One Knight's Kiss: A Medieval Romance Novella

by Catherine Kean

Looking back at him, Honoria said, “I am not usually such an overly emotional or witless damsel.”

  He smiled. “You are far from overly emotional or witless. In my opinion, in the hall, you were a warrior queen, fighting for what rightfully belonged to her. I mean, you.”

  A blush threatened. “Please, cease.”

  “Do you not like thinking of yourself as a warrior queen?”

  “I am hardly brave. I am not trained for battle, nor do I have royal blood running in my veins.”

  “Even so, I will always remember you in such a way. Regal, determined, and unforgettable…like Guinevere.”

  Oh, mercy. No one had ever compared her to King Arthur’s wife. ’Twas a glorious compliment, but one that reminded her again of her sire and the book. She ached to remember how her father had brought those wondrous legends to life for her.

  Tristan’s fingers gently squeezed her shoulder. “You have gone quiet.”

  “I was…thinking.”

  “About?”

  The emotions tangled up inside her intensified. How did she put into words what she was feeling? How did she say that while she appreciated his touch, it somehow made her turmoil even more complicated?

  When she didn’t immediately answer, his hand fell away, and he moved in beside her to gaze down into the bailey lit by torches.

  The wind sighed, bringing the tang of torch smoke to Honoria, along with the faintest hint of Tristan’s scent: leather and soap. The enticing smell made her long to lean in against him, close her eyes, and inhale deeply, but ’twas hardly ladylike behavior.

  “Tell me your thoughts,” he coaxed.

  She could refuse, but she didn’t want to. They’d forged a bond of trust. “I am thinking…that your kindness has made me feel even more foolish about earlier.”

  “We have all said and done things we later regretted.”

  “Have you?” she asked.

  “Oh, aye.”

  “What happened, if you do not mind my asking?”

  Tristan’s visage had hardened with reticence; she’d clearly stirred up difficult emotions for him. Yet, he reached to his neck and drew out a thin cord from beneath his garments. Fastened to the cord was a small leather pouch.

  He opened the bag and tipped the contents into his hand: a lock of hair, wrapped around with fine gold thread.

  “A lady’s hair?” she asked.

  “Indeed, a lady’s hair.”

  ***

  Odelia’s tresses lay in Tristan’s palm like a dangerous temptation. He closed his fingers around the token he’d kept close to his heart. He’d meant to destroy it, but then had decided to keep it as a reminder of his folly—and his vow to focus on duty, not love.

  Beside him, Honoria remained silent. She was obviously doing her best to be patient, even though she longed to know more.

  He slowly opened his fingers again. When Odelia had cut the lock and placed it in his palm, a romantic gesture that had resonated with his sense of chivalry, he’d pledged his devotion to her. He’d never imagined she’d forsake him.

  “Do you love her?” Honoria finally asked.

  “Odelia betrayed me months ago.”

  “Oh, I did not realize.”

  “While I do not believe I loved her, I did care about her.” He brushed his thumb over the silken parcel. “I thought she cared for me, but I was mistaken.”

  “I am sorry.”

  How he loathed talking about Odelia; but, he wanted Honoria to know the truth. For some reason he couldn’t quite understand, he felt compelled to tell her all. “She is the daughter of an earl, and our sires are allies. When I courted her, my father was thrilled and encouraged me to wed her.” Tristan laughed roughly. “My sire and I are often at odds, but when I told him I planned to marry her, I became a favored son. The union, you see, would have brought my family great renown.”

  “Oh, Tristan.”

  “She had agreed to marry me, and, as was proper, I was going to ask her father for her hand in marriage. The night before I was to speak with her sire, I found her…in another man’s arms.” His hand closed around the thread-wrapped hair again, while he fought fury and disappointment.

  Honoria touched his arm. Her fingers pressed, offering reassurance.

  He was suddenly short of breath. The air in his lungs became frozen, suspended in a tantalizing moment of possibility.

  ’Twas as if he’d been caught up in an enchantment.

  His thoughts reeled, rekindling what he knew of the legend of Tristan and Iseult. Was this how Tristan had felt after he’d drunk the love potion?

  Ah, God, but he was just so aware of Honoria. Sensation raced through his body: intense cognizance of her nearness; of her gaze upon him; of the floral fragrance that surrounded her.

  He fought the pleasure elicited by her touch, tried to break free of the spell cast upon him.

  Never again would he fall in love.

  He hardened his heart to the longing to know her in all ways.

  Never.

  “What did your father say, when you told him of her betrayal?” Honoria asked.

  The torment inside Tristan twisted like the blade of a knife. “He told me I was a fool to have ended the relationship.”

  “Really?”

  “Aye. He told me I should have wed her anyway, because of all that I—and my family—would have gained.”

  Her fingers pressed again.

  He shuddered, fighting his yearning for her.

  Never….

  With effort, he broke from her touch, more abruptly than he’d intended. The craving for her diminished, but ’twas still there, smoldering like an ember that could be stirred up in an instant. “My father and I have not spoken since,” he added gruffly. “If there are matters he and I need to discuss, I send missives through one of my siblings.”

  Honoria shook her head and stared out into the darkness. “I thought all fathers were like mine; that all sires supported their children.”

  “In his own way, I guess my father did. He saw an opportunity for me to advance my career, increase our family’s holdings—”

  “At the cost of your happiness.”

  Tristan managed a careless shrug. “It does not matter now.”

  “It does matter. Odelia forsook you. Your sire hurt you as well.”

  “I will persevere.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and again, he saw the queen that he’d witnessed in the hall. “You are right to want a marriage founded on true love. To have children born of that love.”

  Damnation, but he wished she wasn’t so magnificent. His gaze fell to her mouth; perfectly formed, lush lips. Suddenly, he wanted her to touch him again. Even stronger was the urge to lose himself in her kiss.

  He blinked hard. What in hellfire was he thinking? He must be under that enchantment again.

  “Since you are familiar with the ancient tales,” Honoria was saying, “you will know they are not just love stories. They also honor knights who undertook perilous quests. Those men endured great hardships, but became heroes because of the challenges they faced.”

  Was she going to compare his plight to what the legendary knights had endured? How flattering.

  “Mayhap what you went through recently was destined to make you stronger.”

  “It sure as hell will not destroy me,” he said.

  “I hope not.”

  Her hushed voice was akin to a caress; a lover’s hand trailing over his naked skin. A tremor rippled through him, chased by desire. A sinful part of his conscience told him to pursue the invitation in her voice and eyes, to bury his hand into her hair, tilt up her chin, and kiss her full on the lips—a kiss to rival any she’d read about in her books.

  As he stared down at her in the darkness, her mouth slightly parted, her eyes questioning, he sensed she wouldn’t refuse him. He was skilled enough at kissing that he’d ensure she enjoyed it.

  “Tristan?” she whispered, as if she didn’t understand the struggle within him, or within herself.<
br />
  God’s bones, he wanted so very much to kiss her. Yet, he’d made a vow to himself. He must keep it.

  Moreover, if one of the guards on the battlement opposite saw him kiss Honoria, he could find himself committed to her; the same dilemma he’d faced with Cornelia in the hall.

  “I fear I have left Radley alone too long already,” he said as the wind stirred his hair and garments. Somehow, he hadn’t realized ’twas so bloody cold outside until now. “I should return to the hall.”

  She must have seen him shiver, for she asked, “Would you like to borrow my cloak?”

  He laughed at the reminder of his offer in the orchard. “We can both go inside and see Radley.”

  “Nay, I will return to my chamber.”

  “Return to your tomes, you mean.”

  Tension defined her posture now. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but she must know that for a woman as young, beautiful, and intelligent as she was, there was far more to life than old tales.

  He returned the lock of hair to its leather pouch and tucked it under his shirt. “With your knowledge of the old stories, you will recall that the heroines had to endure difficult trials too.”

  Surprise and wariness registered in her expression. “I am aware—”

  “Good. Then I trust you will not allow your hardships to destroy you. You are destined for far greater things.”

  Honoria stared at him, her mouth agape.

  He longed to say more, but he’d already said more than was wise. He bowed and strode away, leaving her to finish her walk.

  ***

  Sitting up in bed with the book of tales, Honoria sighed and slumped back against her pillows. For some annoying reason, she couldn’t stop thinking about her conversation with Tristan. His words echoed over and over: Do not allow your hardships to destroy you.

  What gave him the right to comment on her situation? ’Twas clear he didn’t understand at all. She wasn’t being destroyed by her grief; she was mourning her beloved father, as a daughter should.

  Wasn’t she?

  Beside her on the bed, Willow pawed her hip. Honoria scratched the dog’s chin. “You understand, do you not, Willow?”

  The hound’s shaggy tail thumped on the coverlet, and she licked Honoria’s hand.

  “Tristan was most bold to say what he did.” He’d been rather bold in other matters, too. His gaze had held a kind of hunger, one that had made her grow warm with a delicious heat. What, exactly, did it mean when a lord looked upon a lady in that way?

  After he’d left her on the parapet, she’d gone straight to her chamber. She’d disrobed by the hearth, pulled on her chemise, and climbed into bed, hoping to ease her restlessness by reading. Usually, that worked. Tonight, it had not.

  She turned the next few pages, wishing there was more detail on what happened right before a knight and a damsel kissed. How did the lady feel when she sensed the kiss was about to happen? Did she experience that delicious heat?

  Mayhap she could ask Radley. He’d been kissing women since he was twelve. Yet, such questions would reveal to him just now ignorant she really was, and she couldn’t bear such humiliation.

  Setting the tome aside, Honoria blew out the bedside candles and lay back. Firelight threw shifting shadows across the ceiling.

  Do not allow your hardships to destroy you.

  She scowled. On the morrow, she’d show Tristan she wasn’t allowing life to pass her by.

  She was a lady who overcame obstacles and became stronger for them.

  Chapter Eight

  “Lord de Bretagne has just ridden into the bailey, milady.”

  “Thank you.” With a nod to the man-at-arms, who quit the hall, Lady Whitford set down the gold silk bliaut she’d been mending by the fire; the one she intended to wear on Christmas Day.

  Honoria had been making centerpieces of beeswax candles, pine cones, and evergreens. She hurried to her parent’s side, sliding her arm through her mother’s as she stood.

  “Guillaume always enjoys the boar hunt,” Lady Whitford said. “He will be eager to ride to the forest as soon as possible.”

  Honoria smiled. “There are only two days left before Christmas.” Radley had vowed to follow the same customs as their sire when he’d become lord, and that included serving the boar’s head on a silver platter on Christmas Day.

  Her mother winked as they headed for the forebuilding stairs. “The feast just wouldn’t be same without the boar, would it?”

  Honoria murmured her agreement while trying not to grimace. She’d never liked the taste of roasted boar, and didn’t particularly enjoy seeing the wild pig’s head displayed with an apple in its mouth, but she understood her brother’s wish to preserve their family’s traditions.

  When Honoria and her mother walked out into the chilly but sun-drenched bailey, Guillaume was standing beside his destrier and talking with Radley. When the older lord saw them, he waved and crossed to them, his hair white in the sunshine.

  “Valerie, my love.”

  Guillaume embraced Lady Whitford and kissed her on the lips. Honoria knew without doubt that he adored her mother. That soul-deep love lauded in the old tales was real and powerful: The kind of love Tristan wanted and that Honoria wanted too, some day.

  After one more kiss, Guillaume drew back, holding her ladyship at arm’s length.

  “You are well, Honoria?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  “She finished decorating the hall this morning,” said Lady Whitford. “It looks splendid. So does the kissing bough she and Cornelia made together.”

  “Where is my daughter?” Guillaume asked.

  “She complained of a headache this morning,” Honoria said. “She decided to stay abed and rest.”

  “Ah. Well, please give her my regards. I will see her after the hunt.”

  The clip-clop of horses’ hooves drew Honoria’s gaze to the stable. Tristan, Sydney, and several other men-at-arms had emerged, leading their mounts. Tristan made an impressive figure in his forest-green woolen cloak and knee-high boots. Catching her gaze, he nodded to her before he was lost to her view among the other riders and horses.

  Memories of last night on the battlement rushed into her mind. Had Tristan wanted to kiss her? Or had she imagined his interest, her romantic soul interpreting the shadows so that she discerned hunger when in truth he didn’t care for her in that way at all?

  Honoria truly did want to know how it felt to be kissed by a man, and before she turned twenty. Surely that proved she wasn’t letting life pass her by? She suddenly realized she could show Tristan how much she was taking initiative in her own life and find out how he felt about her.

  She could kiss him. On the mouth.

  If no one witnessed the intimacy, Tristan wouldn’t be honor-bound to make a lasting commitment to her, and Cornelia wouldn’t get upset.

  And finally, finally, Honoria would know what a real kiss was like.

  Excitement swirled up inside her, even as her brother asked, “Will you be ready to depart soon, Guillaume?”

  The older lord tucked stray hair behind Lady Whitford’s ear. “I am ready now.”

  “Be careful, Radley,” her ladyship pleaded. “Boars are unpredictable creatures. Remember how your father was injured during a hunt? I do not want anyone hurt this year.”

  “Mother, do not fret,” Radley said. “All will be well.”

  ***

  Tristan crept through the forest shadows, his dagger poised to strike. The other hunters, many of them wielding boar spears, moved from tree to tree a short distance to Tristan’s left, drawing nearer to their prey that had already found them. Startled while foraging, the male boar had attacked and narrowly missed gouging Guillaume with its curved tusks.

  Through the undergrowth ahead, Tristan sighted the beast near a fallen log, its sides heaving, an arrow buried in its left flank. Radley signaled a halt.

  His body taut with anticipation, Tristan crouched behind a straggly bush. Soon, the woods would eru
pt in the chaos that ensued before the animal was cornered and killed.

  “Now!” Radley yelled.

  Crashing footfalls sounded. Shouts echoed.

  Tristan raced out from behind the bush.

  The squinty-eyed beast barreled toward them. Guillaume fired; another arrow pierced the boar’s hide. The animal recoiled and squealed again in pain and fury. Spying Tristan, it lowered its head to attack.

  “Beware,” Radley yelled.

  Tristan tightened his grip on his dagger. He counted heartbeats as he waited for just the right moment….

  He lunged, bringing his knife down.

  At the same instant, a spear plowed into the animal’s neck. It flailed its head, staggered to the right, spattering blood.

  “Tristan!” Radley cried.

  Mid-swing, Tristan turned and tried to adjust the fall of his knife. The musky stink of the animal assaulted his senses, right before the boar’s tusks ripped into his right thigh.

  ***

  “Try to eat some of this bread and cheese.” Honoria handed Cornelia the wooden tray she’d brought, laden with fare and a mug of wine. The younger woman did look a bit wan sitting in bed against the whiteness of her mounded pillows; some food inside her might help—and encourage her to divulge what was really bothering her. She’d seemed perfectly hale earlier last night in the hall, so whatever ailed her must have happened after Honoria had left.

  Had Cornelia been unsuccessful in winning a kiss from Tristan using the kissing bough? ’Twas the most likely reason for her sulking.

  “Come on,” Honoria coaxed, for the younger woman had not yet tried the food. “The bread is soft and flavorful today.”

  Willow licked her lips. She sat very obediently beside Honoria, obviously hoping perfect behavior would win her a treat from the tray.

  “Fine, I will eat. Mayhap then, you will stop pestering me.”

  As a scowling Cornelia picked up some cheese, a faint sound carried in through the open window: the peal of a hunting horn. Honoria had opened the shutters earlier to let in some fresh air.

  Cornelia huddled deeper into her blankets. “For God’s sake, shut—”

  “Hush.” Honoria hurried to the window and strained to hear. If Radley was blasting the horn, that meant—