Knights of Honor Books 1-10: A Medieval Romance Series Bundle

by Alexa Aston

  A war now ensued between them, one for domination and control. His hands moved past her waist and cupped her rounded buttocks, kneading the tender flesh. She clutched him more tightly, her breasts swelling against him.

  Marcus longed for more but knew they must stop. Gradually, he went from deepening each kiss to slowly withdrawing, until finally he forced himself to totally break the kiss.

  Still, he held her close, reluctant to part from her, his lips traveling up her delicate nose and landing on her brow. He pressed one last, tender kiss there and then studied her face.

  Jess’ lips were bruised from their love play. Her eyes appeared dazed. Clouded. Finally, they cleared and focused on him. Slowly, the corners of her mouth turned up.

  “I rather like kissing,” she informed him, her smile growing.

  Jess brought her hands from his back and moved them along Marcus’ chest, hard as a stone wall. They rose higher until her fingers locked behind his neck and pulled him toward her. Marcus might think they were finished but Jess was only starting. She yanked down hard and his mouth crashed against hers, his fingers tightening on her bottom, digging into her flesh.

  She teased him as he had teased her, nipping and licking her way until she slipped her tongue inside his mouth.

  Oh, praise the Virgin Mary! This. Was. Heaven.

  Jessimond remembered every little trick Marcus had taught her and then added a few of her own. She knew they worked their magic. Not only did the fever within her grow, but she felt the pounding of his heart against her breast increase until it drummed out of control. His hold on her tightened. His mouth took command once more and, this time, she let him, giving in to the soaring feelings within her.

  They kissed until she thought their lips might fall away, scorched until the fire ignited between them had consumed them whole, the flames burning high into the sky.

  Then suddenly, Marcus released her, pushing her away, confusing her. Jessimond’s entire body trembled. She found it hard to stand on her own. Tears threatened to fall when she realized she had disappointed him.

  “What . . . did I . . . am I doing something wrong?” she asked.

  Marcus stood panting, raw need written across his face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can do better.”

  He jerked her toward him, enfolding her in his massive arms, his lips brushing her hair. “Nay, sweetheart, you did nothing wrong. In fact, you did everything right. Too right, I’m afraid.”

  Jessimond wriggled in his arms and then discovered something stiff and uncompromising between them. She realized his member had grown as hard as a rock. Glancing up, his brilliant blue eyes had darkened in passion and desire.

  “We must stop, Jess,” Marcus said softly. Giving her a wry smile, he added, “You can feel why.”

  “You want me?” she asked breathlessly, secretly delighted at the notion.

  His hand cupped her cheek. “Aye. More than I have ever wanted another woman.”

  “I doubt that,” she said, unable to believe she could have that great an effect upon him. “You are a very physical man, Marcus. I’m sure you’ve coupled with dozens of women. Ones far more experienced than I. Ones who have brought you pleasure.”

  He smoothed her eyebrows and then traced his finger down the slope of her nose until he placed it against her lips.

  “I’m no saint, Jess. I don’t claim to be. But your kiss has kindled something within me that I’ve never felt.”

  She started to speak but he pressed his finger against her lips to silence her.

  “I want to kiss you again, Jess Gilpin. I want to do more than that. I want to bury my face in that glorious mane of golden hair. Press it between your breasts. I want to feel those breasts. Lick them. Suck them. My cock wants to bury itself deep inside you and never leave.”

  Jessimond shivered at not only the words but the passion behind them.

  “Those are things for you to do with a husband, sweetheart. Not me.”

  He gave her a hard, swift kiss and released her. Jessimond felt woozy, as if she’d had too much wine to drink.

  “Stay in your tent for a while,” he warned. “Your lips are swollen and your face is flushed.”

  Marcus stepped to the tent’s flap, his eyes still burning. “I will see you later.”

  With that, he was gone.

  Jessimond sank to her knees, knowing her feet could no longer hold her up.

  She had wanted to leave Kinwick to find adventure and experience love.

  Was this the start?

  She touched the tips of her fingers to her lips in wonder. Marcus’ mouth had been there just moments ago. Already, she craved his kiss again. His touch. Never had she felt safer and yet more exhilarated than in the circle of his arms.

  Gradually, her breathing came under her control and she once more was the master of her body. She looked at the various materials they’d bought and fingered the ruby wool that he had purchased for her. With a knowing smile, she decided she would keep it and sew something spectacular for her to wear.

  Jessimond pushed herself to her feet and decided it was time to attend the mummers’ show. Stepping outside, she immediately became aware of a buzz vibrating in the air. She rounded the corner, the tents no longer blocking her view.

  People were everywhere.

  The stalls she had visited early this morning now held throngs of buyers in front of them. Voices called out as prices were negotiated. Jessimond cut through one of the long rows where booths faced one another, weaving her way in and out of the crowds. She waved to a few vendors that she had come to know, caught up in the excitement that filled the air.

  Leaving the merchants’ area, she heard the strains of music over the din and hurried toward it. Bartholomew had already begun, his voice soaring as he sang. As she drew closer, she noticed the mass of people gathered around the stage that had been set up the day before after the mummers’ arrival. Jessimond moved as near as she could and then got no further, so she stayed in place and listened.

  Bartholomew finished his song and sang three more. Sometimes, he closed his eyes, lost in the music. At other times, his eyes roamed the crowd and settled upon a person to sing to. Knowing the troubadour, his gaze always settled upon a woman—and a pretty one at that. He had a roving eye and several of the mummers had warned Jessimond to be wary around the musician.

  He finished his last song and bowed, the crowd clapping loudly in appreciation of his talent. Bartholomew exited the stage and a hush fell over the assembled group. Hamlyn stepped out from the left of the curtain and began painting a picture for the audience, taking them back to a time long ago and very far away. His melodious tone set a perfect stage for the action that followed.

  The play incorporated most of the members of the troupe. As Elias had noted, it was about the age-old struggle between good and evil. Hamlyn kept the narrative going between the scenes. Jessimond thought some of the mummers excellent in their roles, though a few could have said their lines with more feeling.

  Then a final scene occurred with a long fight between the personified Good and Evil. Ralph, naturally, was cast as Good. Gylbart played the role of Evil, as a devil who’d tried to tempt Good away from what he knew to be right and true. Jessimond assumed the moves of their swordplay had been planned in advance, just as their lines had been learned and rehearsed. Gylbart wasn’t the most talented swordsman, but he did an adequate job. She would have found the ending more believable if Ralph had been forced to work for his triumph a bit harder. Knowing swordplay as she did, thanks to Raynor’s tradition of gifting each de Montfort child with a sword and then Nan working with her until she was more than competent, Jessimond thought to offer some help to Gylbart.

  Gylbart fell as Ralph struck the deathblow, then hovered over him, waving his sword high.

  “This is what it means to defeat your foes,” Ralph extoled in a deep voice. “For Evil—for Death—to lie at your doorstep. I have vanquished my enemy. He will haunt me no longer. I w
ill go forth now, seeking truth and justice for all.”

  With that, Ralph threw his arms to the sky in victory.

  The crowd erupted with cheers and applause. Ralph bowed several times and then Gylbart leapt to his feet and did the same. The other mummers came out as a group and bowed together and then individually. Ralph, as the lead, once more stepped front and center and bowed graciously as the audience chanted his name. He must be familiar to them after the Vawdrys coming to Fullminster several years.

  Finally, the actors left the stage and the audience began to disperse. Jessimond fought against the flow in order to make her way to the stage and beyond. She finally climbed onto the raised platform and then exited from the back, seeing Agatha and waving at her.

  “I thought you were going to watch the play with me,” the young woman said, disappointment evident in her tone.

  To assuage her, Jessimond said, “I thought I would first view it from the front, as an audience member would, in order to see how it went. For the next performance, I plan to stay with you and see how things unfold backstage. I’m sure there’ll be a great contrast in what goes on.”

  Agatha seemed placated by her explanation. “Here. You can help me put these props away.”

  As Jessimond helped sort and put away the props, the actors stepped out of their costumes, dressing quickly in their own clothes, which Agatha had laid out atop wooden crates. Some had on clothes beneath their costumes but a few were as bare as a newborn babe once they shed their costume. Jessimond tried not to look—and tried not to think of what Marcus de Harte would look like with nothing on. She’d already seen him stripped to the waist that first day at Kinwick. Now that her body had been next to his, she wondered what it would be like to run her hands along his skin, feeling the ridges of muscles.

  “Jess?”

  She turned and saw Agatha looking oddly at her. “What?”

  “Did you not hear me?”

  “Nay. I was thinking about the play.” Or rather playing with a bare-chested Marcus. “What do you need, Agatha?”

  “Never mind.”

  She finished setting the props aside, knowing Agatha would merely reorganize them again, based upon the next play the mummers would perform and which ones would be in use. Jessimond folded the garments worn during the play, checking to see if any new holes were present or if a hem needed to be re-stitched. Satisfied that no repairs needed to be done, she decided to seek out Gylbart.

  Jessimond found the mummer at a stall selling soap, flirting with a woman old enough to be his mother—and then some.

  “Come with me,” she told him, linking her arm through his and pulling him away.

  “Jess, I was making progress with her,” Gylbart complained good-naturedly.

  She gave him a stern look. “We’ll be here two weeks. If you feel the need to couple with someone who looks like she could be your mother, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to do so.”

  “You think I can do better?” he asked earnestly.

  She stopped. “Don’t fish for compliments, Gylbart. You are a fine-looking man.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t seem to have much luck with the ladies.”

  Jessimond clucked her tongue. “Instead of immediately trying to get under their skirts, you might wish to talk with them first.”

  “Talk? What good is talk when there’s pleasure to be had?”

  She narrowed her eyes. In a stern voice, she said, “Most women would rather talk with a man first, especially if he’s a stranger. If bedding a female is your goal, Gylbart, I would suggest getting to know her first. Woo her a little. Treat her with some respect. Then you can see if the both of you are interested in . . . mutual pleasure.”

  The mummer shook his head. “You have some peculiar ideas, Jess.”

  “I have an even better one. Come along.”

  She led him back to the stage area, where Agatha bustled about moving items. Jessimond had seen where several swords lay, so she plucked two from the group of weapons and brought them to where she’d left Gylbart.

  “We’re going to practice,” she told him as she breezed by.

  As she expected, he followed her, catching up and full of questions.

  “You have swords, Jess. Why do you have swords? What do you mean, practice? Be careful there. Those can be dangerous. Oh, I know the tips have been blunted but you could injure yourself all the same. Women don’t hold swords. Slow down, Jess. Why are you in such a hurry? Why do we need swords? And what do you mean to practice?”

  She weaved through the crowds again situated at the vendors’ booths and continued, not answering his questions until they arrived back at the tents.

  “I’m going to help you learn true swordplay,” she said, continuing past the tents and going further away until they were alone, not an easy thing with so many people roaming Fullminster lands.

  Finally, she came to a halt and handed Gylbart a sword.

  “I have a few things I can teach you that will make you markedly better,” she promised. “Ralph’s defeat of you in the play seemed much too easy.”

  “He’s very skilled with a sword,” whined Gylbart.

  “You say you want better roles? That you could replace Ralph?” Jessimond paused. “Then you need to learn to be better than Ralph. In every way. Prove to the Vawdrys that you are an actor to be reckoned with.

  “Starting now.”

  Chapter 9

  Marcus left Jess, shaken to the core. He blindly walked through the booth area, where vendors bargained with buyers, not hearing any of their conversations. Eventually, he found himself near the stage and decided to attend the first play of the day. Soon, a crowd swelled about him and he became lost in his thoughts.

  It was obvious to him that he should stay away from Jess Gilpin. Though Marcus was determined to settle down at Hartefield once the mummers’ season ended, he’d believed he would bring Jess with him, ready to make her his wife. Now, that idea frightened him beyond words.

  Never had a woman moved him so much—and they had merely shared a kiss. Actually, dozens. Or hundreds. One kiss had blended into the next until Marcus understood that the two of them had become one. It was as if Jess had a window into his soul and had opened and then climbed through it, totally inhabiting him inside and out. That wasn’t what he desired in a marriage. He wanted a wife who would help him run Hartefield once his father had passed on, a woman who could manage all of the keep’s domestic matters. One who would birth his children and keep his people happy. One he could say goodbye to each morning as he headed to the training yard to work with his soldiers and not give her another thought until he returned at night.

  Jess was definitely not that woman.

  Instead, she was one already under his skin, a woman who dominated his waking thoughts. One he would need by his side each minute of every day. If she were out of his sight for long, he wouldn’t be able to go about his duties. Marcus had heard of women who bewitched men in such a manner, so that they became weak and unreliable, thinking only of their woman and how to please her. He didn’t have the desire to bend until he broke, caring for a single woman above all else. By the Christ, he was a knight. The future Baron of Harteley. He must only rely on himself and not have his attention dominated by a beautiful wife. True, he would need to marry and provide an heir of his own, but any woman would do. He would lead his life and she would do the same. They would couple when needed and come together to strengthen their common interests, making Hartefield a productive place.

  And every moment of that life would be empty without Jess in it.

  Marcus cursed under his breath. He felt as if he had no choice. Wed the wench and face being besotted the remainder of his life—or push her aside and never see her again—and still be miserable for decades.

  How had it come to this?

  He’d only known her a short time. Hellfire and damnation, they’d only kissed today. Kissed! Nothing more. Why did Jess seem like a part of the fabric of his life, already wo
ven into his story, a part that couldn’t be ripped out or patched over?

  Marcus had never been more confused or unsure of himself. He was a responsible man, at least until he’d stormed from Harte Castle two months ago. Even now, he knew he would soon return and dedicate himself to Hartefield and its people. Confidence had never been an issue. He rode well. Was an excellent swordsman and archer. He was loyal and trustworthy and above average in intelligence.

  How had Jess, a simple servant and mere woman, made him question everything about himself—including the man he was—and the one he might become if she were by his side?

  Marcus suddenly became aware of the tension surrounding him. He cleared his mind and saw the morality play had almost come to an end. The great battle between Good and Evil was about to commence and the audience watching held their breaths in anticipation of its outcome.

  Fighting to stay in the moment, he banished all his dark thoughts in favor of watching Gylbart, who played Evil. After first seeing the mummer with a sword, Marcus had pulled him aside and given him a few lessons in swordplay. As he now watched the very fight scene he and Gylbart had perfected, it seemed every move they’d practiced had been forgotten by the mummer. Marcus winced at how wooden Gylbart appeared. The actor proved adequate enough for the audience he performed before, but Marcus believed the friction between the pair could be escalated, and the crowd more entertained, if Gylbart appeared to be more of a threat to Good. Ralph’s talents included wielding a sword in a credible manner, so there was never any doubt about the outcome once the battle began.

  Finally, Good vanquished Evil and Ralph started into his last soliloquy. Having heard it several times before, Marcus turned and moved through the enthralled crowd.

  Then he spied Jess as she watched the play. Never had he seen a lovelier sight. The sun struck her long, golden braid, warming it. Her eyes glowed with interest. Her parted lips, still slightly swollen, tempted him beyond compare. Marcus wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms and march away, her hands clinging to him, eyes wide yet knowing what was to come. He wanted to kiss her until she grew so weak that she couldn’t stand. He craved her touch, those small, callused fingers of hers cradling his face.