The Christmas Knight

by Michele Sinclair

  “You, my lord,” she declared softly as she stroked his cheek, “despite all the rumor and rhetoric are rather ordinary-looking.” But he wasn’t ordinary. There was something in him, an aura of latent power that had struck her when they had argued, the sort of strength that would have enabled him to survive when other, lesser men would have given up and died.

  Her fingertips played at the edge of his hair and finally gave in to the temptation to dive in and caress the dark brown locks. “Why do you keep it so short? For ease?” Bronwyn raked her fingers through his hair once more. “Mmm, whatever the reason, I like it.”

  Then she let her fingers slide down his nose. “Amazingly straight,” she sighed and then moved her thumb across his lips. The act raised gooseflesh on her arms, causing her to shiver as she contemplated exploring the one place she had dared yet to go. Not because of its appearance, but because of its familiarity.

  “What happened, I wonder,” Bronwyn murmured as she followed the scar from the middle of his forehead down the left side, over the empty socket, and across the top of his cheek to his ear. “You were burned a long time ago, but this was not caused just by fire. Did something fall on you?” Whatever it was had seared his skin at the moment of impact.

  “Your face,” she continued as she let her hand skim down his neck to his uncovered chest, enabling easy access to redress the wound, “does not prepare one for everything else.” Ranulf was attractive to look at, but his body was incredible.

  Bronwyn had been around men all her life and both intentionally and accidentally had spied on them in her youth. But never had she seen anything to compare with Ranulf. His sheer presence spoke of authority and command. Even when he slept.

  “I wonder if you realize just how imposing you are to everyone, including your men. But I doubt they follow you from intimidation. Respect drives their loyalty. How do I know this?” she asked herself, pretending it was he who posed the question. “Well, despite your treatment of me, which you must admit was quite repugnant for a knight, I doubt your friend Tyr is easily unsettled. He seems to be one who makes his own decisions. So there must be something to you for him to follow you north.”

  Bronwyn let her hand stray down his arm, enjoying the feel of his thick and padded muscles. Caressing his wrist and then the fingers that lay across his stomach, she traced the ridged strength, wondering how it would feel to be pulled against them if he held her in his arms.

  Ranulf’s face twitched, wincing, and Bronwyn snatched back her hand, reprimanding herself for being so naïve. No, the new Lord Anscombe didn’t possess a classically handsome face, but it did not matter. His presence was compelling with a vital power that pulled her toward him. “And I’m the strong one,” she whispered, “I’m glad my sister will never meet you. It would only make it harder to leave.”

  Standing up, Bronwyn stretched. She had been talking for nearly an hour before her mind caught up with what she was saying…and doing. Embarrassed, she moved away from the bed, glad that no one but her knew of her brazen words and exploration. Needing something to preoccupy her mind until he either awoke or was overcome with fever, she decided that his day room could also be cleaned. At least there she wouldn’t be staring at him.

  Upon wakening, two overpowering sensations had assailed Ranulf simultaneously. The pain in his shoulder was far from negligible, but it could be ignored. The warm pressure of soft lips against his forehead, however, had seized all rational thought. All he could do was hold his breath and refuse to move, to do anything that might disrupt the dream. His angel was kissing him. Then too soon, cool air replaced the tender touch.

  The dream was not a new one. But none had ever felt so real. Ranulf was on the verge of visually dismissing the possibility when a fingertip lightly started to outline his face, and again he had to fight back the urge to see if it really was his angel. A soft low voice joined the caress, clearly unaware that he was now conscious.

  He was not dreaming. This was real. His angel was there, with him, still blissfully uncaring of the wounds the rest of the world found so horrendous.

  Ranulf knew he should say something, but he was riveted by her touch, her nearness, and his mind wouldn’t let him do anything to prematurely end the fleeting taste of heaven. All he could do was lie there, basking in her female ministrations, listening to the sound of her voice. It was melodic, neither deep nor high-pitched. And when dropped low, it took on a husky sound that would have been incredibly arousing. But then he realized she was talking about him.

  Ask any man if he wanted to know what truly went through a woman’s mind and he would quickly reply “yes.” But ask him again and make him think through his answer and what it would mean…and he would ardently say no. Every man Ranulf knew—even King Henry II—questioned his masculine appeal. Ranulf never questioned his, he knew. Some women could get past the scars and even tolerate conversation and his company, but being intimate with a man who looked at them with one eye and one sunken eyelid deformed by flame was at best uncomfortable, for most frightening, and some even referred to him as a walking corpse.

  So when his angel first began musing over his appearance, he had held his breath, praying she would remain silent and keep her thoughts to herself.

  Then she had called him rather ordinary.

  Nothing in the past twelve years had prepared him for such an assessment. Ordinary! Was Bronwyn blind? But she obviously wasn’t, for she continued with her appraisal. She studied all his facial features, caressing them, driving him wild. Even his scars. She had traced them, wondering aloud at their cause and coming frighteningly close to guessing correctly. Then her hand had slid lower.

  Never had Ranulf endured anything more torturous in his life and all he could do was force himself to breathe and do absolutely nothing to halt this sweet version of hell. It was the most dishonorable thing he had ever done, letting her speak private thoughts aloud, believing him unaware. Still, if he had to do it all over again, he would again remain mum.

  Never had a woman touched him like that. Those he had paid for their services had refused to feel his scars, avoiding them. Just the thought of being with one of those harlots after being sincerely caressed by Bronwyn caused him to wince.

  Instantly, her touch was gone and he cursed his lack of control. He was about to reveal his conscious state when he realized she hadn’t withdrawn altogether. Bronwyn was whispering in his ear, weaving a new spell over him.

  Then it all stopped. As if she suddenly realized she was pouring out her most personal thoughts and decided against it.

  A second later, he heard a chair scrape and a door open. Hearing movement in another room, Ranulf forced himself to crack his good eye and confirm he was alone. As he suspected, the door had not quite closed but remained ajar enough to see through. By the shadows playing on the far wall, it led into a spacious setting that could only be the lord’s day room.

  Now, fully awake and able to think somewhat sensibly, Ranulf realized his body was talking to him, and had been for a while. Rising, he quietly exited to the privy located just outside the room, glad to encounter no one in the hall. He returned moments later and lay back down on the bed, surprised at how weak he was. Bronwyn was still in the day room. He could not see what she was doing, but she was singing the same melancholy melody he had heard the first day he had spied her in the woods.

  Sinking back against the pillows, he surveyed the room, surprised how comfortable he found his new bedchambers. He had never met his second cousin, but their tastes in décor were similar. Neither sparse nor excessive. Plenty of room, with large throw rugs and a bed that was exceptionally comfortable.

  A splash of water in a bowl in the other room caught his attention and Ranulf mulled over her departing comments for they made no sense. The stuff about him was shocking, almost unbelievable, but the comment about her sister being forced to leave against her will was disturbing. It was as if Bronwyn thought she and her sisters were to be prisoners at Syndlear. And why shouldn’t t
hey feel that way? he scolded himself. Wasn’t it your words ordering them away from Hunswick until you said otherwise? Damn. That was something he would have to rectify when he “awoke.”

  Ranulf was just considering how he should “awaken” and confront Bronwyn about her true identity, when he heard another splash of water followed by an effort-filled grunt, as if she were working on something. Then, she let go a half gasp, half female screech that could only be interpreted one way—Bronwyn had encountered something she deemed disgusting.

  Ranulf closed his eyes. She was cleaning. Why was she, a lady, doing a servant’s work? The moment he figured out how to stop “sleeping,” he would fix that, too. His angel was not going to do the work of a chambermaid, or any other servant.

  As if she could hear his thoughts and agreed with his sentiments, he heard the chair beside him scrape and she plopped down into it with a sigh.

  “Well, my lord, I am done,” she said with a yawn. “What about the rushes? Stop complaining and be more appreciative that the place is now free of dust. Continue to argue with me and I just might find the foulest-smelling ones in the castle and bring them in here.”

  Ranulf lay still in shock, glad his eyes were closed. It was hard enough not to break out into laughter. The woman was pretending to have a conversation with him and not just any conversation—an argument, of all things. Could it be possible that she had found their boisterous bickering as stimulating as he had?

  “Hmm,” she whispered, moving closer to him. “Are you having a good dream this time? I hope so.” She touched the tip of his nose and then dragged her finger down across his lips to his chin. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen you smile. You should do it more often. It’s quite disarming. So much so that I just might add some hellebores to your rushes that my mother had planted around Hunswick. Its winter blooms smell wonderful and I am sure all the women you bring in here will appreciate my thoughtfulness.”

  What the hell? Ranulf screamed to himself. He had been really enjoying her imaginative conversation until she suddenly mentioned other women in his bed. Did Bronwyn really believe it even possible? But before he could calm his thoughts, she began spouting off a still crazier idea.

  “It’s too bad that I can’t be one of them, or at least have the chance to try. If you only knew how long I’ve been waiting for…” She paused. Waiting for her to complete her thought was torture. “Someone like you. I just wished you had not arrived too late.”

  If Ranulf had been standing near a wall, there was a good chance he might have banged his head against it. He was the type of man she had been waiting for…but he was too late? Did she still think he was going to die?

  Ranulf was beginning to wonder if Bronwyn spoke to make sense, or just to talk. Lord, maybe she was one of those people who had to talk all the time, who needed noise around them. Maybe that was what her father had meant when he implied no man would have her. Who would want a woman with a highly evolved imaginary life and who regularly conducted conversations with herself, pretending others were engaged?

  She tapped his arm and then stood up to move away from him. “I’m sorry about the teasing. With two ever-present sisters, it’s not often I’m alone with only my thoughts.”

  Ranulf felt the air rush out of his chest in relief. With the exception of her desire to deceive him about her identity, his angel was still perfect.

  “I used to hear my father talk to my mother after she had passed when he was worried about his people, about Hunswick, even Lord Anscombe. I never was inspired to do the same until now. I guess it’s easier when you have someone to talk to, even if they can’t hear.”

  Ranulf understood more than he wanted to. He had often felt the need to not just talk, but explode. But to whom? The kinds of things he wanted to say no one would understand, so he had kept them bottled up. Bronwyn had obviously done the same. Why she chose now, and him, he didn’t know, but it made him feel more of the hero everyone professed him to be than he ever did on the battleground.

  “These people…they are proud and hardworking, but most of all they are loyal to those they respect. Treat them well and the home you have always looked for will be here. It was for me.”

  Ranulf’s mind reeled. Just like her father. Seeing into him, analyzing things about himself that he had intentionally ignored, and making assumptions…all uncomfortably close to accurate.

  “Ranulf…” His name rolled off her lips and he debated if now was the time to “wake” and have her say it again, to his face. Then, with a hush whisper, she stroked his hair. “Don’t look for me when I leave. I have an idea of how obstinate you are. And while I have longed for the company of a strong, opinionated man, I do not need a protector. Do not let your honor interfere with your duty to these people. And yes, you are very honorable. I can see it in the eyes of every one of your men. Still, I would have liked to have known you better.”

  No longer could he lie in silence. Bronwyn’s once veiled hints of leaving were sounding more and more definitive and less like she was departing just for Syndlear. He was debating just how he should “wake” and confront her when a knock on the door interrupted his chance.

  He felt her rise as the door squeaked open. The smell of food entered the room, and based on the growing sounds outside, morning had arrived.

  “I’ll stay with him and let you get some rest.”

  Ranulf’s heart stopped. It was the old nursemaid. If Bronwyn agreed, this farce was going to come to an immediate and abrupt end.

  “No, Constance, I’m fine. I need to be here. I couldn’t rest, and if I were anywhere else, I would be driving everyone insane.”

  A snort. “You look tired, my lady.”

  “And that is because I am tired,” Bronwyn replied with a touch of mockery. “The food will help. Besides, I see Ackart in the courtyard, clearly looking for you. I couldn’t deny you time with your man.”

  Another snort followed by a shuffle. Ranulf swallowed his mirth. Could that old woman be embarrassed? He considered cracking his eyelid to see, but knew the chances of Bronwyn catching him were too great.

  “He’s not my man,” Constance countered unconvincingly. “He’s a widower that’s all and we can…well, he and I find it easy to talk to each other.”

  Bronwyn must have been giving her a look of skepticism because the pudgy woman shuffled toward his supposedly unconscious form and examined the compress on his shoulder. “He’s healing.”

  “And without fever.”

  “He was right about that, huh?”

  “So far.”

  Another snort. “If he were to fever, he would have by now. But he hasn’t woken up?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then his head got hurt worse than we thought. Just what we need. A dull-witted lord,” Constance mused. “At least he doesn’t seem menacing anymore.”

  Just wait, old woman, and you will learn just how menacing this dull-witted lord can be, Ranulf promised.

  “I’ll remind you of those words when he starts to bellow again, and for his sake, when he does, at least pretend to be scared. I suspect I gave his pride a wallop yesterday arguing with him like that. I don’t think he’s used to it.”

  Damn! Had he whispered his thoughts aloud?

  The loud sounds of someone smacking their lips reached his ears. He didn’t need to see Constance’s look of disbelief. He could hear it. “Maybe,” he heard her say, “but I doubt it. That man was born the arrogant sort. It was how he survived whatever hell he lived through, but…he does have an unusual quality about him. Something about the face…”

  “Good-bye, Constance. Tell Ackart hello for me.”

  Ranulf fought back a sigh. Pretending to be asleep and lying still was exhausting…and torturous. Bronwyn must have set the tray on the table next to him for the smell of food filled the air. Once again, he had to choose. End this special once-in-a-lifetime opportunity or continue with the farce and starve. It was an easy choice.

  Minutes later he w
as rewarded.

  “Constance is right, there is something about you, but it’s not your face. You have a secret weapon, so secret that even you don’t know about it. But you could get every woman at Hunswick to leap to your bidding if you ever chose to use it.”

  Ranulf waited, but she said nothing more. He could hear chewing and he realized that unless he revealed the fact that he had been spying on her, he would never know to what she was referring.

  The touch of her fingers against his lips ripped him back from his own thoughts to her. They smelled of meat and he was tempted to lick them.

  “Just how many women have you kissed? Dozens? Hundreds? Would your kiss feel like any other man’s?”

  Ranulf couldn’t move now even if he wanted to. Part of him wanted to scream that all kisses were not universal. That should he ever have the chance—or the courage—to taste her, it would not be like any other. He didn’t have to experience it to know.

  Ranulf’s self-control, which had been under attack since the moment he awoke, was near gone. One more word, one more touch, and the urge to pull her down into his arms would be too strong to deny.

  But there wasn’t another word or touch.

  Silence filled the room and Ranulf could no longer determine where Bronwyn was or what she was doing. He hadn’t heard her move or the door open. If he had to guess, she was still sitting beside him. He waited, listening, and finally he heard the deep intake of breath and the slow exhale. She was asleep.

  Ranulf opened his eye to look around and shifted his uninjured arm so that it barely brushed Bronwyn’s hand. She moaned and unconsciously readjusted her arms on the bed so that she could rest against them. In doing so, her hair was released from its knot and fell scattered around her head, causing the sweet smell of roses to drift over him.

  For the first time since he saw her, he was able just to stare and be captivated by her beauty. She had fallen asleep sitting in a chair but was bent over at the waist to rest her head on her intertwined arms now lying on his mattress. Unable to stop himself, Ranulf lifted his hand and softly began stroking her hair, praying she would not waken and force him to stop. Instead, she instinctively moved closer to him, seeking the affectionate touch in her sleep. And just like she did to him, he offered a caress, first across her temple and then down her cheek. After a few minutes, he paused and once again she moved closer, curling around his arm so that with the exception of her legs, she was lying next to him.