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

by Alexa Aston

  Marcus wouldn’t mind the angelic Jess tending to his wounds.

  *

  They arrived at Whitmore, the estate of Lord Cedric Wariner, a widower who had engaged the troupe because his wife enjoyed them visiting each year. Once they arrived and received word that the baroness had passed away last Christmas, gloom settled over the group as the men set up the tents and stage.

  As Jessimond carved up a few plucked chickens and tossed the pieces into a boiling pot for the evening meal, Bartholomew came to her, his distress obvious.

  “My throat hurts,” he rasped. “I’m having trouble swallowing. I can barely speak, much less sing tomorrow.” He began coughing.

  “I can give you lungwort for your cough.”

  “Those bluish flowers?”

  “Aye. I’ll crush them and steep them in boiled water. You can drink that thrice a day. I’ll also rinse sage and thyme with water and mix them together. That, too, will be boiled in water and steeped. Once it cools, you can gargle with it. The scent is very pleasant.”

  “How soon could I sing again?” Bartholomew asked.

  “It depends. I’d advise you to stop talking and rest your voice. I would think two days would be enough time.”

  The troubadour frowned. “Elias will not be happy.”

  “You can’t help it if you are ill,” Jessimond said. “Keep to your pallet and get plenty of rest. I’ll speak with Elias and Moss for you.” She hesitated. “I’ll even take your place tomorrow and the day after if you’d like.”

  “Would you, Jess?” Relief caused his body to sag.

  “Go to your tent. I’ll get the lungwort and other herbs now.”

  She retrieved her case and had Jopp fetch more water so she could put a smaller pot on to boil. Jessimond could divide that boiled water in half and steep the different herbs separately. As she waited for the water to boil, she cut up some onions and dumped them into the pot with the chicken and stirred in plenty of pepper. Next, she crushed the lungwort in one bowl and ground the sage and thyme, mixing them together in another.

  Moss appeared and bent over the pot, inhaling deeply. “I see ’tis chicken tonight.”

  “It will be ready in an hour. In the meantime, I need to let you know that Bartholomew is unwell and will not be able to sing for a few days.”

  Jessimond was glad she broke this news to the placid Moss, who seemed to take everything he heard in stride. If it had been Elias, the hot-tempered redhead would have exploded with curses.

  “I’ve told him I would step in and take over his duties until he returns,” she added.

  Moss gave her an appreciative smile. “Our audiences have taken to the duets you do with Bartholomew. I’m sure they will like whatever you choose to sing for them.”

  “I can perform any of the songs Bartholomew does since I’ve heard them several times now. I also have others I know and a few original ones I’ve written that I’d be happy to sing.”

  “Whatever you choose is fine with me,” Moss assured her. “’Tis good to change the pace with each song, though. And most important, make the last song slow and soft. The crowd will quiet and even strain to hear you. That makes it easier to begin the play as soon as you finish.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Jessimond promised.

  She took both her concoctions to Bartholomew, making sure he drank the lungwort to calm his cough, and instructing him on how to gargle since he’d never done that before. It took him a few tries and a little sputtering before he understood what to do. Once he did, Jessimond told him to continue resting and that she would make sure he had enough of the steeped herbs at the beginning of each day.

  By then, the company gathered to eat, most of them seeking a second helping of the stew, thanks to the appetite they’d built up assembling the tents and stage. Elias had stopped in the village they passed just before arriving at Whitmore and had purchased plenty of bread, which they used to sop up the last of the stew from their wooden bowls. Agatha and Jopp collected the bowls and placed them inside a large container. As had become the habit, Marcus lifted the container and Jessimond accompanied him to the nearby brook. They would cleanse the bowls with sand and then rinse them with water.

  She’d come to enjoy that part of the day. Marcus was a witty companion and always had interesting stories to tell her. Everyone seemed to understand that they wanted to be alone and never interrupted them. At first, Peter had accompanied them a night or two, but Jessimond explained that Marcus only desired her company.

  Much to her chagrin.

  She gave the knight every opportunity to kiss her but he never took it. At least not as she wished. Every so often, he would brush his lips against her cheek or upon her brow briefly. Twice, he had held her hand for a moment. But the passionate kisses from before had ceased.

  That made Jessimond hunger for them all the more.

  Tonight, they walked in silence to the running water and cleaned the company’s dinnerware quickly, stacking the bowls back into the crate. Instead of starting back, however, Marcus plopped down on the bank.

  “Come join me,” he invited.

  She sat beside him. Not too close but near enough to feel his warmth and smell the spice of the soap he used as its scent rose from his skin.

  “I hear you’ll be singing in Bartholomew’s place tomorrow.” He casually slipped an arm around her waist.

  “Aye,” she answered, her mouth growing dry. “He’s bothered by a cough and his throat is sore. I’m boiling herbs for him to ingest and gargle with.”

  “I see.” His free hand reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face.

  Jessimond stared into those mesmerizing blue eyes, willing him to kiss her. She began worrying her bottom lip and his fingers tightened against her waist. Then his mouth descended ever so slowly until their lips met.

  That was all the encouragement she needed.

  Her hands cupped his face, the stubble rough against her palms. She parted her lips and he accepted the invitation, his tongue slipping inside and gliding along the roof of her mouth, sending chills through her. Her thumbs stroked his cheeks as he kissed her as he had in the tent that first time. Both his arms now encircled her, making her feel safe inside the steel bands. Jessimond almost purred as a contented cat might.

  Marcus broke the kiss. “I could do this all night,” he murmured against her lips.

  She smiled against his mouth. “Do you have the stamina to go all night?” she teased.

  He growled and yanked her toward him. Her breasts pressed against the wall of his chest and she linked her hands behind his neck, rubbing against him. His hand slid from her back and cupped one breast, squeezing it. His fingers found her nipple and rolled it, causing shoots of pleasure. Jessimond pressed closer to him as his other hand imitated the first, kneading her breasts and teasing the nipples. The friction drove her mad.

  Marcus pulled her into his lap now, his hands gliding along her curves. She kissed his neck and then had the urge to lick it. His skin tasted slightly salty as the growl deepened in his throat. His lips found hers again and showed her just how skilled he was. Soon, Jessimond found herself breathless, coherent thought impossible.

  Then he stopped abruptly. Lifted her from him and rested her back on the ground next to him. She heard his rapid breathing and knew he fought to gain control. Quickly, he pushed himself to his feet and then grabbed both her wrists and brought her to hers. Still holding on to her, he dipped his head and gave her one sweet, final kiss.

  “Dream of me tonight, Jess,” he implored. “I know I will dream of you.”

  Jessimond wished it could be more than dreams and stolen kisses between them. She wanted to become a part of him. Her mother had explained love play to her long ago. More than anything, she needed this man inside her. She wanted to scream his name as he pleasured her and feel his bare skin, slick with sweat, against hers. She needed to touch him. Ride him.

  Love him.

  That thought brought her to her se
nses. Marcus had been frank with her. He didn’t believe in love—something every de Montfort lived for. Jessimond didn’t know who held Marcus’ loyalty. Where he lived. What his situation was. He’d continued to hold back from her, which made her believe he wasn’t in a position to commit to her—or anyone else.

  “We need to return to the others,” he said softly.

  “Aye.”

  She watched him retrieve the dishes and joined him as they returned to the camp. The fire had burned down to embers. Only a few mummers sat around it. The others had already gone to their tents for the night. Marcus set the crate down and walked with her to her tent.

  “Are you married?” Jessimond asked him. “Or do you have a sweetheart? You tease me and then stop as if you are guilty of something and then try to put distance between us.”

  He startled, his eyes widening. “Nay.” Frowning, he lifted her braid, toying with the end. “Do you think so little of me, Jess? Or do you know so little of my character that you think I would kiss you like that if I were committed to another?”

  Frustrated, she said, “Sometimes, I believe I know all I need to about you, Marcus. Other times, I realize there’s still so much I haven’t learned about you. Where you live. The name of your liege lord. The mission you and Rand are on. Why two knights joined the Vawdrys’ troupe.”

  Marcus swished the tail of her braid against the tip of her nose. “All in good time, sweetheart. I promise you—those answers will come—in time.”

  He dropped her braid and took her hand. Turning it palm up, he pressed a fervent kiss into the center. The heat from his lips caused her blood to stir.

  “Goodnight, Jess.” Marcus kissed her palm once more and released her hand.

  As he walked away, Jessimond wondered if she could ever have a future with this man.

  Chapter 12

  Jessimond went to Bartholomew’s tent and found the troubadour sitting up on his pallet and in good spirits.

  “I brought you fresh bread and more to gargle and drink. Gargle first,” she instructed, handing over the bowl containing the fragrant combination of sage and thyme.

  He took it and stepped outside the tent. She heard him gurgling the liquid several times before he returned. Handing over the bowl of steeped lungwort, he sipped the warm brew and ate the bread she’d brought.

  “Do you feel well enough to return to the stage today?” she asked.

  He swallowed and said, “I tested my voice this morning. It’s too weak to carry across the crowd. I think another day of rest will be best.”

  Jessimond nodded, glad that the troubadour had come to this decision on his own. She had not wanted to dictate to him what he should do, especially if he thought she might be trying to replace him. Bartholomew was the troupe’s only troubadour.

  “The crowds have missed you. No one sings quite like you do.”

  She saw her comment pleased him.

  “When I do return, I’ll have several shows to do each day. I was thinking that, mayhap, you would continue to join me. At least until we leave Whitmore,” he suggested. “We could sing several songs together and then do one apiece on our own. That way, the Vawdrys and their paying customers would still be happy and I wouldn’t overtax my voice.”

  “I think it’s a good idea. I will tell Elias and Moss what is planned.”

  Bartholomew gave her a warm smile. “Thank you for caring for me, Jess.”

  “Continue to rest your voice today but go ahead and move about the camp. You want to build your strength back up after lying abed these past two days.”

  Jessimond left the tent and decided it was time to head to the stage area. She fetched her lute and saw Peter emerge from the tent he shared with several mummers.

  He waved and came toward her. “Are you going to the stage? If so, I will walk with you.” He took her lute in hand.

  “I barely see you,” she said. “The Vawdrys keep you busy.”

  “Aye, and Rand has also been teaching me swordplay. I’ve gotten quite good at it. He said I should be ready soon to spar with him in front of the crowds.”

  “Be careful,” Jessimond cautioned. “While you may be here to protect me at my father’s request, I feel equally responsible for your welfare.”

  “Are you enjoying this summer with the mummers?”

  “I am,” she replied. “Sewing new costumes for the two additional plays has kept me busy. In fact, I’m working on one for you now.”

  Peter’s face lit up. “I don’t have a large role. Ralph drafted me more for my size than my speaking ability. Still, learning a few lines has been different from swinging my hammer. We practice again this afternoon and will perform the new play tomorrow for the first time.”

  “Then I will make sure you will be appropriately attired.”

  “How do you like performing, Jess? I know you sang for us in the great hall at Kinwick some, but this has to be different.”

  “It is. At home, I could sing and be in the background why others conversed or ate or danced. Here, I am the center of attention. At first, I was quite nervous but I’ve become more comfortable with it. I figured out the crowds are not present to see me but hear me. So I don’t worry about how I look. I concentrate on the words and the melody and hope I take the audience on a journey through the music.”

  “It seems as if you’ve made friends,” Peter said.

  “I think we both have. I like going around to the different booths and seeing some familiar faces and then newer ones at each stop we make. I’ve always enjoyed sewing, so stitching new costumes and repairing old ones has been a pleasant way to pass the time. It’s been nice to share my music around the campfire and hear stories from the mummers about tours from the past. I’ve also made a good friend in Agatha.”

  “What about Marcus?”

  Jessimond took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Marcus has also become a good friend.”

  They walked on silently for a few minutes and then Peter asked, ““How will you feel when we part ways with the mummers? I hear Marcus and Rand are supposed to return to the estate where they serve.”

  Her belly flipped over once. “Do you know where it is?”

  “Nay. Just that they will not be continuing with the mummers next year. The same as us.”

  “Have you told others we will not be back?” she asked.

  Peter shook his head. “It hasn’t come up. If it did, I would not commit one way or the other.”

  “I promise you this is the only time I’ll ever do something so frivolous and carefree, Peter. This time next year, you and I will be home.” She paused. “Do you miss Kinwick?”

  He shrugged. “A little. But like you, I’m making the most of this time away. We’re traveling to places I would never have seen otherwise. In the end, though, I will be glad to be home.”

  “With Agatha?” she teased.

  Peter blushed. “She told me that you’ve invited her to come back with us to Kinwick. That you said the countess would have a place for her inside the keep. Agatha is weary of the road and wishes to find a permanent home. She’s hoping that Kinwick may be the answer. She is very excited about that possibility.”

  “I hope you are, as well, Peter.”

  He stopped. “I will be ready to tell her the truth soon, Jess. That I am a blacksmith and you are a lady. I hate being dishonest with Agatha. A lie of omission is still a lie.”

  Jessimond didn’t trust if Agatha knew the truth that she would be able to keep it to herself. “Then wait and tell her the truth once we arrive at Ancel and Margery’s estate. I’m to send word to Mother and Father once we complete the mummers’ tour and they will join us there and then escort us home. It will give Agatha time to become used to who the two of us really are.”

  “Good. The sooner, the better.” Peter hesitated. “I have strong feelings for Agatha, Jess.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “Aye, I do. I won’t tell her now. Not with these secrets between us. Once we get to Bexley, th
ough, she will know all. I hope she won’t be angry that I—that we—deceived her.”

  “Agatha will be fine,” Jessimond promised.

  They began walking again and arrived at the stage.

  “I’m off to work with Rand,” Peter said, handing the lute to her.

  “I will see you later.”

  Jessimond weaved through the crowds. Reaching the stage, she rested her lute on it and then climbed up. Elias nodded at her, letting her know that she could begin when she wished since so many people had already arrived. Once the music started, the rest would stream in. She plucked a few of the strings, making sure the instrument was still in tune. It was hard to believe that some of her happiest moments this summer had come while performing in front of others, both here and at night after the mummers’ evening meal. Jessimond had always been the quiet de Montfort. All her siblings, save for Edward, were outgoing and carefree, easily drawing and basking in attention from others. Even now, ever since Edward wed Rosalyne, her once serious brother now laughed more often and seemed more open than before.

  She, on the other hand, had been the one who nurtured others. One who made sure everyone else remained comfortable and happy. If attention rested upon her, she deflected it onto others, wishing to stay in the background. Jessimond had always been content to do for others over herself.

  Although this still remained the essence of her character, this summer had seen her begin to change, as if she emerged from a cocoon. Jessimond didn’t know who she would finally be once the process ended—or how she would fit into Kinwick when she returned.

  Moss brought a stool out for her to sit upon. At first, she had wanted to perch on the end of the stage but Elias said the majority of the paying customers in attendance wouldn’t be able to see her that way. It had taken all the courage she could summon to sit atop the stool in the center of the stage. Jessimond was proud that she had done so because now that stool seemed like a second home to her.

  A familiar tingling made its appearance after she seated herself. It let her know that Marcus was somewhere in the audience. He didn’t attend her every performance but her body seemed to always know when he did. She glanced around and spotted him on the edge of the crowd, to her left, and acknowledged his presence with a nod.