Margaret Moore - Castle of the Wolf

Nor would he be in hers, for although Lady Mavis blushed, she did not return his smile.

On the other hand, that wasn’t so surprising. Women always responded to him in one of two ways: either with fear and trepidation, avoiding his gaze like Lady Mavis; or with avid interest and not a little indication that they would enjoy sharing his bed. Sometimes he took one of them up on their offer. Most times he did not.

Only Tamsin had ever seemed concerned about his well-being and comfort.

He glanced down the hall again, in time to see Tamsin rise and leave her place. He continued to watch her as she threaded her way through the hall to the corridor that led to the kitchen, no doubt to give the remains of this feast to the poor tonight, as well.

He was a knight sworn to protect women. She was definitely troubled or upset. Surely it was his duty to help her if he could.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord,” he said, pushing back his chair, “I must retire. I have a long journey tomorrow and the opponents I faced today sorely tested my mettle. I am too weary to remain for the no doubt excellent entertainment.”

“Oh, surely you can’t be that tired!” Lord DeLac protested. “A fine young fellow like you! Why, in my youth, I could fight all day and drink all night and be none the worse for it come the dawn.”

“Alas, my lord, I am not so fine a fellow then, for rest I must. I give you good night, and you, too, my lady,” he added with a polite bow in Lady Mavis’s direction.

The young woman nodded in acknowledgment but said nothing.

“If you must, then, Sir Rheged,” Lord DeLac grudgingly and ungraciously replied.

Rheged rose and picked up his prize. Once more ignoring the hushed comments and disdainful whispers of the Norman nobles, he took the box to the chamber that he’d been assigned. It was on the second level of a long building near the hall and had a small window with wooden shutters opening about ten feet above the ground below. The chamber itself contained a bed, a washstand and a stool, as well as his armor on a stand and the two leather pouches he used to carry his belongings. There was nowhere to hide his precious prize, or so it seemed, but he had hoped to win and so had planned a way to conceal it. Moving swiftly, he put the box in the smaller pouch and removed the drawstring from the larger one, which he tied to the first. Then, getting up on the stool, he tied the free end of the string around the iron bracket for the shutter and lowered the bag out the window until it rested about a foot from the opening. He moved the stool away from the window and stepped back.

From where he stood, he couldn’t see the knot or string, and even if someone outside noticed the pouch in the dark, it would be too high to grab.

Satisfied, he left the chamber and went back to the yard. He found a deep doorway in one of the many storehouses, a spot where he could watch the entrance to the kitchen without being seen from the wall walk or by any of the guards. It was also out of sight of the servants hurrying to and fro from the hall or kitchen or stables, and he ducked inside to wait.

The night was cool, with more than a hint of autumn in the air, and he wrapped his arms around himself for warmth. Not that he was as cold as most of those wealthy, coddled nobles would be in a similar situation. He’d spent more nights than he could remember sleeping beneath the open sky, or huddled in a doorway or an alley, often with no blanket or cloak to cover himself.

Nevertheless he was glad he didn’t have to wait long before Tamsin emerged from the noisy kitchen carrying her basket. Once again he watched her cross the yard with that grace that could not be taught and deliver the remains of the food from the feast to the poor folk gathered there. He heard their thanks, recognized their heartfelt gratitude and admired her gentle voice as she assured them they were welcome to all they could take.

But he still saw defeat in her slumped shoulders, and despair was evident in her slow steps back to the kitchen.

When she drew abreast of where he waited, he softly called her name.

She gasped and stepped back, clutching the basket before her as if it were a shield. “What are you doing here, Sir Rheged? What do you want?”

He spread his hands wide and kept his voice calm and gentle, as he would to a frightened horse. “I only seek to know if all is well with you.”

“I am quite well, my lord.”

“You’re lying.”

“How dare you, sir!” she demanded in a whisper. “How dare you make such an accusation?”

At least he’d brought the vibrant light back into her eyes. “Because something has happened to disturb you. You sat like a stone through the whole feast.”

Her steadfast gaze wavered, but only for a moment. “I wasn’t aware I was being studied with such scrutiny.”

“What’s happened to upset you so?”

“Nothing that need concern you. I give you congratulations on your victory today, Sir Rheged, and I wish you Godspeed on your journey home,” she said before turning to go.

He put his hand on her arm to keep her there. “My lady, please. It’s a knight’s duty to help and protect women. If there’s anything—”

“Let me go!” she ordered. “Or I’ll call out the guard! Don’t think I won’t!”

Fearing she would indeed summon the guards who would likely take a dim view of anything a Welshman did even if he was the tournament champion, Rheged silenced her the first way that came to mind.

He kissed her.

Kissed her full on the lips. Kissed her first with hard, swift desperation and then, when she didn’t pull away, with increasing need and desire. Kissed her as he had never kissed another woman, because until this day he had only ever wanted a woman for physical release.

Until tonight.

Until now, when he held Tamsin of DeLac in his arms and surrendered to the powerful, passionate yearning she aroused within him, as no other woman ever had.

Chapter Three

Tamsin knew she should protest. Make him stop. Push him away. Call out the guards if need be. Sir Rheged shouldn’t be kissing her or embracing her in the dark. She was a lady. She was betrothed.

Yet she did not resist him. She could not. Not when his kiss gentled and his strong arms slid around her as if offering her sanctuary.

Not even when her empty basket fell unheeded to the ground and he opened the door behind him. Nor when he drew her into the deeper darkness of the woolshed, where the bundles of bound wool seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting with soft sighs as his lips found hers again.

But this thrilling embrace couldn’t last, because duty must be done, or more than she would suffer.

Putting her hands on his broad chest, she pushed him back. “Stop,” she commanded, her voice low and firm despite the quiver she couldn’t suppress. “Please. Stop.”

“As you wish, if that is what you truly wish,” he replied, his deep voice like a caress in the darkness.

No, she didn’t wish it, but it must and would be so. “It is.”

“Very well. But something upset you before this, something that happened during the melee, or shortly afterward. Please, for my sake if not your own, tell me, and if I can help you, allow me that honor.”

To have such a man make such an offer, at such a time, in such a voice, was nearly enough to make her weep. But she must not weaken. Nevertheless she simply couldn’t resist the urge to tell him what her uncle had done. “I have been betrothed.”

“Ah,” he sighed, and she could read nothing in that long exhalation. “To whom?”

“Sir Blane of Dunborough.”

He started as if she’d struck him. “That dog?”

His response, so like a curse, nearly undid her. But she had to be strong and do what she must, for Mavis’s sake—and this man could not know her true feelings. After all, in spite of what he’d said about his knightly duty, there was nothing he could do. “I must remind you that you’re speaking of a nobleman, and my betrothed.”