returned as he eyed her gown. “I doubt Lady Gaby would think your garb appropriate.”

“‘Tis one of Mama’s actually, left behind when she departed in such haste. I thought the cut most modest.” Cat touched the high neck and turned in a slow circle, watching the velvet ripple around her feet. Adorned only by a wide gold girdle at her hips, the gown barely hinted at the shape beneath.

“But ‘tis black. A most unsuitable color.”

Actually, it suited her rebellious mood exactly, but she doubted Philippe would appreciate the sentiment. “Sir Gervase’s surcoat is black and there wasn’t time to make him a new coat.”

“We might have something we could loan—”

A blast of trumpets cut across Philippe’s objections, followed immediately by the arrival of Gervase and his men.

Gervase inclined his head, but made no comment on her gown. Which would have been disappointing if she hadn’t caught the appreciative gleam in his eyes. “It seems ‘tis time, my lady.”

“Indeed it does.” Stepping forward, she stroked Thor’s nose. “You are looking very fine,” she murmured, letting them all think ‘twas the horse’s trappings she admired, not the man who walked beside him. Commanding, she thought, though she’d applied the term to few men outside her family. The armor and mail beneath the black surcoat added considerably to his muscular frame. The silver eagle embroidered across his chest and repeated on the shield his squire held was a simple yet powerful device.