The Christmas Knight

by Michele Sinclair

  Bronwyn blinked under the compelling tone. Reality overwhelmed her senses as she realized she was half sitting on the bed, half lying on Ranulf’s chest after what could only be described as a passionate encounter. She had dreamt about such kisses and had heard Constance’s warning about passion and how easily she could fall prey to a man’s overtures, but it was she who had kissed him. Or had she?

  Maybe at the beginning she initiated the embrace, but she had intended it to be quick, just long enough to settle her curiosity. But at that point, her kiss ended and Ranulf’s began. He had suddenly become the aggressor—and she had welcomed it. Never had she imagined tasting a man in such a way and enjoying it.

  “Look at me, angel.”

  The husky possessiveness in his tone compelled her to do his bidding. His gaze locked with hers, and swirling in the deep amber depths she saw barely leashed desire that matched her own.

  Bronwyn’s hand flew to her lips. She pushed against his chest and jumped off the bed almost simultaneously. Spinning around, she went to the window and looked down below. The morning sun was bright in the sky, and activity filled the courtyard.

  The guilt she had not felt before was now hitting her full force. She could still feel his lips pressed against hers. Nothing she had ever said or done in her life had prepared her for such an experience. She felt heavy and light at the same time. Shame consumed her, but more than anything else, she wanted him to kiss her again. In those few short moments, he had made her feel beautiful, wanted, and someone worthy of being desired.

  Ranulf stared at her immobile back and tried to compose himself. It had just been a kiss, but his body was reacting violently to the need it had aroused. Never had any woman kissed him with such raw need, passion, and open desire. He had heard youths speak of the earth shaking during their first coupling and always believed them to be seriously overembellishing a simple act. He was far from inexperienced, but if he had to describe what had just transpired between him and Bronwyn—“earthshaking” would be the word.

  Suddenly, the prospect of marrying did not seem like such a burden. He would free Lily from her obligation to him as soon as possible and make good on his promise to Laon by making Bronwyn his bride. In doing so, he would honor the principle behind the vow and satisfy Henry at the same time. Granted, it wouldn’t be in the way his king had ordered, but when he explained the situation, Henry would understand and support the union. Of this, Ranulf was certain.

  Excited by the idea and, for the first time, his future, Ranulf laughed and teased Bronwyn, hoping that she would now own to her true identity. “You need not feel nervous or ashamed. It is normal to be curious what it would be like to kiss your soon-to-be husband.”

  His simple comment and joyful, expectant attitude shook Bronwyn out of her shock. What had she been thinking? Had she forgotten just who he thought she was? No wonder Ranulf had kissed her. He had thought her to be Lillabet, his intended. And if he ever did chance to encounter her sister, he would realize his folly just as every man had before him.

  Bronwyn pulled together the last bits and pieces of her pride and marched to the door, yanking it open. “You are incorrect, my lord. I feel neither nervous nor ashamed. I have been kissed before and have no doubt I will enjoy the experience again by many other men. And as for the reasons I returned your embrace, they were far more interesting than that of just plain curiosity.”

  Ranulf stared at the beams supporting the floor above and tried to reconcile his thoughts. He wanted an explanation…and an admission. Maybe it wasn’t shame or nervousness that made Bronwyn flee—for flee was exactly what she had done. Her words had been delivered calmly, but the tightness in her jaw belied them. So if it wasn’t fear or embarrassment, then it had to have been pride spurring her abrupt departure…and her parting words. At least, it better have been, because whether Bronwyn knew it or not, he was the last man she would ever know or touch.

  Still, pride didn’t explain why she had kissed him. And if not curiosity, then what? Pity was impossible not to recognize. She had wanted to kiss him. But like him, she just hadn’t expected the intensity of their embrace and it had rattled her. So why then was his gut telling him that the embrace itself was not behind her defensive posture, but something else altogether?

  Footsteps echoed in the hallway and Ranulf felt his heart rate double. Then came a sharp rap at the door just before it creaked open. The curt knock gave the intruder away and the hopeful tension coursing through Ranulf instantly dissipated. He slumped his wrist across his forehead and resumed counting the boards making up the ceiling.

  Tyr poked his head around the large door and, seeing Ranulf awake, stepped inside. “Well, it’s good to know that my best friend is so moved by my visit.”

  “Come inside and shut the door.”

  Tyr pushed the heavy door back into the jamb and then meandered toward Ranulf. Grabbing the back of the chair Bronwyn had been sitting in, he pulled it farther away from the bed and sank onto the padded seat. He then stretched out, propped his feet on top of the coverlet, and crossed them at the ankles while intertwining his fingers behind his head. “I was going to ask why you’ve decided to play the invalid for so long, but after I encountered the disheveled but still heavenly creature leaving your tower…well, I commend you, Ranulf. I thought you had foresworn women. Now I realize you were just persevering until you met a true beauty and not one of those shallow types lurking about court.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Uh, her tousled hair says differently, friend.”

  Ranulf whipped the coverlet off his legs and stood up. Grabbing the shirt he had tossed aside the night before, he pulled it on with a grunt as he was forced to stretch his left shoulder to slip his arm down the sleeve. “Nothing happened,” he repeated, this time more emphatically.

  He then moved toward the chest by the window and yanked it open. Bending over, he shuffled the contents around, cursing. Most of his stuff had been placed inside—belts, caps, hose, even extra drawers, but no clothes. “Where the hell would she have put them?”

  Tyr amused himself for a few more minutes before interrupting his friend’s torment. “Try the garderobe.”

  “Garderobe?”

  Tyr pushed back from his stretched position and marched over to the door that led to the small chamber holding all of Ranulf’s tunics, shirts, and other garments. “Aye,” Tyr answered, swinging it open, intentionally accentuating his Scottish accent. “You live in a castle now, not on the field, and noblemen like you have those kinds of things. It’s a convenience. One of the ones I actually miss.”

  Ranulf grimaced. His Highland friend rarely revealed anything about himself, but he would never question Tyr about his past, just as Tyr would never question him.

  Stepping inside, Ranulf saw the same tunic he had been wearing when the tower collapsed. It was clean and the holes were mended. Next to it were three linen shirts, each with their hems resewn. Pointing at the repaired garments, he asked, “Who messed with my clothes? And when?”

  Tyr shrugged and moved to sit back down. “I believe the same woman who’s at risk for being ruined, despite the fact that nothing happened.”

  Grabbing a very dark blue, almost black surcoat rimmed in gold, Ranulf turned around as he slipped the hole of the tunic over his head. “Explain yourself.”

  “You understood me,” Tyr replied, deliberately adding a light singsong tone to his voice. “I’m just pointing out that if you still don’t intend to marry the woman, then it might be best to have someone else be in here when she tends to your life-threatening wound.”

  Ranulf didn’t miss the sarcasm. Both knew that he had survived worse injuries and without a nursemaid. “I don’t need a chaperone.”

  “Well, Lady Lillabet sure does, especially if you bound out of here, acting like your injury was only a scratch. No one will believe she needed to monitor you day and night. Someone has to look out for her reputation before the tongues begin to swag.”

  R
anulf gave Tyr a pointed stare and then marched back to the chest to grab what he needed to finish dressing.

  Tyr ignored Ranulf’s silent rebuff. “So are you going to tell me what is going on?” Using his chin, he pointed to the chaotic state of the coverlet and sheets. “And I cannot remember you spending as much time in bed in two weeks as you have the past two days since I’ve known you.”

  His friend was right and it rankled that he didn’t have a quick answer to shut him up. “Damn it. If you must know, I was fully dressed and spent several hours eating dinner last night in that chair.”

  Ranulf marched into his day room. Tyr gave a quick side glance at last night’s dishes still on the table before following him into the larger meeting space. “Uh-huh. If you say so. Listen, I don’t blame you. If I was engaged to Lady Lillabet, I just might stay in bed all day, too.”

  “She’s not Lillabet,” Ranulf groaned, leaning against his knuckles on the large round table located in the middle of the room.

  For the first time, Tyr looked confused and not sure of the facts. “But I called her by that name and she responded…”

  Ranulf shook his head. “She’s pretending to be Lillabet, either at her sister’s instigation or in order to protect her from me.”

  Tyr rubbed his chin in thought and then shrugged his shoulders in semi-agreement. “Hmm. Well, I don’t know about protecting her sister, but the woman has been doing a damn good job of protecting you. Do you know she refused to let anyone in? She didn’t want to agitate you when you needed to save your strength,” Tyr chuckled, unable to hide his mirth. “I swear those were her words. God knows you know they aren’t mine. So, if she isn’t Lillabet, then which of Laon’s daughters is she?”

  “I’m fairly certain she’s the eldest. Bronwyn.”

  Tyr strolled toward one of the two large arched windows and leaned against the stone wall, looking down at the courtyard below. “Bronwyn,” he hummed possessively. “Hmmm. I like it. I liked her, too. She has fight. Don’t meet too many women with spirit.”

  Ranulf tightened his fists as he listened to Tyr roll Bronwyn’s name in his mouth, appreciating her other qualities and not just her beauty. Ranulf had always regarded jealousy as a ridiculous reaction that could not be justified. And he had been right. Nothing was more absurd than wishing only he could recognize and savor the qualities in Bronwyn that made her special, unique…his angel. Yet that was how he felt.

  Tyr had been studying his friend’s reaction from the corner of his eye. He had known Ranulf for years and considered him his best friend, and for the most part, they shared a frank and honest relationship. Each felt the other was more of a brother than their own siblings, explaining why Tyr had felt not only comfortable in pricking Ranulf’s jealousy, but justified in doing so. In truth, he just wanted his friend to be happy, but he doubted if Ranulf—or any of them who had made war a career—knew any longer what that meant.

  He had hoped after seeing Bronwyn’s tousled state that she and Ranulf had redirected their explosive interplay to something far more entertaining. Anyone who had heard their impassioned and very vocal fight just before the tower collapsed knew something remarkable was happening. Tyr could not recollect a time he’d heard Ranulf argue with anyone. Either he didn’t care enough or he made it clear that disagreement was not an option. And from what Tyr overheard around the castle, her ladyship had a similar leadership style. She typically found a way to ensure all were satisfied, but once she made a decision, that was it. So after witnessing her tender ministrations on the heels of their verbal conflict, Tyr had believed his friend incredibly lucky to be engaged to someone whom he could connect emotionally with on so many levels. But to learn that she was not Lillabet…but the sister.

  Tyr wanted to help his friend, but first he needed to know if he should. “I thought you were engaged to the prettiest of the three.”

  “Supposedly,” Ranulf answered simply. Once again possessive anger flashed in his dark expression.

  Tyr almost laughed out loud. This was almost too easy.

  Ranulf was the most detached, unemotional person Tyr had ever come across. The man never gave away his emotional state, whether elation, anger, stress, or fear. But jealousy over a woman? That was apparently an emotion Ranulf had yet to conquer. And it might just be the trigger to get him to act before he closed himself off to the first chance he had at real peace and—if Bronwyn felt even remotely similar—happiness.

  Tyr decided to fan the spark before it blew itself out under Ranulf’s untutored hand. “I had been planning to leave and return to London in time for the Twelfthtide festivities, but since seeing some of the attractions Hunswick has to offer, I’ve changed my mind. I think I might stick around here and get to know Laon’s daughters a little better.”

  Ranulf fought the urge to pound his fist into the table as another wave of jealousy crashed into him. Whatever spell Bronwyn had woven over him was not diminishing with her absence. If anything, his desire for her was growing. “I thought you’d sworn off marriage,” Ranulf growled.

  “Who said anything about marriage?” Tyr snapped back. “I just know that when a younger sister gets married, the older one might like some company and Bronwyn is one damn fine-looking woman.”

  “Leave her alone, Tyr.”

  The possessive growl in Ranulf’s voice was unmistakable and undeniable. Tyr swung around abruptly and faced his friend from across the table. “I knew it!”

  “Just what do you think you know?”

  “Something happened between you two,” Tyr answered, pointing at him. “No man—not even you—can spend day and night with a woman that beautiful and not at least try to kiss her. Did you?”

  “None of your business.”

  Tyr let go a long low whistle. “So not only did you, but you enjoyed it. Enough to still be bothered. I’m kind of wishing it had been me up there instead.”

  Ranulf moved toward the door. “I think your first inclinations about leaving Hunswick were good ones. Tell the queen I said hello.”

  Tyr shook his head and leaned back against the table, crossing his arms. “I’ve changed my mind. Ranulf de Gunnar, the man who wanted no woman, suddenly has two. I’m staying.”

  “Not if I send you away.”

  Tyr smiled and waved his hand toward the window and the mountains beyond. “You can’t. Unfortunately you need me. You’ve got activity on the hill. That’s what I was originally coming to see you about.”

  Ranulf pushed the day room door closed. “Tell me.”

  “You’re seriously outnumbered. There are at least four dozen men out there.”

  “What about Syndlear? Bronwyn’s sisters are up there.”

  Tyr nodded but said with assurance, “For right now they are safe, but I had Tory send a couple more men up there just in case. I would have asked you, but I wasn’t allowed to agitate…”

  Ranulf cut him off with a warning look. “Mercenaries or trained soldiers?” he questioned, diverting Tyr back to his earlier comment.

  “Definitely mercenaries. Most of them look young and barely trained. Only a few could provide any type of challenge. The dozen men you have with you should be more than enough to handle any trouble.”

  Ranulf stared at the unlit hearth, thinking. “I need to get out there.”

  “Wait. Once Tory ensures Syndlear and the women are protected, he’s going to do some scouting. I expect him back sometime late this afternoon or evening with a better report on just who and why men are on your land.”

  Ranulf let go a grunt and nodded in agreement. “What else did you learn?”

  “Not much. The castle is fairly structurally sound. With the exception of a couple of spots on some roofs, the rest of the place was in overall good condition. Even that tower is stable. The stone walls are safe enough, it’s just that they used rotted beams to secure the floors. Other than that, you are a lucky lord.”

  “Lucky?” Ranulf grunted. “How so?”

  “Once I knew that you w
ere fine and only playing invalid, I decided to play lord. Most of your tenants are friendly enough and all seem earnest, but the numbers are small here and not enough to support a place the size of Hunswick. Some actually voiced anticipation for the families and the rest of your men due in the spring. These people are warm, happy, and welcoming,” Tyr said, pointing down at the courtyard below. “Hence, you are one lucky lord. I just hope you appreciate it.”

  Ranulf moved to stand by Tyr and looked at the people lingering around in the bailey. A second later Bronwyn exited one of the buildings and headed across the yard toward the Great Hall. All along the way people stopped her and asked questions. “They shouldn’t be talking to her,” he whispered under his breath, but Tyr heard him.

  “I’ll talk to the steward and have the questions come to you. You are the lord now, and your people should respect you as such.”

  Ranulf nodded, but it wasn’t because he agreed with Tyr. Bronwyn looked tired. Didn’t people see they were asking too much of her? She had been carrying the weight of this place too long.

  The time for playing sick was over.

  Bronwyn slipped into her room after being accosted by dozens of villagers and servants asking about their new lord, preparations for Twelfthtide, the evening meal, tallow for the candles, and a multitude of other topics. She had considered sending them directly to Ranulf, but she thought it might be better to give him another day to heal before the entire village pounced upon him. Besides, she doubted very few of their questions were ones he was accustomed to answering. So she gave instructions regarding the evening meal, explained where to start building the additional bonfires and just what crates and carts should be moved to make room. If Ranulf became angry at her imposition, he would not have to worry about her doing it again. She would soon be gone and all the decisions would be his.

  Three days. That was all she had left of her current life.

  Closing the door to her bedchambers, Bronwyn spied the bath she had asked for nearly an hour ago situated by the hearth. She immediately began untying and yanking off her clothes. She knelt by the overly large wooden tub and ran her fingers through the water, avoiding the sharp piece of exposed metal binding the slats together. The water was no longer hot, but still warm and inviting.