A Knight's Temptation (Falling For A Knight Book 2)

by Lana Williams

  “Of course not, my sweet.” Braden smiled, hoping to coax her out of a foul mood.

  “What am I supposed to do while you and Chanse are pretending to fight?”

  He didn’t correct her assumption. In truth, there would be little “pretending” about it. “Cheer us on. Enjoy the performance. Unless you can prod anything more from Arabela.”

  ~*~

  Ilisa took a seat on the benches with the other ladies, Alec watching nearby, as the melee began. From what she could tell, teams had been formed, and the men—all on foot—were challenged to work together. Mayhap that meant there would be less a chance of either Braden or Chanse being hurt.

  She could hope at any rate.

  The crowd was loud. Ladies waved bright scarves as they chanted for the competitor they hoped to win. Arabela watched from her father’s side several rows in front of Ilisa, preventing the chance of speaking with her. Her expression revealed little. No doubt she didn’t want to watch this any more than she’d wanted to watch the joust.

  Sir Niall’s wife, Lady Catherine, took a seat beside Ilisa. “Quite exciting, is it not?”

  They visited, her presence helping to calm Ilisa.

  Sir Matthew called for the competition to begin. Ilisa watched with her hands clenched. To her, the fighting looked like terrible chaos yet no blood could be seen, much to her surprise.

  “Your husband is a skilled swordsman,” Lady Catherine said. “As is his cousin. ’Tis remarkable how much alike they are. They even move alike.”

  “From what I understand, they trained with the same man.” Which was true—their father and their uncle, Garrick’s father.

  “That would explain the similarities in addition to their relationship. They appear quite close.”

  “Aye.” Ilisa decided it best to change the subject before the lady asked something she didn’t know about the “cousins.” “What of you? Do you have children?”

  But as her gaze returned to the competition, Braden was struck from behind. Ilisa stood in protest, heart in her throat, fists clenched.

  Braden spun on his heel, swinging his sword chest-high to catch the man who’d struck him in the center of his chest with the flat of his blade and sent his attacker reeling back.

  “That was terribly unfair,” Lady Catherine said as Ilisa slowly sank to the bench.

  Braden didn’t let it bother him but continued fighting—an almost graceful dance—giving Ilisa an all-too-real image of what he’d be like in battle. His fierceness surprised her, so at odds with the gentleness he showed her. Yet his control was as fierce as his swordsmanship. She hardly knew what to make of it.

  Sir Matthew called a halt to the fighting and ordered certain men to switch teams then the competition began again.

  The melee might’ve been entertainment, but the violence of it was shocking all the same.

  Chanse had several close calls, one of which Braden was able to block. As time passed, many contestants were eliminated.

  If she hadn’t been watching for Braden to favor his shoulder, she wouldn’t have known he’d recently been injured. He made it to the final round, but it appeared to Ilisa as though he deliberately missed a block. No doubt he had no desire to face Chanse in the final round.

  Soon it was down to Chanse and three other men. Then Chanse and one other. Ilisa held her breath as the fighting continued, both men incredibly skilled.

  At last Chanse blocked his opponent so hard that the other man lost his grip on his weapon. Chanse took advantage of his defenselessness and tapped the knight on his chest, imitating a fatal blow.

  The other knight raised his hand in defeat, and the crowd cheered.

  Chanse removed his helm, raised his sword aloft, and the audience yelled more as he reached out to shake the other knight’s hand.

  Ilisa breathed a sigh of relief, grateful it was over. Her gaze swung to Braden, who’d also removed his helm. He glowed with confidence, sweat, and had never looked better as he grinned at his brother then at her.

  Her heart stuttered in response despite her attempt to hold onto it. Who was this complex man who had the ability for such violence and tenderness?

  The sooner they returned to their normal lives, the better. Before she allowed this pretense to go too far.

  The men and ladies drifted toward their tents to rest before preparing for the last feast of the celebration. Arabela returned to the keep without Ilisa having the chance to speak with her.

  “Did you enjoy it?” Braden asked when he arrived at her side to escort her to their tent.

  She wasn’t certain what to say after what she’d witnessed, nor how she felt about him. “You gave me a scare.” She looked at him from under her lashes.

  He patted her hand that he’d tucked under his elbow. “No need for worry. Injuries are unlikely during a melee.”

  Unlikely but not impossible. Such was the life of a knight.

  “Tell that to my thundering heart.”

  He drew her to a halt, ignoring the others walking past, his gaze holding hers. “All is well. Chanse and I both survived. And this is our last night here,” he said. “Let us make it count.”

  She nodded but wondered if he referred to finding out all they could or enjoying their time together. Then she gave herself a mental shake. Why did she doubt he meant anything but the former?

  Braden rinsed off the sweat and dust from the competition while Ilisa did her best to avoid watching him. But when he removed his tunic, she couldn’t help but study his shoulder, curious to see how his wound fared.

  “You cannot heal yourself?” she asked as she stepped closer, her gaze on his shoulder.

  “Nay.”

  Unable to resist, she reached out to trail a finger near the puckered wound, surprised when his flesh rippled beneath her touch all the way across his chest. Fascinated, she touched him once more, pleased to think he reacted to her, not so different from how she responded when he touched her.

  “Ilisa,” he whispered, then pressed her hand against his bare chest as he leaned forward to take her mouth with his.

  All the emotions she’d felt as she’d watched him fight—the worry, the admiration, the fear—rose to the surface, and she poured them into the kiss.

  With a groan, he gathered her close, holding on tight, deepening the kiss.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, wishing the moment would never end, wishing he understood the extent of her feelings from her response alone, wishing she could hold tight to him forever.

  All too soon, they both eased back. Ilisa cupped his cheek in her hand, words of love threatening to pour out.

  But she pressed her lips tight. Not yet, she told herself. Not until they were far from here and out of danger. Not until she could control her reeling emotions and better understand what she truly felt about this man. This incredible man.

  “We should prepare ourselves for the celebration,” he said, yet he kept his hands locked around her waist, his lips coming to rest against her forehead.

  She drank in the moment, ignoring the lump in her throat. While she didn’t know what the future would bring, she knew this was a moment to be treasured. She didn’t have nearly enough of them with him.

  At last, he leaned back to look at her. “Shall we?”

  The most she could manage was a nod before she stepped back from the protective circle of his arms, struck by how suddenly defenseless she felt when she did so.

  She turned away to change her kirtle, pleased to focus at least temporarily on the routine of getting dressed. The clothing Prioress Matilda had sent with her had been a good thing, a necessity for this pretense. Well over two years had passed since she’d had such fine clothes to wear, back when her family had lived in the governor’s keep on the rise in Berwick.

  The plum-colored kirtle had an embroidered neck and wide sleeves and fit her well. She dressed quickly, doing her best to ignore Braden’s movements behind her, the small tent making it difficult.

  As she settled t
he woven leather belt low on her hips and straightened the small knife it held, she turned. Her breath caught at the sight of Braden in the candlelight.

  He wore a deep blue tunic, his hair still damp from when he’d washed. The fabric clung to his broad shoulders, complementing his golden skin.

  His gaze lingered over her, sending shivers through her body. “You are beautiful.” The way he spoke with such intensity caused the quivers to turn to flips. “I don’t tell you that often enough.”

  She forced a smile, trying to keep the moment light. “You are handsome. Have I ever mentioned that?”

  Returning her smile, he offered her his arm. “Ready?”

  Nay, she wanted to yell. I want to stay in here with you and make the rest of the world go away.

  But duty came before personal wants. That had been trained into her all her life.

  So she dipped her head, forced a smile, and said, “Aye. Let the evening begin.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The celebration in the great hall was well underway by the time they arrived. Wine and ale flowed. Everyone appeared in high spirits, the conversation lively.

  Ilisa held tight to Braden’s arm as he led the way to their seats. A juggler performed tricks before the high table, adding to the laughter. Musicians sat together at one table, their instruments propped along the wall nearby.

  “Here we go, Lady Cairstine,” Braden said as he looked at her with a smile.

  “Indeed, Sir Hugh.” She returned his smile and lifted her chin. One more evening. That was all she had to endure in the great hall of the man who wanted her and her family dead.

  “You must pat yourself on the back,” Braden said.

  “Whatever for?”

  “You’ve fooled Lord Graham. You’ve eaten at his table this entire celebration without him being the wiser.”

  She chuckled. “That is certainly something about which to brag. I look forward to telling Sophia of it.” Why did she worry that, until it was over, speaking as such would bring bad luck?

  Hoping the thought was merely a result of nerves and not a foreteller of misfortune, she took her seat and kept her focus on Braden’s comforting presence.

  “Chanse is trying his best to charm our hosts once again.” Braden smiled with amusement at the sight of his brother speaking to Lady Graham.

  Ilisa chuckled at the lady’s blank expression. “He’s not succeeding with Lady Graham, but Lady Gideon would be pleased to speak with him.” She dipped her head toward where the lady sat at a nearby table, waggling her fingers at Chanse each time he looked her way. “He completely ignores Lady Arabela. Does he do so on purpose?”

  “Who knows what ideas cross his mind?”

  “I don’t suppose we’ll be hearing an announcement of Arabela’s hand being given to the tournament champion after all,” Ilisa said, noting the sidelong looks Arabela gave Chanse.

  “Based on Graham’s expression, Chanse is not the champion he had in mind.” Braden shook his head, obviously amused at the turn of events. “No doubt the lord is pleased he didn’t announce that she’d be the prize for the winner at the beginning of the celebration.”

  The first course arrived along with Alec to serve them.

  “We leave come morn, aye?” he whispered as he set a trencher between them.

  Braden nodded. “Indeed. We’ll break our fast and thank our hosts and be gone.”

  Alec appeared relieved. “Not that I don’t like serving as your squire, but I’m ready to go home.”

  Home to where? Ilisa hoped her brother remembered they couldn’t return to their little cottage in Berwick. They’d need to stay either at St. Mary’s or see if Hilda minded if they remained with her for a time.

  Then what?

  “What has turned your thoughts so dark?” Braden asked, watching her carefully.

  “Nothing.” Only the realization that she had little to return to. She lifted her chin and took a deep drink of the spiced wine. The important thing to remember was that she was leaving come morn. For that, she was grateful.

  “We have much reason to celebrate this evening,” Braden whispered.

  “Oh?”

  “Our mission has been a success. The information we gathered will help protect the residents of your city along with all of Scotland.” He lifted his cup, waiting for her to do the same then tapped them together. “Well done, my lady.”

  Ilisa smiled as his warm gaze held hers for a long moment. He was right. They’d accomplished the impossible. But she’d be more inclined to celebrate once they were well away from here. “And to you, husband.”

  The meal was even more elaborate than the previous feasts. Once the final course was served and Chanse’s victory had been toasted, the musicians began to play. The cithara, a stringed instrument, and two harps created a lilting sound. But when the strains of a bagpipe filled the hall, the guests shouted their approval.

  Many of the long trestle tables were stacked against the far wall to make room in the center of the hall for dancing.

  “Would you care to join me?” Braden asked, the corner of his mouth turned up.

  Her heart lightened at his offer. At her nod, he assisted her to rise, keeping her hand in his and led her to the cleared area where other couples joined them. A new song began, the rhythm pulling Ilisa into the dance.

  Into the moment.

  She and Braden circled each other, hands on hips, their gazes locked. Then they turned in the opposite direction, other couples doing the same. Though they didn’t touch, she felt as if Braden held her in the circle of his arms. With intricate footwork, they made their way to the opposite end of the floor then back again before spinning in a circle once more.

  The movement and the music caused all else to fall away, leaving only her and Braden. The dance ended far too soon but left Ilisa smiling. This was another of those moments to cherish, and she held tight to it.

  “Have I told you how much I like your smile?”

  Yet Braden’s words faded as a terrible panic stopped her breath. Fear shivered through her. An unusual yet familiar scent caught her notice, bringing another wave of fear washing over her, leaving her heart pounding.

  She stilled, unable to understand. Then it came to her.

  “Are you unwell?” Braden asked as he took her hand, his expression full of concern.

  That same scent had followed her just before she’d been shoved from the stairs. She turned, determined to find the source, to find Monroe directly behind her.

  “Enjoying the celebration?” he asked with a smile, his glittering gaze raking over her before shifting to Braden.

  Ilisa clutched Braden’s hand, trying to breathe and ease her panic. Logically, she knew they were in the middle of the great hall. Monroe couldn’t cause any harm here, but her body didn’t seem to understand that.

  Had it truly been him when he looked at them with the same friendly, engaging smile he’d had the entire sennight?

  “We are. The musicians are very good.” Braden stepped closer, placing a protective arm around her. “I’m parched. Shall we get a drink, my dear?”

  Ilisa nodded, tearing her gaze from Monroe before he realized something was amiss.

  Braden eased her forward until they were well away from the steward.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “’Twas Monroe. He was the one who pushed me off the stairs.”

  He halted, dropping his arm from around her. “Are you certain?”

  She nodded, wondering if he’d believe her when she could hardly believe it herself.

  “You remembered something?” He glanced over his shoulder at the steward who stood to the side of the dancers, nodding his head in time to the music.

  “He smells of onion and sandalwood, just as he did that night. I noted it as I left Arabela’s chamber as ’tis such an odd combination. Then I felt his hands on my back as he shoved me from the stairs.” The more she spoke of it, the more certain she became. “’Twas him, I’m sure of it.
”

  Braden frowned, his expression full of doubt.

  Ilisa’s heart sank. How could she convince him to believe her?

  ~*~

  Braden looked at Monroe again, trying to comprehend how he could’ve been so wrong about the steward. He’d noted the scent of sandalwood on the man more than once. Had it been the addition of the onion smell with it that had triggered Ilisa’s memory?

  She’d been right about Matthew. The knight had been more than helpful to Braden and Chanse during the melee, proving he was a man of his word. Who was he to think she was wrong about Monroe?

  “Damn him to hell and back,” Braden muttered under his breath as he glared at the steward, imagining him sneaking up behind Ilisa and shoving her off the stairs. The act of a coward.

  Monroe seemed to sense the weight of his gaze and looked askance at Braden.

  Braden couldn’t find it in himself to smile and act as though all was well. Instead, he continued to glare at the man. “If only there were a way for us to prove his guilt.”

  Ilisa glanced away. “My word is not enough?”

  It took a moment for her words to sink through his anger. “Dear wife,” he began as he turned her to face him, refusing to address her with a false name when they were speaking of something this important. “I believe you. Somehow, someway, the man will forfeit his life for his deed. I only wish we had proof so I could force Graham to take action against him.”

  Ilisa nodded, seeming to draw a relieved breath as he took her hand and clasped it tight. “Would the lord punish him? Or reward him? I have to wonder if he acted of his own accord or if he was directed to do so.”

  Braden pondered her words. “You may be correct. Perhaps a spur of the moment decision on his part if he overheard you speaking with Arabela. No doubt she’s easier to control when she feels isolated.”

  “Poor Arabela.”

  “’Twould be even better if we could link Monroe’s actions to Graham and prove him guilty as well.”

  “Who would hold the lord accountable?” Ilisa shook her head. “No one here.”