The Christmas Knight

by Michele Sinclair

  Ranulf knew he was dreaming and that his next move would make everything a nightmare, but the reward was worth the risk. And with a light tug, he lifted her by the waist and pulled her completely onto the bed next to him. But the nightmare didn’t come. Instead, heaven continued as she buried her head against his chest, purring in satisfaction.

  Oh, he was living a fantasy and he hoped never to wake up. Life had abandoned him twelve years ago, but if it hadn’t, this was how the world was supposed to be, supposed to feel.

  Ranulf knew he should waken her. Hell, he should have gotten up and left for he was more than able to. At the very least, he should have demanded some answers, starting with the truth as to who she was.

  But he simply did not want to.

  Until two days ago, he had merely existed. Then he had glimpsed an angel…and tonight his angel had noticed him. And in that instant he had come alive and he needed to feel alive for as long as possible…for as long as she was willing.

  And despite his desire and intentions to do otherwise, for the first time in several years, Ranulf slept soundly.

  The smell of food filled the air, stirring Ranulf from his slumber. He inhaled and instinctively tried to stretch his stiff limbs. Sharp pain seized his left shoulder and he frowned, trying to remember just where he was and how he had been injured. He lifted his right arm and vigorously rubbed his scalp, recollection sluggishly returning. He usually was alert immediately upon awakening, almost as if he were conscious even when asleep. But this time was different. He had truly been out, completely unaware of everyone and everything.

  He glanced around the room and a shapely figure with long honey-kissed hair was at the door. His angel. Instantly, memories returned. Ranulf glanced at the window. No light came in; instead, the firelight reflected off the smooth panes. He had slept through the entire morning and afternoon, only to stir when everyone was about to retire for the night.

  “You are incredibly kind, Tory,” Bronwyn said in hushed tones, pointing at the small table between the two hearth chairs. Sometime earlier she had awoken, realized her folly, and moved the chair back to its original, and safe, place. “Managing Constance can be a chore, but I assure you that making her your friend is well worth the effort.”

  “It was no effort at all, my lady,” the young soldier gushed. Even in the dim light, his blush was obvious from across the room. “I’m just sorry that I couldn’t bring you dinner until so late. Is there anything else I can get you? Water? Ale?”

  Bronwyn beamed him a disarming smile and shook her head. She had not meant to tease and entrance with the simple action, but regardless, the spell it had woven had captivated Tory.

  Ranulf lifted himself on his good elbow and stared pointedly at the young man. A second later, Tory caught his lord’s eye and saw the ruthless possessiveness haunting its amber depths. He swallowed. “Good to see you awake, sir, I mean, my lord,” he stammered and headed directly toward the door.

  Bronwyn immediately spun around, her mouth open in both shock and delight. Then, remembering Tory, she rushed to the door, clasped the soldier’s arm to stop him, and said, “Thank you. Tell Tyr his lordship finally awoke and will be ready for visitors in the morning. Have a good night.”

  Ranulf, who had instantly felt his blood heat seeing the physical connection, was able to reclaim some semblance of calm when he realized they were now alone again, and with no expected interruptions. He pushed himself into a sitting position and looked over at the hearth. Bronwyn was standing there, staring at him, looking perplexed.

  “Still angry with me, are you, my lord?” she asked.

  At first, Ranulf was confused. Then understanding dawned on him. He was scowling. Worse, he was declaring his emotional thoughts through expression, something he had learned long ago never to do. What was happening to him?

  Ranulf raked his fingers through his hair again. “No. I’m not angry, just starving,” he groused, hoping she would believe him.

  Bronwyn cocked her head to one side and shifted her chin in deliberation. Then with a shrug of her shoulders, she pivoted toward the table and poured a hot beverage into a mug. She walked over to him and handed him the cup. “It’s yarrow tea and should help with the pain and fever.”

  “I told you that I don’t get fevers.” His voice was cold and exact. He swallowed some of the bitter solution and coughed, shoving the mug back into her hands. She placed the pewter cup on the bedside table and moved toward the door as if she was about to leave.

  “Come here.” It was a command, not a request, driven by fear.

  Hours before she had reached out to him, desired him enough to touch him sensually. There had been no ploy in the action for some personal gain, and as a result, he wanted her more than he could recall wanting anything his entire life. It didn’t matter that nothing would come of it. Nor did it matter that she was pretending to be someone else and he was letting her.

  He had been a starving man who had never known a good meal, but after sampling a morsel, his hunger for her would only grow and drive him mad till satiated.

  She needed to stay.

  Bronwyn met his unswerving gaze with one of her own. “First tell me why.”

  Because he wanted to talk with her, wanted to spend time with her, wanted to pretend for just a little while that he was like every other man and that she enjoyed his company. Ranulf grimaced. The truth left him too vulnerable. “Because I intend to eat and not as an invalid, angel. So would you please come here and bring me my shirt.”

  Bronwyn plucked his shirt off the chest and threw it at him. “Don’t call me that.”

  “What…angel?” He paused but she said nothing. “What do you want me to call you? Lily?” he asked, choking on the false name. She paled considerably and he knew she was not happy with the idea either. “You don’t look like a flower, but an angel, a wild, untamed gift from heaven. So, angel, come here.”

  Bronwyn eyed him suspiciously. He had that authoritative sound to his voice again, but she doubted she would win a war of wills this time. Too much of his pride was at stake. She walked up next to the bed. “You may call me my lady, my lord. Now, will you tell me why it is necessary that I stay?”

  “I intend to get dressed and eat and you are going to help me.”

  Bronwyn jumped back. “I will not!”

  “You will. I’m starving and it’s your fault,” Ranulf groused, remembering the smell of food as her fingers slipped across his lips.

  “My fault!” she exclaimed. “You were asleep!”

  Ranulf started a retort and bit it back just in time.

  Seeing a moment of weakness, Bronwyn pounced. “Now lie back down and stop fussing. You need to save your strength.”

  Ranulf swung his legs defiantly off the edge of the bed. “If I am weak, woman, it’s because of lack of food.”

  Bronwyn huffed with frustration. “Then you can eat in bed. I’ll make you a plate and—”

  “And the day I eat in bed I better be dying. Food leaves crumbs. That brings bugs and I happen to hate sharing my bed with anyone.” Bronwyn’s face suddenly turned ashen with mortification and Ranulf mentally berated himself for his thoughtlessness. He had been trying to think of a reason for refusing and that was the first that came to mind. Ranulf lifted his arm to try and don the argumentative garment, but his left shoulder would not obey. “Now will you help me put on my shirt?” he bellowed, exasperated and more than a little embarrassed.

  Bronwyn shook her head, her blue eyes large with apprehension. “I absolutely refuse to touch you.”

  Anger flashed in his good eye and in its wake left a coldness that gave her chills. Whatever she had just said instantly changed his mood and the tenor of their quarrel. “Yes, you will, woman,” he gritted out. “I am starving and have already skipped one meal listening to you babble about your desires, but I refuse to miss another.”

  Bronwyn stood motionless for several long seconds. This morning…her rambling…Ranulf had not been asleep. He had
been awake. Listening to her nonsensical chatter about kissing him. She almost faltered but pride took over.

  Narrowing her eyes, she marched over, snatched his shirt from his grasp, and yanked it over his head, uncaring of the pain she was causing him. Then brazenly, she placed her hand on his chest and caressed it sensually, intending to teach him a lesson. “It’s too bad, my lord,” she purred, “that you are too weak and vulnerable to satisfy me.”

  Ranulf grabbed her wrist and wrenched it from his skin. He pulled her closer so that she stood in between his legs, her face near his. “And just what was it you desired?”

  Bronwyn licked her lips and Ranulf realized it was not his humiliation she sought, but to salvage some pride from her own. With his free arm, he reached up to pull on the shirt gathered around his neck. “Angel, I am getting up, and if the only thing I have on are my underclothes…so be it.”

  He was calling her “angel” again.

  Bronwyn reached out and stopped his hand with her own. “Fine.” She gathered the sleeve and held it so that he could stick one arm in and then worked with him to get his wounded arm dressed.

  He was both right and wrong about undressing him. It had been her, but at the time he was just someone hurt who needed help. Dressing him, on the other hand, was a sensual experience that was unnerving her core. Large, strong, and beautifully well proportioned, the powerful lines of his torso etched and highlighted his every muscle as she lowered the shirt over his body. By the time Bronwyn was done, she was shaking.

  Ranulf studied her reaction, knowing that was why he had been so emphatic about her dressing him. He could have dressed without her, more painfully, but he had managed to don clothes before with more severe injuries. He had needed to know the truth. She had seen the scars on his face, but compared to the ones on his upper chest, they were mere scratches. And now he knew. His angel was like the rest. Trembling and unable to handle it.

  Finished, Bronwyn returned to the dinner tray, poured herself some water in a mug, and promptly emptied it, unable to disguise her quivering hand. Seeing his look of disappointment bolstered Bronwyn. “Well, I’m sorry you find me an inadequate nursemaid, but how do you expect me to react? I’ve never been in the presence of a nearly naked man before.”

  “Angel, you got me undressed. I think your morality can survive putting clothes back on my body.”

  “That…that was different. You weren’t, well, you weren’t a man then.”

  Could he have been wrong? That the fear he saw in her eyes wasn’t from his scars, but of a woman who was unknowing of a man? Did she really see him as such?

  Invigorated, Ranulf laced his shirt and rose, refusing to continue acting or looking like an invalid to her. Fact was he hadn’t felt as far from an invalid in a long time.

  Bronwyn stared at the opening in his shirt. Crisp brown hair peaked out at the neckline, a reminder of the muscular chest beneath. Ranulf let go a short cackle. At the sound, her eyes snapped to his, and seeing his mocking expression, she spun around and grabbed the poker to stoke the fire.

  She needed to leave and let him eat. He obviously could move around on his own and pretending he needed her assistance was only prolonging her inevitable departure to Syndlear. So why was she finding it so hard to do so? She didn’t like him. He was interesting and something about him stirred her physically, but they couldn’t stop fighting. That was it! They argued. No one disagreed with her or challenged her; even her sisters just capitulated to her decisions. Deadeye de Gunnar was stimulating.

  Bronwyn took a deep breath and exhaled, relieved to understand why she felt pulled toward a man whom she barely knew or got along with. She should leave and would, but if she did so now, it would be akin to running away. After he ate, she would check his dressing and then depart to her own quarters and in the morning head for Syndlear.

  “What the…” Ranulf barked behind her. “Where’s the meat? The butter?”

  Bronwyn smiled. It was going to be a hard few days for everyone at Hunswick, suddenly observing Advent, but it might inspire the new residents to not just enjoy the fruits of everyone’s labor, but appreciate and contribute.

  Turning around, Bronwyn pasted on what she hoped to be an incredulous look and said, “During Advent Fast? Now, my lord, you wouldn’t want others to think you a heathen.”

  Ranulf picked up the mug, sniffed the tea with disdain, and put it back down before flopping into one of the two hearth chairs. “I know a hell of a lot more about the topic than you. And I could care less about the opinion of others.”

  “I doubt that,” Bronwyn murmured, just loud enough for him to hear, “on either point.”

  Ranulf leaned forward and grabbed the plate of fish and potatoes. He took several bites and waved his fork around the platter. “The Church calls for their followers to celebrate the season of Advent the four weeks before Christmas, which is nonsense because I know of no one who rejoices in the idea of starvation and…abstinence.”

  Bronwyn’s heartbeat suddenly doubled its pace and she had to fight to remain looking relaxed and unaffected. “I believe humility is a large purpose behind the fast.”

  “And control,” Ranulf replied with a grunt. “If I kept such an absurd custom, I and my men would have starved many a year.”

  Arrogant man. It didn’t help that she also felt similarly on the matter and had many a row with Father Morrell on the ritual. “And your pride keeps you from doing anything absurd, I suppose.”

  Ranulf eyed Bronwyn suspiciously. Their banter was the equivalent of foreplay, except he seemed to be the only one suppressing excitement. His angel just sat unperturbed and serene…almost too composed. “It helps. Just as the meat you ate last night. I smelled it on your fingers.”

  Bronwyn felt her teeth grind as she shifted her clenched jaw. “As Advent is only required on three days of the week, I guess I was fortunate that I was able to consume the last of the lamb before Twelfthtide.”

  “Making me unfortunate. But what about the exemption of children, the elderly, and the infirm?”

  The man was acting smug and causing her to react defensively. Bronwyn leaned over to pour herself some hot cider and then settled back in the hearth chair, slowly sipping the sweet drink. She glanced at him and then licked her lips and asked, “Oh, are you infirm?”

  Without blinking, Ranulf purred, “It depends.”

  Bronwyn succumbed to a shiver and looked away. She was playing with fire and needed to stop. “I suppose we could hunt for some barnacle geese. That should suffice for meat and still make Father Morrell happy.”

  Ranulf wanted to rejoice. She was affected by their conversation just as much as he. “Who’s Father Morrell?”

  “The priest assigned to Cumbria. Normally we only see him two or three times a year, but since Lord Anscombe died and Father left, he has visited more often and made it clear that he would be celebrating Twelfthtide at Hunswick this year.”

  Ranulf let go a scoff and filled his plate again. “I never understood why people thought a man of the cloth was the best choice to watch over young women. Celibacy is something very few men could or want to endure. Too many priests join the Church not due to a love of God, but from necessity, which does not come with a lot of restraint.”

  Swinging her legs up underneath her, Bronwyn settled back and studied him overtly. Then after a few minutes, she leaned on the arm of the chair and after a second of hesitation asked, “Just how long did you study to become a clergyman?”

  Ranulf stopped in midbite and remained unmoving for at least a half-dozen seconds before resuming his consumption of the rest of the fish. He had been preparing himself for “the” question, the one that everyone—especially more brazen women—asked when they got the opportunity. How did you get your scars? Do they hurt? Will they ever go away? He had his sharp retort all prepared, but once again she had proved herself different than most women.

  “How did you know I studied?”

  “Obvious,” Bronwyn answered, giving
him a slow, enigmatic smile. “How many soldiers do you know who could recite the driving forces behind men entering the priesthood? I can see you studying, but actually becoming a priest? I confess that image escapes me.”

  Ranulf grimaced as he immediately felt himself tighten. He drew in a long breath and forced himself to remain seated. “I did study. But it seems I am not alone. Been preparing for an abbey?”

  Bronwyn coughed, nearly spewing the cider she had been sipping. “Me? No,” she returned sharply. “As for studying, I have not had the opportunity or the skill, for I cannot read. Lord Anscombe was the one—I’m sorry, I keep referring to your predecessor by your—”

  Ranulf raised his hand, interrupting her. “It doesn’t bother me in the least. I never aspired to the title, and to be honest I, too, think of my dead cousin as Lord Anscombe and will for some time.”

  “He was a kind man and spent hours talking to me and my sisters about conquerors, lands of faraway, and the battles his cousin had survived.”

  “Another cousin of mine?”

  Bronwyn nodded. “By marriage. He’s related to Helga, the mother of your infant cousin who would have inherited the title by lineage if you had not agreed.”

  “I doubt it,” Ranulf mumbled as he stretched out his legs in front of him. It was odd just how comfortable he felt with her, relaxing in just an overly long shirt and his underdrawers. “The duke is not quite that open-minded. I think he expects more from his noblemen than what a mere babe can provide.”