One Winter Knight

by Townsend, Lindsay

  Now, it was Magnus who stopped, a sudden flush darkening his mauled features, and Tom who picked up.

  “She told me you were but fifteen, when she coaxed you into a tryst, sir.”

  “She was my first,” Magnus said absently. “I would dream of her scent...” His voice faded and Tom thought it wise to tell the rest quickly.

  “One night you were together, she said, and she married my father soon after. Until I was older, she did not know who had sired me—but, for a long time, thought it Sir Guillelm.”

  Magnus’s dark eyes flashed and he crossed his arms over his strapping chest. “And what next, Sir Tom? As I told you earlier, you are welcome here, but any claims—”

  “No!”

  At his furious denial, Ruth clearly tried to run across the snow to join him, to find a witch’s hand held her back. Tom glared at Elfrida, then his father, and spat more words out, faster than sling-shot.

  “How can you think that? You have your own family, your own wife! I would never come between them, nor take any part of what is theirs! I came to find you, sir, to recover and discover a part of myself, as a mark of respect, nothing else.”

  “Peace, lad, before you tell all the forest,” Magnus interrupted, not seeming in the least put out, looking, instead, very happy and proud—just like a proud father. “Splendor in Christendom, you certainly have my temper.”

  “Do you think I care?” Tom cried, exasperated beyond measure. “I came to see you, yes, and more important, to bid you to my marriage.”

  And blurting it out in that way was not how I wanted to ask. Tom clenched his fists but at the corner of his eye he spotted Ruth paling and saw her step away from Elfrida’s loosened grasp. She does not understand who I mean to wed. Fast as the thought was, a puzzled indignation almost overtook it. How can she believe I would want anyone else?

  Stalking to her, catching her wrists to keep her close, he dropped to his knees before her in the snow. “Marry me,” he pleaded. Deliberately, he ignored the wide-eyed witch beside him and focused on Ruth, only Ruth. “Say you will, or I shall have no peace. You are mine—and I want no other.”

  “Faith, what an asking,” he heard Magnus grumble. “Less grace than a crow.”

  I would agree with that, Father. This is not what I planned.

  “Hush, husband, and let them talk,” said Elfrida, her mellow voice seeming to come from a far distance.

  Dimly, Tom sensed the pair stepping back. He rubbed his thumbs gently over Ruth’s narrow wrists. Her face, still white, was unreadable. “My lady?”

  ****

  Ruth heard the words past the thunder of blood in her ears. The day had turned strange and all her assumptions shattered. I have been in misery, and all the while he intended to ask me.

  For an instant, she was so angry she almost yelled “No” herself, but was held back by the sense of Elfrida, the witch-wife, staring at her intently, almost in warning. Pride had its place, she realized, but she must not allow rage to dictate her life-terms. And it seems I have lost much of my previous anger, because of knowing Tom.

  That revelation calmed her further, and she could speak sense. Someone had to, it seemed.

  “Why?”

  “Because I love you! Even after eating rabbit and onion stew every day, I do.”

  Ruth felt her lips twitch at the sheer discourtesy of his answer. Bold knight he might be, but Sir Tom was no gallant. “You do not know me,” she countered, to see what he would say.

  Still on his knees, Tom spread his arms. “We have lived together in harmony. We know each other well enough. I want to know you more, as a husband.”

  Abruptly, she could not help recalling his long, strong body, and blushed.

  “Please say yes, lass, before he freezes at your feet.”

  “Magnus!” cried Elfrida, stamping the snow with a foot.

  “Da—Father!” snorted Tom, glaring more as his father gave exactly the same snort, this time in clear amusement.

  “Enough!” Ruth stepped forward, caught Tom’s head between her hands and kissed him full on the mouth. “Will that do?” she demanded, when they broke a little for air.

  “Only if we wed just after Christmas,” Tom answered at once, looking stunned and satisfied...and as joyous as she felt.

  “You may marry here,” Magnus and Elfrida said together.

  Tom shot her a questioning look. “So be it?”

  “So be it,” Ruth agreed, allowing her husband-to-be to catch her up and whirl her about.

  Tom kissed her again and brushed his lips against her cheek. “I have found a father and a family and so much more,” he murmured. “So much more. I love you, Ruth of the Warren.”

  I found him as a stranger, an intruder into my home, and now I let him in willingly. In Ruth’s heart the last of the Snow Troll melted away and she could speak. “I love you, Thomas Magnusson.”

  Around them, as they embraced a third time, the snow sparkled and the sun glittered. All was bright—a blessed Advent waiting for Christmas, a time of new hope and new beginnings.

  A perfect time for love.

  About the Author—Lindsay Townsend

  Lindsay Townsend is fascinated by ancient world and medieval history and writes historical romance covering these periods. She also enjoys thrillers and writes both historical and contemporary romantic suspense and mystery. When not writing, Lindsay enjoys spending time with her husband, gardening, reading and taking long, languid baths—possibly with chocolate.

  Lindsay’s blog is here: http://www.lindsaytownsend.co.uk/

  See more of Lindsay’s work here:

  www.prairierosepublications.com

  Arrow to the Heart

  Deborah Macgillivray

  In the season of Yuletide, when the Holly and Oak Kings battle, the magic of love can be an arrow to the heart.

  Fletcher St. Giles heard her sneaking up behind him, off to his right, her steps light and taken slowly in the hope she would not alert him to her approach. A twig snapping betrayed her. His arrow was properly notched, the bowstring fully extended, drawn to the point of release. He pulled in his breath and then held perfectly still, his longbow poised for loose, and continued to pretend that he remained unaware of her encroachment. From his side vision, he could not see her clearly. Still, the pale brown hair, a shade rare, was telling, but not as much as the scarlet cloak she wore.

  “A girl should not sneak up on a man with a bow.” That said, Fletcher swung around and loosed the arrow, then watched it wing its way closely past her and on to the target—a worn woolen cap pegged to a tree and distressed from being shot full of holes. Sparing her little more than a glance, he stalked to the aging pine and yanked three arrows from the fading red material and the soft wood beneath.

  When he turned back around, he saw Geljon Seacrest had moved. She now waited at the center of the clearing—where previously he had stood—looking down at the tips of her muddy boots. A pink blush flooded her pale cheeks, contrast to the vivid red material of her mantle. She lifted her chin in a rebellious tilt, as his steps carried him nearer. “You be wrong.”

  “Oh?” His brows lifted, adding emphasis to his doubt. “Do say.”

  “I am nay child, but a woman full-grown, and I was no’ trying to sneak up on you. To the point—I dunna sneak, you fool Sasunnach.”

  “Ah…Sasunnach, am I? If I be naught but a Sasunnach—and a bloody fool one at that—then it begs the riddle: Why, demoiselle, do you always follow me so? Who, then, be seen as the biggest fool? ’Tis the fool, or the fool who trails after him? Every time I hear a footfall behind me, I turn and espy you there. Within the confines of a castle, perchance our paths might cross by accident, even more than thrice. But surely, you cannot claim you just happened to be traveling through the wood of Coinnleir, and lo, stumbled upon your humble servant? That can only bespeak of design. Still, what would a fool know about such things, eh?”

  Fletcher stopped before her and stared down at her infuriatingly lovely fac
e. Oh, aye, she was not a child. Her grey-hazel eyes flashed anger at him calling her out over the way she trailed about the castle this past month, twenty paces behind him. She had. Bloody hell, the whole fortress witnessed it! The men in the barracks laughingly called her Fletcher’s Shadow, when they did not think he heard. She knew his words to be truth. She was simply annoyed he knew it.

  “Tongue tied, lass? Pity, that.” Fletcher smirked as her flush deepened.

  She was not a great beauty like the daughters of The Shane. Still, a special quality about her face, a fae elfin aspect, set her apart. Made it hard to get her image out of his mind. At night, when he laid in his small room, trying to seek sleep, her face shimmered in his thoughts. And try as he may, he could not exorcise the images.

  Images that had no right to be conjured.

  A pretty thing, she was. Her long hair falling down her back brushed the small of her spine. Her annoyance was signaled by the rise and fall of her full breasts, barely shielded by the thin woolen baize of her sark and the pale chemise underneath.

  She may call him a fool, but she was five kinds of senseless to be out here alone, staring at him with a peculiar mix of fury and desire. That look was a knife to his gut. It called to a man on a level that was potent, primitive.

  “You should not be out here alone, Lady Geljon.” Even her name was pretty. It suited her. Gel-john, spoken with a French softness.

  Her defiant chin, with a faint dusting of a clef, lifted a notch higher. “I am no’ alone. I be with you, Fletcher St. Giles.”

  He leveled his first finger before her face and shook it to emphasize his words. “That was the thrust of my warning.”

  “You will no’ hurt me.” A soft smile molded her small, pouty mouth. “What reason should I fear you?”

  “Shows how little sense you have in your skull, Lady Geljon. You ken naught of men. A smart woman learns in her early years that a man can hurt her in ways she never considered.”

  “Like a broken heart?” she countered.

  Fletcher was suddenly so furious that he started to turn away, but then had a second thought and whipped back, glaring at her. “’Tis one way. There be others…ones that leave deeper scars, and sometimes in a fashion more apparent.”

  “You play the knave, trying to scare me, Fletcher St. Giles. You ken what Lord Ravenhawke has decreed about the women of Clan Ogilvie, which includes my small sept of Seacrest—handle them softly, he speaks.”

  “Handle them softly, eh? Oh, aye, he did say such before all.” The corner of his mouth curved up, though he tried to suppress it. “‘Tis within the realm of doing…methinks.”

  By damn, he could not resist the urge. For two fortnights she had dogged his steps, giving him a come hither look in her large, haunting eyes. Unable to resist, he leaned forward and brushed a light kiss to her surprised mouth. He caught her shocked breath, tasted her honeyed sweet flavor, savored it. Holding tight to the threads of his sanity, he fought every impulse not to reach out and grab her. In his mind, he could see him pulling her lithe body against his, and then laying her down on the damp, leaf-strewn earth and taking her, teach her it was unwise to play with a man’s attention.

  He stilled as she took a step backward. The urge could not be called back. It had been a mistake…a bloody stupid mistake. He should never have touched her. Mayhap he was a fool, after all.

  Shock registered in her amber-grey eyes, as she pressed her trembling fingertips to her lips…as if to hold back the sensations. Finally, she whispered, “Who gave you leave to be kissing me, Fletcher St. Giles?”

  The pressure within him eased now the edgy moment was ebbing. A shaky laugh rumbled in his chest. “Who? You did, lass.”

  “I did no such thing! How dare you speak this lie to me?” Her blush turned to crimson, nearly the shade of her woolen cape, hanging about her shoulders.

  “Ofttimes, men and women have little need for words of permission. The way a woman looks at a man—” He brushed his curled first finger against the soft curve of her rosy cheek. “—or the way she blushes when she is near him. Or how she follows him around the Great Hall as if a thread tethers them.”

  “Then, a king’s fool he be. Imaginings—’tis all you speak of.” Geljon tried to muster indignation. The effort was sorely troubled for the truth stood between them.

  “Deny if you wish. You have. You did. ’Tis why I said there be a danger for you to be out here with me like this. What did you want? What did you expect, Lady Geljon?”

  Her lower lip quivered at the harsh tone of his words. “I…feel no danger around you…I feel…safe.”

  “Then, you be the fool, my lady.” He sketched a small bow of mock deference.

  Geljon stood waiting. For what, he did not know. Before she could react, he dropped the longbow and quiver, and reached out for her. He yanked her to him, hard, pressing her soft flesh against his unyielding muscles. He was surprised how her female curves fit his hewn warrior’s body. Perfectly. He closed his mouth over hers, still half-open in astonishment. Desires unleashed, he kissed her with the full force of his longing, kissed her as a man kisses the woman he wants with every drop of his blood.

  Her eyes widened in shock, then slowly the lids lowered halfway as she surrendered to the lure of these pagan emotions. Instead of pulling back from him, she leaned into his body, her hands locking on his upper arms and hanging on. He was not the only fool in the forest.

  It was all the encouragement he needed. His right hand slid to the back of her head, his fingers shifting through the silken tresses, before spreading wide to cradle her skull. It took all his will not to close them in the long strands and use the pressure to drag her down to the ground. His last shred of honor fought against the primeval mating instincts. He wanted her, craved her bare flesh pressed to his own, hungered to feel her hands upon his skin, stroking, caressing him. At the age of a score and ten years, he had experienced the touch of a woman in full desire. More times than he could recall. Their faces and names were naught but shadows in the mists of his mind now. Something about holding Geljon was…different. An indefinable sense warned him the cost of having her would come with a great price. Mayhap his soul. It drove him to claim her. Yet, in the same breath, a panicked sensation pushed him to send her running from him. He misliked this strange jumble of feelings surging through his blood.

  Reality of their situation washed through him in a wave, icy cold. She was not his. She would never be his. The stark comprehension drove him to goad her away.

  Pulling back, he asked, “Is that what you want, Lady Geljon? For me to take you here in the dirt and leaves like some pig-girl?” The words were arrogant, cold. Good. He intended them to hit her with that force.

  Shaking, she put a hand to her mouth to cover a small sob. Blinking thrice, she turned to flee. For a heartbeat, she glanced back over her shoulder, as if to judge what sort of man he was. Then, she ran—ran as fast as her steps would carry her back to the stronghold of Coinnleir Wood.

  Fletcher watched the splash of brilliant red vanishing through the leafless trees, feeling three kinds of a knave. Regret spurred him to run after her and apologize for his crude behavior. She was a lady, and he naught but a low-born bastard. He had no right to treat her thusly. Common sense ruled. Mayhap she would do them both a favor and keep far away from him until her father came to claim her at Yule.

  “Bloody bleeding hell,” he cursed in a whisper, his breath vaporizing in the cool winter air.

  Something brushed his eyelashes, causing him to glance up to see huge snowflakes starting to fall. He watched the blots of white float to the soil and quickly begin to cover the ground. “I wonder, shouldst you make a wish on the first flakes of winter does it carry any power?” He spoke aloud, though there was no one to hear. Nay swart hag or fae wood sprite lurked near. Sighing, he leaned over, scooped up the quiver and bow, and started back to the fortress.

  Life had never been kind to him, so he doubted the Cailleach—the Lady of Winter—would
grant him a Yule wish had he made one. He was a bastard. To his name, he owned little outside his bow and arrows, possessed naught to offer someone like Geljon. That was not the path of his destiny.

  “Oh, aye. She had the right of it. I am a bloody fool.”

  “A fool seeks his own council to advise folly?” The disembodied voice gained a form as Damian St. Giles, Lord Ravenhawke, stepped from behind the shadow of a rowan tree. “I need not tell you Geljon is not some scullery maid or serving wench, eh? The lady be the daughter of a clan chief. I doubt he wouldst take kindly to you trifling with his only child and heir.”

  “Is that what she told you happened?” Fletcher asked, meeting the hard stare of the man he considered his brother in life—a chosen bond, not blood. Even though they had been raised together, there at the back of Fletcher’s mind was the ever-present reminder he was not a true St. Giles. As they had grown, the reality was never far from thought—Damian would mature to inherit holdings in France, England and now Scotland, whilst he would serve as Damian’s man. Fletcher cared too much for Damian to harbor resentment. He wished his friend all the best life could offer. Still, at times, his own lot left him feeling as though life punished him for his lowly birth.

  Damian chuckled softly. “In sooth, she spake that you were teaching her how to use a bow. A fine skill in these treacherous times, hmm? Is that what you were doing? To mine eyes, it appeared such instructions were carried out in very close range.”

  “I am a mere humble archer of low birth. ’Tis not my station to naysay a lady of noble rank.” Fletcher tried to keep the tone of his words playful, but failed.

  Damian’s face shifted to a scowl. “Still thy tongue, humble archer. I was not trying to evoke the I be a bastard nonsense yet again. After years of hearing it, such a lament wearies me. Deny that I have offered you knighthood at least once a year since we reached our majority. Go ahead and try—damn your eyes! My caution was merely to warn you to think with what is in your head and not—”