Agnes Moor's Wild Knight

by Alyssa Cole

  Agnes Moor’s Wild Knight

  Alyssa Cole

  Contents

  Blurb

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Agnes Moor’s Wild Knight

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Books by Alyssa Cole

  About the Author

  Agnes Moor knows her place in the court of King James IV—as one of the “exotics” in his employ. When the king makes a kiss from Agnes the prize of a tourney, a mysterious knight plows through his opponents to claim it. But it isn’t chance. The Wild Knight has come for her, and her champion is after the most elusive prize of all: her heart.

  AGNES MOOR’S WILD KNIGHT

  Copyright © 2014

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  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank Julia Kelly and Lena Hart for being spectacular friends and sounding boards. You're both wonderful.

  * * *

  I’d also like to thank my main writing crew: Katana Collins, Derek Bishop, and Krista Amigone. Your support and feedback is invaluable, even when video chat programs try to keep us apart.

  For my mother, Earline, who passed on her love of romance in general and Highlanders in particular to me.

  Agnes Moor’s Wild Knight

  “There she is!” an excited voice called out across the crowded tourney grounds. “Agnes Moor!”

  Ah, so it’s Moor today, Agnes thought with a twinge of resentment. That was what they called her when they were feeling good-natured. It was Agnes Black when they wanted to stress that she wasn’t one of them, as if her umber skin and cap of short, tight curls weren’t reminder enough. But today was the final day of the tourney, a time for gaiety and celebration, so Moor it was.

  Agnes swallowed the nervous sickness, or perhaps motion sickness, rising in her throat and gripped the arms of the chaise triumphal as it rocked to and fro. Each step the two brawny squires hefting her gilded seat took across the tournament grounds brought her closer to being tipped right out of the chair. She was lithe despite her height, so she wasn’t very heavy, but the chair was; the last thing she needed was to be pitched into one of the mounds of horse muck scattered across the packed dirt. She felt foolish enough as it was, being paraded around like no more than a box of crowns to be handed out to the victor.

  Beneath her dangling slippers, people of every strata surged around the food and trinket stalls, haggling over imported fruit and fabrics. Conjurers, James’s latest obsession, displayed their dark magicks in bursts of flame and elaborate sleights of hand. Agnes knew it was all deception, but the wild-haired men with black robes and ink etched into their pale skin frightened her, just a bit. All around her, the wonders of James IV’s world-renowned court were writ large; the elaborate displays reflected those things that intrigued the king at the moment. His interests were many and varied, and thank God for that or Agnes would never have set foot in his court, let alone become a part of it.

  She heard the innuendo-loaded whispers from the crowd in her wake: those were a constant part of her life in Scotland. Some said she had been rescued from a Portuguese slave ship that foundered on Scotland’s shores. Others thought she was a changeling child, left by the dark Sidhe. The king preferred the story that Agnes was an African princess who had joined the other “exotics” in his court—the Italian alchemists, the Moorish dancers, the Spanish mathematicians—of her own accord. Her father, now just a faded memory, had called her his little queen, and that was the very closest she came to nobility, but Agnes much preferred James’s narrative to her true past. And after three days of being carried around the court, she was starting to feel a bit royal. Luckily for her, the charade was almost over.

  “Oh, do take care!” she cried out as her porters stumbled and nearly dropped her into a troop of thespians. The actors were reenacting the previous day’s glorious display by the Wild Knight. The jouster had gained the appellation because he won every match through a combination of brute strength and intelligent maneuvering, paired with the intensity of a berserker. The fact that he refused to reveal his identity made him even more appealing to the crowds. Just thinking of the mysterious rider who thrashed even the most accomplished jousters, of what his feats represented, sent a thrill of heat through her.

  He is coming for you. The feverish thought had been seared into Agnes’s brain since she’d seen him rout his first opponent. It disturbed her, this discordant emotion. She’d felt such a draw only once before, and having finally rid herself of the foolish fantasies that meeting produced, she wasn’t eager to relive the experience. Desiring a man you shouldn’t was one thing; desiring one whom you hadn’t even seen was quite another.

  As the squires carried Agnes through the crowd, the mass of people parted like the sea, allowing her passage but then closing in on all sides, engulfing the space around her feet as they shouted their encouragement. Some tried to touch her skin to see if it somehow felt different from their own. Agnes wondered if they expected scales; she tucked her feet up under the chaise. Other people fingered the elaborate golden cloak that she wore draped over her gem-green gown, both of which had been bestowed upon her by the king himself. She thought of the cloak as her own suit of armor against this grabbing, staring crowd, which was a bit paradoxical as this tourney was being held in her honor. At least, she was told it was an honor.

  The knight who won the Tournament of the Black Lady would be rewarded with a kiss from the titular woman herself. Agnes, a favorite of the king and queen both, had been chosen for the role. The first such tourney had occurred the year prior, but the Moorish woman who had been championed then was now married and great with child, something Agnes tried not to envy.

  It stung a bit to be proffered as a prize, but she knew that James had good intentions. If she could help him smooth relations with the Highland clans by playing this role, she would. He’d saved her life, and more than that, he treated her as an equal—as equal as any king could treat a commoner, of course. For that, Agnes would help him, and her adopted country, however she could.

  As the squires carried her toward the dais where Queen Margaret sat with her coterie of handmaidens, Agnes felt a sense of awareness surge through her. She knew before she turned, could feel it in her skin and sinew and someplace much more base, that the gaze of the Wild Knight was upon her. For the past three days, the mysterious man had plowed through the competition, championing Agnes as if the prize were gold or land instead of a simple meeting of lips. Agnes told herself the Wild Knight simply sought acclaim, but after every victory, the dark headpiece of his armor would turn her way, and the same heady sensation of being watched by hungry eyes would streak through her.

  He rode a destrier of darkest black that matched the matte metal of his armor. Agnes couldn’t help but notice how large and broad the sculpted metal was. If it had been tailored to the man inside, he was exceptionally built indeed.

  You’ve only met one man that large in all your travels. The thought threatened her with a spark of hope that simply couldn’t be. Only noblemen were allowed to joust in these tourneys, not Highland clansmen, so she would likely be stuck kissing some toady baron or earl.

  When her chair was settled onto the ground, finally, she only had a moment to get her bearing before the whinny of a horse and the raising of the hairs on her neck alerted her to his presence behind her. When she turned, the destrier wa
s trotting up to the dais. A youth with a shock of red hair sporting a green and yellow plaid walked alongside the great beast, looking as if he had been given an assignment of great import. Agnes focused on him instead of the armored hulk atop the horse.

  He bowed gracefully for such a gangly youth, and then spoke in English. “My lord requests a favor of the maiden Agnes before he enters this final match, against a noble adversary. A strip of fabric to fly from his lance.”

  Agnes raised a brow at the boy and the sharp blade he held in his hand, and then turned her gaze to the Wild Knight, who loomed over her from atop his steed. What man hid beneath that well-worn metal suit?

  “I rather like this dress,” she replied in Gaelic. “And I rather dislike mending, so I must decline his favor.”

  The man seemed immobile, but the horse shifted, as if responding to some change disguised by the great suit of armor. Agnes felt a spark of anger within her. Perhaps he thought his attentions flattering, but they simply made her the object of even more speculation. She’d heard one of the visiting knights, an English oaf who had been unseated in a trice, speculate as she passed him the day before. Does the Moorish maid wield some particular talent with her mouth that the Wild Knight fights so fervently for her kiss?

  Agnes flushed with anger at the memory, but pushed the thought from her mind. The Wild Knight had spent the past three days disconcerting her. Was it not fair that she should do the same when given the opportunity?

  “I should take offense, Sir Knight. Have you no other source of motivation to win beyond a strip of fabric?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “Is not the favor of my kiss enough for you?”

  The youth looked at her with bug eyes and then risked a glance up at his master as if he feared for her life.

  “Not nearly enough, sweet Agnes,” a deep, rich voice echoed through the vent of the mask. The languid burr exuded power and strength, and Agnes’s body reacted instinctively, the tips of her breasts pulling up into tight buds and her sex clenching with awareness. “You shall learn that quite well when I claim my prize.”

  With that, he wheeled his horse and rode away, his squire scrambling behind him.

  When I claim my prize. There was no equivocation there: he meant to win. The sensual promise of his words set off a strange ache low in her belly. Agnes had taken lovers during her time in James’s court; she enjoyed the indulgences of the flesh as much as anyone. But those men hadn’t made her feel like molten iron on the smithy’s anvil with just a few words. Agnes suppressed a shudder at thoughts of what the Wild Knight could do to her, how his broad, muscled chest would feel pressed against her own…

  She shook the thoughts from her head. The man her imagination conjured was not beneath that armor. He was nothing but a fantasy now, a regret, and one that shouldn’t be indulged lest she sink even further into the abysmal loneliness that had haunted her since their meeting.

  “Do you know the last time I saw a man fight so fiercely for a woman’s attentions?” Queen Margaret asked with a knowing smile as she gestured Agnes toward the seat beside her, pulling her from her reverie.

  “I think you misunderstand, Your Majesty,” Agnes said, feeling exposed as the queen and her maids eyed her curiously. “He fights for prestige at best, or, at worst, to experience a novelty.”

  Agnes’s words rang false, although they echoed the fears that had surfaced as she watched the Wild Knight plow through the competition with single-minded determination. She had always been seen as something of an object instead a person: why would he see her any differently?

  “If he sought an exotic kiss, he could ask you directly, or Helena or Mary,” Margaret said, mentioning her Moorish maids. “If he sought only prestige, there would not be such power in his blows, as if every contender stood between him and what’s rightfully his. No, the last time I saw such intensity in a man was when James courted me, following me to and fro, composing love songs on his lute, taking me out on hunts, and making love to me every second we were alone.”

  The queen stared into the distance as if recalling a fond memory.

  “Your Majesty!” Agnes chided with a scandalized laugh. She knew the king and queen were truly in love, and often wished she could find the same for herself. But such things were not meant for people like her, were they? Hadn’t she already diminished her store of luck when she had been welcomed into this court and treated with respect? To expect more from this life would be greed, pure and simple. If she had to forever ignore the yawning gulf of loneliness at the very pit of her, she wouldn’t be the first woman to do so.

  “This man does not champion that which he could receive for two coins, Agnes. That is plain for anyone to see, especially someone as sharp as you,” Margaret said. “I must say, if this is the level of acuity you bring to your dealings with the ambassadors, perhaps James and I were mistaken about you.”

  The words were said jokingly, but for all that they still stung. Agnes said nothing, though. She decided it was better to play the fool than to acknowledge the Wild Knight’s effect on her and prove herself to be one.

  The marischal, a peculiar, unkempt man who looked frightening but was always kind to Agnes, stepped before the crowd and read the lists. He spoke for only a few moments but it seemed to drag on forever, as if time had taken on a new dimension preceding this final match. The herald arrived eventually, blowing trills of fanfare from his horn to shoo the marischal away before making the final proclamations and introducing the combatants.

  The two contenders took their positions on either side of the field of honor. The other knight, a Frenchman in a sleek suit of armor decorated in a painted floral pattern, had a style that was more theatrical in contrast to the Wild Knight’s brute strength, but he was every bit as skilled, and was considered a formidable opponent. He trotted his horse in circles and reveled in the attentions of the crowd. The Wild Knight sat unmoving when his name was called, even though the hum of the people packing the stands rose to a roar. He didn’t acknowledge them, simply hefted the weight of his lance in his large hand as if impatient for the match to begin. His vented mask turned in Agnes’s direction for a long moment, and the thrill of his gaze passed over her again, raising the hairs on her neck.

  The queen leaned toward Agnes so her words would be heard over the earsplitting noise of the crowd. “You may feign ignorance if you wish, but if you do not desire to give this warrior your heart, you had best prepare yourself for battle.”

  Agnes felt something coil tightly in her chest at Margaret’s words, like a trap set for any man who might dally with her emotions. But perhaps the springs on the trap were rusting, because for a moment she allowed herself to wonder if the queen was right. That the man beneath the armor might actually seek more than the prize of a kiss from her. The thought was too frightening to be allowed, and she pushed it away as she did all such impracticalities.

  It was time now. The marischal made his signal and the joust began. Agnes heard the deep cry of her champion as the black destrier surged toward his opponent, and was altogether shaken. She wasn’t sure she could win a battle against him, if it came down to it, or if she even wanted to.

  The cries of the crowd gave way to an awed silence broken only by the clatter of hooves on dirt and armor against leather saddle. All eyes were riveted on the men as they stormed toward one another, their skill apparent in the tilt of their lances and the way they seated their horses. Agnes’s heart was in her throat as she watched the Wild Knight spur his mount forward. He crouched in the saddle as if he were ready to spring forward and unseat the chevalier using his own body. Instead, at the last moment he swung his heavy lance toward the knight, who tried to parry the blow. For a moment, the two lances locked against each other, brute force matching brute force, but then the Frenchman’s lance broke in two and he was dealt a blow straight to his chest.

  He was unseated.

  The chevalier flew through the air but managed to land in a sprawl that was only slightly ungainly. His squires swarmed
him, quickly helping him to his feet. Agnes was surprised he could stand after that terrible hit, but he removed his helmet and gave an ostentatious bow in her direction. She nodded her approval at him—the handsome man had fought valiantly—but her gaze immediately returned to the Wild Knight.

  Her heart pounded, galloping as fast as any destrier in the tourney, and she felt as if she would faint from anticipation if he didn’t reveal his identity at once. As if he knew how anxious she was, the Wild Knight took his time dismounting. He chatted with his flame-haired squire as the cries of the crowd grew louder and louder, mirroring her own desire to know who he was and what he was about. The tourney was a game, a façade for the real battles, the political ones that were being carried out by dignitaries and statesmen, but something about this moment was all too real. Agnes felt as if her entire life could hinge on the simple lifting of a visor.

  Finally, the Wild Knight began to walk toward her with an insouciant swagger that left no doubt that the mystery man grinned beneath his mask. He came to a stop a few feet before the dais and pulled off his helmet. Long obsidian hair unfurled behind him like a banner, and his moss-green gaze locked on to hers, sharp enough to cut to her very soul.

  The queen gasped, the handmaidens sighed, and the crowd went wild. Agnes, for her part, was so violently shocked that she leapt to her feet. She barely heard the herald announcing him by his true name, and by the newly added appellation that astonished her even more.

  “The winner is Gareth, Clan MacAllister, recently dubbed His Lordship, the Earl of Arran!”

  Margaret tugged Agnes back into her seat, presumably so she could gawk in a more dignified manner.