Knights of Valor

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Knights of Valor Page 6

by Denise Domning


  When she reached the dais, he stood. Painfully obvious was that her husband did not stand. In fact, he turned the other direction giving her the cut direct. In earlier days she would have been crushed, but now his anger and resentment no longer mattered. Her heart was numb, ice cold, hard.

  "My lady, may I?" Michael pulled out her chair.

  She smiled demurely and took a seat. Her hand brushed over his when she placed it on the armrest. A sizzling torrent of delicious sensation surged from her fingertips and through her body, settling in her middle. Shocked, she yanked her hand away and folded it in her lap.

  "Thank you," she murmured. Heat rushed to her cheeks and she grappled awkwardly with her pewter cup to gulp some ale.

  A quick check showed her husband was still engaged with one of his men in conversation and did not witness her reaction to Michael. But the hall was filled with his men. Someone was sure to notice. She had to make sure she didn't make any more mistakes this eve, or there would be trouble.

  She set her cup down and stared at her plate, unsure how to proceed. She desperately wanted to talk to Michael. Wished that Kent did not exist and she could call Michael her husband as had been their plans so many years ago. They'd not had a real conversation since she'd left Ireland. She missed him, missed how he made her laugh. Missed his touch, his kiss. The whisper of his soft breath on her cheek.

  "My lady?" His deep smooth voice interrupted her thoughts. He held a platter of roasted mutton up for her.

  Elena took a small piece and put it on her plate, without looking at him.

  "Perhaps a bit more?" His voice held a teasing edge, catching her off guard.

  Elena glanced up. His face was a mask of non-emotion, but where his mouth lacked any sort of hint to his mood, his eyes sparkled with humor.

  "No, thank you."

  "Are you sure?"

  What was he doing? He would capture the attention of every person in the room if he continued. Flashing him a frown, she grasped another hunk of meat and placed it on her plate. He chuckled under his breath and settled himself in his chair.

  "I am not fond of mutton, Sir Devereux," she said under her breath.

  Elena scooped a bit of braised pears onto her plate. The sweet aroma wafted to her nose, and she licked her lips hungrily. Unable to wait, she speared a slice with her knife and placed it on her tongue. The sweetness of pear juice, honey, and cinnamon melted in her mouth. Delicious…

  "No mutton for the lady, noted." He leaned closer as if to examine what meager eats she had on her plate, and whispered in her ear. "What the princess wants, the princess gets."

  She bit her lip to hide her smile and quickly glanced about the room. No one seemed the wiser to Michael's inappropriate behavior. Oh, how happy she was to have him by her side, even if it may not be permanent. Her happiness was only shortly lived. She was unprepared for the onslaught of emotion his words elicited. Her heart beat erratically. Her hands trembled. Tears stung the back of her eyes.

  Princess. There'd been a time in her life she did feel adored, cherished. But not anymore. The past few years had been wrought with fear, anger, resentment. Whatever amount of self-esteem she'd once held, had sunk the moment her husband first degraded her, and little chunks had been ripped from her every day since, until finally, she felt nothing.

  What the princess wants, the princess gets. If only it were true! She wanted nothing more than to fling herself into Michael's arms and be carried away from the madness of Kent Castle, the madness of its master. She wanted to be carried across England to the salty shores and then thrown back to Ireland. A time when she was safe, a place she felt secure, and with the one person in life who deigned to call her special and loved her for it.

  Without looking at him, she knew Michael's eyes were on her, trying to decipher her feelings. The weight of his gaze penetrated her soul. She blinked back her tears, and turned slightly toward him, offering a small smile. She had nothing left to give but that. Pain emanated her entire being. Her soul was like a caged bird begging to be let free, yet her mind held a stick, whacking it away from the enclosing bars. If only she could be as carefree as Michael made her feel. If only she'd never left Ireland…

  Michael wove his way around people and erected tents until he came to his own, his heart heavy, his mind full. Elena's eyes haunted him. Once sparkling and jubilant, they'd turned to hollow orbs. Every now and then he'd seen a fleeting twinkle of the woman she'd once been, but then tears pooled in their depths, and she quickly shielded her face from him.

  All he'd heard was true. Her pleas for rescue weren't the exaggerations of an unhappy wife, but a cry for help, nay, a shout for a savior. He knew his job here was one not to be taken lightly, but it wasn't until he'd seen the sheer pain and even fear in his love—dare he say betrothed?—that Michael knew how important it was.

  She'd retired early for the night, and only after following her to her tent and safely seeing she was guarded, did he retreat. Their goodbye had been bittersweet. So many words left unsaid. The tension crackled between them. Her eyes had been lowered, her words whisper soft as she thanked him for the escort. Her ladies surrounded her like a shield and he well knew why. But he wasn't Kent or one of Kent's men. The brief touch of her hand on his arm had been like lightning striking his soul. He'd reached out to take her hand, kissed her soft knuckles, and then she was gone, her ladies closing the flap of the tent.

  What utter horrors had she and her ladies seen, experienced?

  Kent was a menacing man. A beast. His men disgusting pigs. When Michael won the tournament, he'd turn these men around. Teach them to respect a lady. Show them the ways a chivalrous knight should behave. Bitterness burned a path from his stomach to his throat. He spit angrily on the ground.

  Elena had shown true courage when she'd chided the knight who'd dared touch her lady's maid. Michael had been surprised when her husband said nothing, the man even had the audacity to glare daggers at his wife, as if the women were there to be touched by the men. Defiled, abused. He gritted his teeth. Bastards, all of them.

  On the morrow, when he was in the field, he'd imagine each and every one of those brutes when he fought sword to sword with the other knights.

  He shoved aside the flap to his tent and stalked inside. Darkness greeted him. Thank goodness he'd told his squires to go off for the evening and entertain themselves. He was itching for a fight and if any of them had been in the tent he was sure to persuade them into training to get his frustrations out. He let out a breath, not realizing he'd been holding it. Stumbling around, he found a candle and lit it with a flint. Shadows danced across the tent.

  He made quick work of disrobing, thrust his dagger under his makeshift pillow and standing only in breeches, he flopped onto the cot his men had put together for him. The cool night air seeped through invisible slits in the canvas walls, and he welcomed the reprieve. He felt on fire from the physical exertion of the day and the emotional turmoil he'd experienced with Elena. Outside, the sounds of jovial shouts and camaraderie filled the nighttime air. A tournament was a merry occasion. A time to celebrate prowess, and even those who lost today would still be celebrating, for they'd lived.

  Oh, how he would have loved to enjoy this night with Elena. Danced with her to the tunes of the minstrels and singers, fed her a hunk of meat from his own dirk, and then stolen a kiss from her as he bid her goodnight. He could still smell the faint essence of honeysuckle that surrounded her, imagined her floating in a tub of steaming water, the little white petals of the sweet flower floating amid oil and her smooth skin.

  Would that he could just whisk her away. He'd longed to return to England all his life, but suddenly he had an almost uncontrollable urge to flee to Ireland—with Elena in his arms. He'd never really felt like it was home until now. Perhaps he should steal her away in the night, secure a boat and paddle them to the Emerald Isle himself.

  Knowing her husband was such a mean and evil fool, surrounded by a vicious pack of dog-knights, was the only
thing holding him back. The man would tear Heaven and Hell apart to find her, Michael had no doubt. He may show her disdain and appear to wish her gone from him, but Kent had pride, and pride could be a dangerous, deadly thing. No, staying on, becoming the leader of Kent's pack of animals and whipping them into shape was the only way. But then again, even if he did turn the men decent, there was still Kent to contend with. He would still be Elena's legal husband, and there was nothing Michael could do to help her behind closed matrimonial doors.

  He growled through his teeth in frustration. Just the thought of the vile man touching her creamy white skin sent him into a rage.

  A sound alongside his tent pulled Michael from his seething anger. He sat up, slipped the dagger from under his pillow and blew out the candle. Silently he stood and crept toward the opening of the tent. Fingers, visible from the moonlight streaming in, curled through the opening and grasped the edge of the flap, pulling it slightly open. Michael eyed the slim, long, feminine digits. A moment later he was speechless. The flap fully opened and revealed a wide-eyed Elena. Then, just as quickly, she stepped inside, the flap closed and they were encased in darkness.

  "Elena," he gasped.

  "Shh…" She placed a finger on his lips.

  He grasped her hand, then slid his grip up her arm and pulled her toward him. She slipped her arms around his waist, and laid her head against his bare chest. She stiffened a moment, perhaps realizing he was half naked, and then pressed her cheek against him again. He touched his lips to top of her head, and finding the fabric of her headdress a disturbing barrier, pulled it from her head and let his lips skim her silky hair.

  "I snuck in here. The guards don't know I've left my tent, and my ladies are sworn to secrecy." Her whispered words came fast. Her fingers stroked his back.

  "That was very dangerous, Elena. If anyone were to catch—" He couldn't finish his words. Tension struck him deeply and he glanced about the empty tent as if Kent's men would storm them at any moment.

  "No one will find me." Soft, warm, hesitant lips brushed against his chest, over his heart.

  Michael sucked in his breath. Prickled flesh rose along his arms and chest. He trailed his fingers along her jaw and lifted her chin toward his face. Although he could only make out the shadowy figure of her form, her eyes glinted in what little light surrounded them. He couldn't take it any longer, he had to kiss her, taste her. Their eyes locked. Her lips parted slightly as she flicked her tongue over her lower lip.

  "Forgive me," he whispered.

  There was a hitch in her breath, she bit her lip. He lowered his lips and brushed them against hers. She tilted her head, lips pressed warmly against his and sighed. The first true sound of contentment, peace he'd heard from her since seeing her first that afternoon. Her breath held a hint of mint as it caressed his cheek. How long had he waited for this moment? It felt like a lifetime and maybe it had been. He'd been in love with her since he was a boy, planned to marry her since then, and the day they'd pledged themselves to each other was the day she'd been torn away.

  He didn't want to let her go, couldn't now. His fingers found the small of her back and he kneaded her tense muscles until she relaxed, and then with gentle pressure tucked her against him. Her body melted to his. Her tension seemed to disappear and with it, his own anger and frustration. It was just the two of them. The world flowed away. No Kent, no tournament, no England. Just Elena, Michael and this kiss.

  He fought the urge to lift her up and take her to his bed. Instead he held her close, kneaded her back, stroked her arms. He would let her lead the way. She parted her lips ever so slightly. As urgently as he wanted to thrust his tongue inside and claim what she offered, he resisted. Instead he teased her with his lips, kissing her over and over, until he felt like his head was swimming. It was she who tentatively teased the corner of his mouth with her tongue. And just like that he was lost.

  Michael swept her into the air, but didn't go anywhere. Instead he held against him, legs bent over one arm and back held in the other. Her arms slipped around his neck. He licked the seam of her lips, nibbled on her flesh, and stuck his face in her hair, breathing deeply of her essence. 'Twas a dream, it had to be. But he was wide awake.

  Michael kissed her neck up to her jaw line, and then met his mouth with hers again. This time she eagerly opened for him, tasting him. Their tongues danced like two swords sparring. He was dizzy with desire, shook with need, but still he stood there, holding her.

  "Elena," he murmured against her mouth. He couldn't say more, although he desperately wanted to tell her how much he loved her. The words wouldn't come, and so he kissed her some more, hoping that his adoration for her spoke louder in his actions than his lack of words.

  Despite the danger lurking all around them, for the first time in years, Elena felt safe tucked inside Michael's arms. Together they could conquer the world.

  She was warm, her limbs, every inch of her sang with exhilaration. This kiss was different than any kiss she'd experienced with Michael before. Their connection was deep and soul-wrenching. Almost like a thousand fairies rained magical dust on them, sparks seemed to fly through the very air.

  Michael's skin was warm, muscles rippled beneath her fingertips as she ran them over his shoulders. She pulled the leather thong from his hair and laced her fingers through its softness. He was all raw maleness. Sensuality like she'd never known.

  He held her tight against him, like she was weightless. How could it be that at the same time his mouth crushed to hers with a fierce intensity, he also kissed her with a delicate softness? Her mind reeled. He let her lead the way, set the pace. The power he gave her made her feel that much more comfortable. She wished this kiss would go on forever. Never before had she dreamed the melding of lips could be like this. As though the time apart had left them both with an urgent, desperate need, and each of them delighted in the connection so long missed.

  Kent's kisses were rough, repelling. With Michael it was tender, wonderful, but it was also deeply sensual.

  A turning point was taking place. Something they would never come back from.

  So much emotion flowed from them both as they nibbled, sucked and stroked at each other's mouths.

  Sinful it was, how her body reacted to him. She was a wanton. An adulteress. Or was she? She'd pledged herself to Michael and he alone. Her marriage to Kent was a farce in her eyes.

  Her nipples hardened, pressing painfully against her tight stays. Between her thighs was warm, wet, flooded. Was something wrong? How could she feel so delicious, so beautiful, sensual? This couldn't be right.

  But it felt right and good. Every part of her sang for something more, but what? How much better could it get?

  Lord how she wished she could declare her love for Michael and have him sweep her away. She'd give anything—even her soul, however blasphemous it was—to spend her life with him.

  Even if it cost her an eternity in purgatory.

  "I have to get you back to your tent, my love." Michael settled her on the ground, his jaw muscles clenching fiercely. Returning her to Kent was the last thing he wanted.

  In the shadows he saw her head bow as she nodded. "Aye, I have tarried too long already. But you mustn't come with me. I must return on my own."

  "If 'tis all the same to you, Elena, I would see you safely returned." He let his determination shine through his voice.

  She laughed, the sound enchanting. "You are still the same. A true gentleman. I would be pleased for you to accompany me, but you must at least put on a cloak."

  She pulled her hood over her head, and was once again concealed from his vision. Michael grabbed his tunic and threw it on before pulling a cloak around his shoulders, and a hood over his head, drawn low over his brow, to hide his identity. They left just as quietly as she'd arrived. He followed her quick steps through the spaces made between tents, amongst the shadows, behind tents, through puddles of God only knew what… He preferred to think it was simply water, even though it hadn't ra
ined in a week—and the stench was a clear indicator.

  Suddenly, a boisterous trio stumbled into their path.

  "Ye want to wager? The bear's in a fighting mood. Dogs will never win," one shouted.

  "No, thank you," Michael replied.

  "Whatsa matter? Ye look like ye've got the coin. Pay up!"

  Michael grasped Elena's wrist and yanked her between two tents. He covered her from head to foot with his cape, tucking her against him.

  He kept the trio at bay with a few choice words—not wanting to bring too much attention to them. The drunken group grumbled, but then muddled along.

  Once Michael was sure they were alone, he nodded to Elena. They continued their trek through the tents, until she stopped before one set slightly aside from the others. It was larger, but other than that, held no discriminating features like the flags set on posts near Kent's.

  "This is yours?" he whispered.

  She nodded and answered in hushed tones, "I do not like to be noticed."

  He would always notice her, not matter what. He reached out, stroked his fingers down her cheek and smiled. He glanced around. Not a soul in sight.

  "One last kiss?"

  Elena leaned up to give Michael a swift kiss, fighting against her desire to linger. His lips were so soft and warm. His taste intoxicating. In the shadow of the night, only the moon and stars lit their surroundings. A soft breeze blew chilly summer air, carrying with it the scents of the tournament. Some sweet, some foul.

  She pulled back suddenly from his kiss—she'd allowed herself to become carried away once more. His dazed eyes met hers. She took the opportunity in his befuddlement to shove him away—lest she lose her nerve and cling to him all night. He barely wavered. She needed to move fast before he could stop her.

 

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