The Christmas Knight

by Michele Sinclair

  Her tongue nervously whipped across her bottom lip and hot memories of what it had been like to taste and explore its softness rippled through him, urging him to pull her into his arms and enjoy her lips once again. Only willpower and a lifetime of hiding his feelings kept him in control.

  Unaware of how close she was to being ravaged, Bronwyn gathered her courage and decided to make Ranulf just as uncomfortable as she. Casting him a crooked smile, she said impishly, “No. I distinctly remember it was you who kissed me.”

  She sauntered over to his other side, keeping her back toward him, and waited for his clever retort. When she received none, she glanced back and realized her folly. She was on his left side. Ranulf had shifted to what looked to be an uncomfortable angle, but he would have to swing his legs practically over the armchair in order to see her. It was pride that was keeping him silent, not acquiescence. Victory would not be as sweet if not earned on equal terms.

  Meandering back toward the chair to his right, she sank down, curling her feet up underneath her. Immediately, Ranulf shifted to a more comfortable position, wincing just slightly when he used his left arm to pull his leg up to rest his ankle on his knee.

  Bronwyn bobbed her chin. “Maybe you should go back to bed and rest.”

  Ranulf grunted, hating that he appeared weak in front of her. A minute ago, she’d gone out of his vision, reminding him that he was only half a man. “I am resting,” he growled. “If I weren’t, I would be out there—working.”

  “Working at what, my lord?” Bronwyn questioned, crossing her arms. “You may have lived in or near a great many grand homes and estates, but I doubt if you’ve ever been in charge of maintaining them.”

  “Maybe, but it didn’t stop me from being pulled into at least a dozen discussions about when these people should hunt for quail, numbers of bonfires to be erected, menus for God knows how many feasts—”

  “Twelve,” Bronwyn interrupted with a playful grin. “One for each day of Twelfthtide. You know. That merry part of the year that follows Advent or did your studies only focus on the wearisome holiday customs?”

  Ranulf ignored her tease, but returned her smirk with one of his own. He stretched out his legs in front of him, feeling strangely better than he had a minute ago. “Twelve feasts? More like fifty. I think the people here like to do nothing but celebrate.”

  “Happy people do. Have you never been content enough to just enjoy the season?”

  Fact was, this odd little conversation was filling him with a deeper sense of peace than he could remember having since he was a child. Usually he ignored the proceedings involved with Twelfthtide, but not this year. “And then there was the question about you.”

  “Me?” Bronwyn squeaked in surprise.

  “Aye, you seem to have my men in a stir about who should be assigned to Syndlear.”

  The mention of Syndlear startled Bronwyn. “Oh,” she whispered. For a brief moment, she had felt like part of a couple that was at complete ease with the other, able to tease and banter without concern. But she wasn’t part of a couple, and pretending she was or even that she could be was becoming very dangerous to her emotional state. It was much safer if Ranulf didn’t know how much he affected her.

  “I myself like…” She paused for a second straining to remember the young soldier’s name that was at the gate. “Tory. He’s…sweet. He could return to Syndlear with me tomorrow since you are on the mend.”

  Ranulf’s body instantly stiffened. He had not intended for his comment to be interpreted in such a way. Just the opposite. Instead of being flattered, she produced a name and offered to leave. Well, she wasn’t going to leave in the morning, but Tory sure as hell was.

  “What if my wound gets worse?” Ranulf posed gruffly.

  “It is fine.”

  “It may not be. Remember. I don’t get fevers. I’m not like other men.”

  You sure aren’t, Bronwyn murmured to herself. “All you need is rest,” she stammered. “I’ll…I’ll have Constance look at it tomorrow.”

  Ranulf arched a brow. Bronwyn was nervous, proving he was not the only one sensing the sexual tension growing between them. Ranulf could not recall feeling this alive in his entire life. He was teetering on the dangerous edge between joy and agony, and more than anything, he needed another kiss. “Fine, angel. I’ll go rest, but you are coming with me to check my wound.”

  Struggling to maintain the upper hand, Bronwyn stood up. “If you insist, then I will look at it now—and here.” She waved her finger for him to uncross his legs as she moved closer. “Lean back.”

  Ranulf watched her small fingers as they signaled for him to push aside the opening of his shirt. Imagining how they would feel against his naked flesh, he rose, undid his belt, and pulled the tunic over his head before tossing both items onto a nearby empty chair. He knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn’t help it.

  Bronwyn’s eyes grew large. It was as if Ranulf knew her emotional state and was daring her to maintain any self-control.

  She glanced around the room. A couple of servants were standing near the kitchen passageway, deep in discussion—probably about her and Ranulf. Rumors would soon be spread everywhere. Any other time or circumstance that knowledge alone would have been enough to make her walk away, but in three days she would be gone. Rumors be damned.

  Leaning over the chair, Bronwyn pulled back the shirt opening. She reminded herself that she had seen him in less, but her heart had not been in jeopardy then. Trying her best to ignore his masculinity and keep as much distance as possible between them, she loosened the bandage so that she could see underneath without removing it altogether. Completely closed, the wound was healing even faster than she had predicted.

  “You’re fine,” she said as she pulled back. “The powder stings horrendously, but it works. If you promise to minimize your activity over the next couple of days and not exert yourself, you can probably remove the bandage.”

  “Then remove it now,” Ranulf ordered, his tone soft but serious.

  Bronwyn ground her jaw, suspecting that his reasons for keeping her near were duplicitous. Her mind screamed to leave right now and head for Syndlear first thing in the morning. It was the sensible thing to do and she had always been sensible. Truth was, until Ranulf, nothing and no one had ever tempted her not to be. Still, he didn’t need to know that.

  Walking over to the hearth chair next to them, she pushed his discarded tunic aside, picked up his belt, and found the attached misericorde. The extremely sharp narrow dagger had been created to strike through the gaps between armor plates and therefore was perfect for what she intended. Pulling it out of its sheath, she spun the long, thin blade expertly in her hand, catching it in a dead stop. “Since I am removing the bandage, I might as well remove the stitches too,” she purred mischievously.

  Ranulf stared incredulously at the feminine vision before him casually wielding his knife in her palm. Either she was very skilled with the slender blade or she wanted to make him think that she was. Coupled with the devious twinkle in her eye, it didn’t matter which was the truth. This was a bad idea. “Are you sure you know what you are doing with that thing?”

  Bronwyn glanced at the dagger and then back at him, raising her eyebrows in an obvious mocked attempt at innocence. “Well, I could use my knife, but it is much bigger. I really think yours is better for the task.”

  Ranulf, unconvinced, tried to rise, but she pushed him back down, this time situating herself between his legs, a position both ominous and alluring. Then one stitch at a time, she manipulated the tip of the cutting edge, slicing the string and pulling it free.

  Ranulf could ignore the painful tugging sensation, but every time one of her breasts accidentally brushed against him, he had to hold his breath and grip the arms of the chair. Suspecting she might believe him weak and possessing a low tolerance for pain, Ranulf searched for something to distract him from what she was doing. Only one topic came to mind. Their kiss.

  “Abo
ut this morning. Your memory is faulty.”

  Concentrating, Bronwyn was just about to sever the final stitch. “How so?” she murmured.

  “I believe you kissed me.”

  His nearness coupled with the unexpected reminder of their embrace caused her hand to quiver just as she sliced the last stitch, giving him a small scrape.

  “Ow! You did that on purpose!”

  Bronwyn jumped back. She was no longer nestled between his legs, but neither was she out of his reach. “I did no such thing. Besides, it is a small scratch, so stop disgracing yourself by acting so cowardly,” she scolded, waving the sharp blade around as if it was another appendage.

  “Cowardly?” Ranulf bellowed as he jerked the knife out of her hand. “You, angel, should be thanking me for being damn near to a saint! You have to be one of the most difficult women I have ever met.”

  Bronwyn’s chin popped up angrily, her deep blue eyes flashing. “I’m not difficult. You’re the one yelling.” She turned, grabbed his tunic, and threw it at him. “I’m done. You can get dressed now.”

  Ranulf stifled an oath and tugged the black-and-gold garment over his head in frustration, refusing to wince as he twisted his injured shoulder to slip his arm through the opening. Nothing about the last few minutes had gone as planned. She was supposed to succumb to her physical need for him, not drive him mad to the point of losing control. He had known her for less than three days, and yet she was making him think and act in ways that were just not him.

  “What did you say?” Bronwyn asked.

  Ranulf scowled, hating to be caught mumbling. Something else he never did. “I said that I don’t yell! I don’t shout! Ever!”

  “I find that hard to believe, my lord, for I have heard you do quite a lot of both since your arrival,” Bronwyn said smugly, ignoring her inner voice to leave immediately. No longer could she pretend Ranulf was in need of assistance. He was virile, strong, and awakening an irresistible sense of awareness within her.

  Ranulf opened his mouth to argue, when he realized she had done it again. She had changed the subject, putting him on the defensive. Plopping back down onto the chair he had been occupying, he casually crossed his ankle so that it rested on his knee. “The kiss, angel. You still haven’t answered my question.”

  The gleam in his eye revealed that his confidence had returned and Bronwyn felt like stomping her foot. The man would not win this contest of wills, for that was exactly what it was. Her versus him. And she refused to be the one to cave in. So if he wanted to talk about their kiss, then they would. “But I did answer it, my lord. You kissed me.”

  A disturbing knot grew inside him, wondering if she truly was offended, but then he spied the sparkle of raillery in her eyes. “Don’t feel embarrassed, angel. I enjoyed it. Immensely,” he added as he reached over to grab his mug of mead.

  Mustering up the last bit of her self-respect, Bronwyn narrowed her gaze and smiled icily. “I may have been one of many women who felt a fleeting desire to kiss you, but you will never have to worry about me being one of them again.” She rose and moved to do what she should have done much earlier—leave.

  Many women? Try none, Ranulf thought. The honesty in the spark between them was rarely experienced by anyone and, for him, even rarer. So when she stepped around the chair to leave, he instinctively reached out and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her down onto his lap. Catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he turned her head so that he could read her eyes. And there, reflecting in the darkening cobalt depths, was the truth. She wanted him and her feelings were just as strange and startling to her as his were to him.

  “I don’t believe you, angel. I think you wanted to kiss me and desire to do so again, almost as much I want to taste you.” Then his mouth came down on hers before she could even think of resisting.

  Need and longing seeped through the featherlight kiss, penetrating every fiber of her body. Bronwyn could feel the urgency behind it, but also the tightly reined control as his lips tenderly, coaxingly persuaded her mouth to open. She succumbed to his will and that of her own and kissed him back hungrily, uncaring that she was admitting that he was right. She did want to kiss him and touch him in ways her mind had only fantasized about doing with a man. Her hands wound their way from his chest around his neck, pulling him closer to her. The world disappeared and all that remained was Ranulf and what he was making her feel. She was at last a woman, whole and desirable.

  A quiver rippled through her body and Ranulf felt his self-control slip as he slanted his mouth over hers again and again, his tongue stroking, caressing every corner of her mouth. Her honest desire for him was ripping away all his carefully constructed defenses, creating an urge to satisfy swelling primal needs with more than just a kiss.

  Other women had toyed with him enough to get him physically aroused, but this was much more. Bronwyn wasn’t trying to excite him. It was the other way around, and he was succeeding. In Bronwyn’s arms, he was a man, whole and strong and desirable. With her, he found real passion and its effect was intoxicating. Every nerve ending was alive with the sincerity of her response and he wanted more.

  Immersing his left hand in her soft hair, his right traced the contours of her neck as his mouth continued to make slow love to her with his tongue. She was perfection. The softness of her skin, her smell, how she tasted, responded to his every caress. And the more he touched, his need to know every inch of her and feel her body next to his only grew.

  Bronwyn heard a sound and realized it was coming from her. His lips had hypnotized her and the light touch of his fingertips was transporting her into a realm where all realities and concerns drifted away. She had entered into a place where torture and delight were indistinguishable, where her whole being strained toward the fulfillment of a desire she didn’t understand. “More…” she heard herself beg just before his mouth again sought hers in another mind-numbing kiss.

  Ranulf knew he was dangerously close to losing control, but her rapacious plea drove him to continue. Just one more touch, one more discovery, and then he would stop. Ever so slowly, his fingers trailed down the veins of her neck and then along the collar of her chemise, tracing their way to the upper part of her breast. Detecting the buds peaking up under her attire, his thumbs flicked lightly over the firm nipples.

  When he felt her body respond to his touch, he circled the small mounds round and round, until she was quivering under the assault. Nothing could have been more arousing. His body demanded fulfillment, leaving him a choice: He could either stop, or pick her up and haul her upstairs.

  As his lips released hers, Bronwyn closed her eyes and drew in a slow deep breath, marveling at the speed her heart was thumping. She could deny it, but she had wanted this to happen. Their first kiss had introduced her to the sensations of passion and desire, and she had longed to know more. Even now, she could still feel his hands as they cupped her breasts, kneading them until she was aching and hot for something she could not define. She would have yielded to his guidance, resigned her values, and permitted him every advantage under his touch. And all because she needed him for some inexplicable reason. Ranulf was who she had been looking for and never been able to find.

  “Why?” she sighed in a raspy whisper, needing to hear that he felt something akin to her own shaken emotions. “Why did you kiss me?”

  Ranulf froze. He didn’t know how to respond. He couldn’t say, “Because with you I am whole. With you I know who I am. With you, I become a man in every sense of the word. Because when I am with you, I am not afraid.” Such honesty would scare even the strongest of wills and passions. So he opted for something far diminished from the full truth. “Because you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he replied.

  Bronwyn felt like she had been punched in the stomach.

  Beauty. That was what drove him. And if that was what created Ranulf’s desire, whatever passion that sparked between them would be instantly extinguished the moment he met the real Lillabet.<
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  Bronwyn cast him a slight smile that did not reach her eyes and slipped off his lap. Ranulf watched as she retreated to the hearth, pretending to warm her hands by the fire. He knew instantly he had said the wrong thing.

  It had been years since he had been with a woman and he couldn’t remember ever truly trying to woo one. He had never wanted to before. Less than a minute ago, he had been given both opportunity and motive to convince her that his desire for her was real, and deep, and not just lust being satisfied. And he had failed miserably.

  Ranulf rose out of his chair and glanced behind him. The room was empty but three women were whispering in the passageway, leading to the kitchens. All refused to look at him, trying to hide their expressions behind their hands. The back of the large hearth chair had hidden him and Bronwyn, but even a small child could have figured out what they were doing. He probably should be grateful as they most likely kept anyone else from entering the room, but right now he wanted complete privacy, not just a limited audience.

  Ranulf signaled for them to leave and accompanied the gesture with a look that made it clear that no one else was to enter the Hall until he said so. Then he moved in behind Bronwyn and pushed her hair aside, giving him access to her neck. He bent his head and lightly kissed her nape. She stiffened. “Don’t, angel,” he whispered against her skin. “Don’t pull away from me. Please. I want you and you want me, too.”

  Bronwyn wanted to resist, to walk away and protect her heart, but her body defied her will, succumbing to her more primal desires. What could it hurt? She knew the truth. This would be the last time. And it would have to survive a lifetime.

  His lips created a line of searing kisses down her neck as his right hand stole around her waist, reacquainting itself with her body. Slowly it moved up to cup her breast and Bronwyn felt the last of her defenses crumble. Encouraging him, she leaned back and allowed his fingers to slip underneath her neckline, sending a shock wave through her entire body. At the same time, his left hand started its own descent. Lightly massaging her shoulders then biceps, his fingers moved lower until they grazed her forearm where she had slashed it earlier, sending sharp stabbing fire through the limb.