The Christmas Knight

by Michele Sinclair

  Bronwyn let go a sudden shriek and, with a jerk, pitched herself forward. The realization of what he had been doing, what she had been allowing, washed over her. She could feel Ranulf’s eyes boring into her back as she covered her face with her hands to hide her tears, humiliated. Her sudden reaction had been instinctive, an attempt to stop the agony. Even now her arm throbbed angrily, but eventually that pain would diminish and disappear. The shame she would carry for life.

  She had practically invited him to touch her and would have let him do much more if it hadn’t been for her arm. She knew it and he knew it. What he didn’t know was why she pulled away. No doubt he believed her to be a tease, or even worse, a child afraid of what was to come. And she was afraid, but not of what was about to happen, but of what never would. For she was not Lillabet and Ranulf was not her intended.

  Ranulf stood immobile, unable to move toward her or step away, until he knew her frame of mind.

  It wasn’t hard to guess. She had been the one to realize what was happening and stopped him before he ruined her. Although he intended to marry her, this was not the way he wanted to get Bronwyn to the altar, through tricks and ploys. He raked his fingers through his short hair and berated himself for being too eager, too impulsive. What had he been thinking?

  Despite Bronwyn’s suggestion that she was like the other women he had bedded, she wasn’t. And he didn’t want her thinking that he regarded her as such. But how does one say, “When I hold you in my arms, I lose all reason?” He could have sworn she was in the same state.

  Her response had been genuine, even welcoming. Yes, he had gone too far, but she didn’t have to scream. She could have just pulled back or asked him to stop. Then again, maybe she had just remembered the farce she was playing, and what they were about to do was far beyond that of sisterly intervention. They needed to talk and she needed to confess to her ruse so he could make it clear that they were to be wed anyway. Soon.

  “We need to talk.”

  Bronwyn pulled her arms around her chest and hugged herself, keeping her back toward him. “About what?”

  “About us.”

  “What about us?”

  “Look at me,” he ordered and reached out to her shoulder, gently compelling her to obey. “You are not unintelligent. We cannot be in each other’s company without—”

  “It was just a kiss, my lord,” Bronwyn finished, glad her voice sounded steady and not what she was truly feeling.

  Ranulf’s gaze narrowed and he could feel his composure disintegrate. She could belittle what had happened between them but it would do no good. He may not have had her, but he had seen and touched enough to know she had never been with another man. And she never would be. “It was far more than a kiss, and before we share too many more of those, we need to be married.”

  Bronwyn’s jaw dropped. She hadn’t considered this as a possible outcome. But she should have. She gulped. “Because of a kiss?”

  Ranulf’s brows shot together. She seemed really incredulous. “Yes! I mean, no. I mean because of what’s bound to happen next, and do not pretend you don’t understand.”

  Bronwyn cursed her foolish, selfish desires. Of course he wanted to get married. He thought her to be Lillabet. Telling him that he was not obligated to her, but her sister, was out of the question. Her only option was to get him to understand that he wouldn’t be marrying anyone. That he didn’t need to. “I refuse to marry you out of obligation.”

  “And I wouldn’t want you to!”

  His emphatic response was not what she had expected. Hadn’t he come north with plans to marry Lily, regardless of her feelings on the matter? “You wouldn’t?”

  “Hell no!” Ranulf bellowed, throwing his arms up in the air in obvious frustration.

  Bronwyn swallowed, wishing she could be herself but knowing she couldn’t. “Well…good, because I would never marry a man I didn’t love.”

  “No one’s asking you to!”

  “You are! You and the king.”

  “Forget that,” Ranulf countered. He stepped in close and seized her forearms in a grip that didn’t evoke pain, but kept her from pulling away. “None of that matters. What is happening between you and me changes everything.”

  Bronwyn shook her head. “Not to me. It was just a kiss,” she lied.

  “I don’t believe you,” he rasped just before he crushed her to him with a savage intensity.

  Her hands curled into fists and started to push against his chest, but they soon flattened and began to knead the muscles underneath. Encouraged, Ranulf thrust his tongue into her mouth, hungrily pressing his lips against hers. She instantly succumbed, and he soon lost himself in her softness. Her breathing became erratic, and once again he could feel the wave of need and desire overcome his reason. His grip increased, squeezing her arms pinned between them.

  Bronwyn cried out, “I…can’t!” The pain shooting through the injured flesh was intense and crippling. The moment she was released, she swung around to cradle her arm where he could not see. The burning sensation refused to fade away, and she struggled not to tear.

  Ranulf was behind her, and after what seemed like an eternity, he broke the deafening silence. “Do you think I am a fool? Do you think I am unfamiliar with the games you play? I found out at a very young age that fate is pitiless and women like yourself are its ally.”

  Bronwyn opened her mouth to explain that her cry was not against him, that she had been in pain, but her voice broke. His words were cruel, meant to hurt, and their aim had been true. Ranulf was not the man she had believed him to be.

  She spun back around, letting anger mask her pain. “You stopped me. You kissed me. It was you”—she swallowed—“who touched me.”

  “Well, put your fears aside, woman. You shall not have to endure my touch again,” he sneered, the vehemence he suddenly felt for her unmistakable.

  She watched as he did a slow, deliberate pivot and walked away from her. Taking a deep breath, Bronwyn aimed her own stride toward the back staircase when the Hall’s doors sprang wide open.

  A shadowed figure with a purposeful stride entered, “Who the hell ordered the servants to keep everyone out? You know better than most, Ranulf, the dangers of a hungry mob.”

  Tyr halted his advancement just as the doors swung back closed. Something was going on, and it wasn’t good. Bronwyn was obviously trying to slip out of the room and Ranulf was bent over one of the tables, leaning on his knuckles—something he only did when he was confounded or highly annoyed.

  Tyr arched a brow severely and pointed his finger, waving it so that it bounced between them. “What’s between you two?”

  “Nothing,” Ranulf growled.

  Tyr shifted his jaw and slid his tongue across his teeth as he tried to decide if or how he should rebuff Ranulf’s clearly false statement. He and Bronwyn looked as if they had done something awful, but it was hard to say what or who had been the culprit. Usually Tyr avoided Ranulf when he was in one of his rare emotional moods, but today was different. Today, his friend had displayed an assortment of feelings—frustration, confusion, compassion, guilt—none of which Tyr could remember Ranulf exhibiting in the past year, let alone all at one time, or twice in one day. Whatever was happening between his best friend and Bronwyn, Tyr intended to personally watch it unfold.

  Stepping over a bench, he sat down and pointed to the food that had been placed out on the tables, getting cold. “Where’s the meat?”

  “That woman refuses to serve it during Advent,” Ranulf grumbled, wagging his thumb toward Bronwyn, but not actually looking at her.

  That woman! Provoked, Bronwyn marched up to Tyr and hissed, “I already told his lordship that there were plenty of geese he could eat. He and his men just needed to hunt them. With so many unexpected extra mouths to feed, it would be beneficial to all if at least some of his soldiers contributed.”

  Tyr’s eyes darted between the two hostile figures. “Well, then why don’t we go hunting tomorrow?” he offered c
heerfully, knowing that a sunny disposition right now would rankle his friend.

  Bronwyn flashed Tyr a radiant smile. “What a sensible suggestion. After the past few days, it would be refreshing to spend some time with a charming gentleman and give me a chance to get away from certain…frustrations,” she said as her gaze leisurely swept over Ranulf. “I can show you the choice spots.”

  Tyr let go a low chuckle. No wonder the women at court never interested Ranulf. None of them had the audaciousness needed to penetrate his thick shell. Tyr returned Bronwyn’s smile and picked up a handful of almonds. “That would be great. It will also give you a chance to meet more of the men.”

  Ranulf didn’t move, but his knuckles had turned white. “The last thing the men need is a woman around who enjoys toying with their emotions.”

  “I do not toy, my lord, but I suspect manners and general kindness may appear that way to someone who has the emotional capacity of a stone.” Her voice had risen at least an octave, giving away her confusion and hurt pride.

  Oblivious, Ranulf slowly shifted his gaze to hers and grated back, “If I am a stone, madam, then perhaps it is because I look like one. I’m sorry that I don’t have Tyr’s smile or Tory’s sweet nature. Men like me do not appeal to women like yourself. I would be a half-wit to think otherwise.”

  Bronwyn’s back straightened. Her blood pounded and tears would be flowing any minute, but she refused to cry in his presence. Of all the men, she had thought Ranulf to be different. Oh, how wrong she had been. Someday she would be glad that fate had intervened and saved her from what would have been a grave mistake.

  “There are worse things in life than having a few scars, something you should have discovered long ago, my lord. And until you started using them as an excuse, I never thought you to be a half-wit. But I am glad that you have clarified that point, for you’re right. Such a man is unappealing.” Feigning confidence and joyful expectation, she swiveled toward Tyr. “I will join you tomorrow morning in the bailey in front of the stables.”

  Both men stared, unable to stop themselves, as she sauntered out of the Hall and through the door that led up to her chambers.

  Tyr watched the rhythm of Ranulf’s pulse in the bulging veins along his neck. If Bronwyn were a man, she would right now be fighting for her life. There were probably only three people in the world who could provoke Ranulf and live to see another day. Him, Ranulf’s commander and friend Garik, who had stayed behind in Normandy—and now that woman.

  Asking Ranulf what the hell was going on and just what had possessed him to pick a fight with a woman he was obviously attracted to would be a waste of breath. His friend was too busy trying to convince himself that he despised her. It was an absurd goal. Until Ranulf realized that it wasn’t anger he was feeling, the man would remain frustrated and become more and more unbearable.

  Open confrontation would only cause Ranulf to leave, remain in denial, and keep hurting himself and the lady to whom he was losing his heart. Tyr had always abided by their implied rule of friendship—not to interfere—but that was before Bronwyn. She was visibly interested in Ranulf and truly hurt by his rejection. There was no one in the world Tyr was closer to, and watching Ranulf torture himself was insane.

  Leaning forward, Tyr grabbed a mug of mulled wine and swallowed a large gulp. He gestured toward the door with the cup. “I say, she is sinfully attractive when she’s angry. You may not claim to have a way with the ladies, but when you want to make one mad, you are indeed an expert.”

  Ranulf clenched his teeth and said nothing, but sent Tyr a flash of warning.

  Tyr dismissed the look and pressed on, opting for a flank attack. “You know that dress she was wearing? She should wear that color more often, complements that odd color of blue in her eyes.”

  Ranulf sank onto the bench across the table from Tyr and raked his hands through his hair. “Take my advice and avoid looking too long at them. They can confound a man. Make him believe in lies.”

  “You might be right,” Tyr agreed and moved to pour himself some more wine. “But when a man can’t think straight, is it she who is telling the lies or is it he who is telling them to himself?”

  “If you are trying to make a point, don’t.”

  “No, no point,” Tyr sighed and swirled his mug. “Just that she was looking pretty tonight. Did you not think so?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I did. I especially liked the hair. Normally I do not like stuff being all free like that, gets in the way. I usually prefer a woman’s hair to be pulled back and tidy, but hers…well, I just might change my mind.”

  Nothing from Ranulf. Not even a twitch. Damn. The man was stubborn.

  Tyr swallowed the mug’s contents for fortification. If he got out of this with his skin still intact, he would be lucky. He had maybe one more shot before Ranulf got up to leave, so it had to hit—and hard.

  Tyr rocked the bench back and hummed, “Looked like silk, wonder if it feels like silk. I once had a woman with hair—”

  “Damn you,” Ranulf uttered through his teeth. “Be quiet or get out.”

  “What do you care? You may not like her, but I do. And not just in the face. I’m actually looking forward to tomorrow and spending time with the lady. And after her jumping onto the idea of coming hunting, I think she feels the same.”

  “She does not like you.”

  “I beg to disagree. She thinks I am charming. Said so herself. But then it wasn’t I who said she was trying to seduce every man around her.”

  Ranulf pounded his fists on the table, startling the servants who had recommenced prepping the trestles with food. But he didn’t deny the accusation.

  “My God! You really like her, don’t you? I knew you were attracted to the woman, but you really like her. I should have known. From the moment you returned to camp that night, grumbling about how the women in this area were too damn pretty, I knew a female had finally burrowed underneath that hardened exterior. I just never dreamed you would also get to her.”

  “I hope I’m around when a woman finally lays claim to your sanity. With your impetuous personality, your actions will be far more out of character than mine.”

  Tyr clapped his mug on the table and threw his hands up in the air. “Not me. I swore an oath against women and commitments, and it is an oath I intend to keep. But you, my friend, are not me and do not have my reasons for rejecting happiness. Go to her, a woman like that would forgive a man, she might even find life in a stone. So much so, that she may even consider marrying him. Of course, he might have to grovel a little.”

  Ranulf pushed himself up, wishing Tyr was correct. Unfortunately, Bronwyn wasn’t about to marry a man like him, not before and certainly not now. “I’m going to take a walk.”

  Bronwyn stepped into her room, leaned against the door, and squeezed her eyes closed. Why was God taunting her? Never had her emotions been so shaken and taken to extremes in such a short period of time.

  Ranulf infuriated her, but when she was in his arms, she felt like a woman, beautiful and alluring, something she hadn’t thought possible. Something she had never truly felt within herself. And now that she had, she wanted to experience it again and again. But she had to stop wishing for a miracle.

  Her sisters needed to be protected and so did Ranulf. He didn’t know about Luc and his hired mercenaries. She could tell Ranulf about the baron and his ruthlessness, but that would only put him in a futile position. Either Ranulf would feel ethically forced to hand her over, belittling himself in front of his men, or his pride would make her stay and, as a result, lose everything. One just did not flagrantly disobey a king’s decree.

  However, if she and her sisters disappeared from Hunswick, so would the danger. With the three of them gone, Syndlear would revert to its vassal’s owner—Ranulf—and there would be nothing Luc Craven could do about it. Leaving was her only choice.

  Bronwyn pushed herself off the door and unlaced the snug bliaut. Pulling it off her head, she draped
it over the chair and fingered the soft rich blue material. What a waste beautiful clothes were on her.

  She walked over to the hearth and stoked the fire. Once the room warmed enough, she removed the rest of her undergarments, casting them alongside the jewel-colored gown. Tomorrow, during the hunt, she would slip away and head to Syndlear. From there, she and her sisters would journey north.

  With a sigh, she pulled the coverlet back and slipped into the bed, enjoying the feeling of the soft, worn linen sheets against her naked skin. She had only two more days of this personal, private luxury.

  Ranulf sank farther down into the same chair he had been in when he’d nearly lost control with Bronwyn. The hour was late and the Hall was nearly empty. Only a few servants remained, cleaning up and taking down trestles from the evening meal. He had eaten the last bit of fish and bread, which were both good, but without butter, cheese, or meat, it felt more like a snack. And after two days of the sparse fare, more and more of his men were electing to sleep outside the castle walls—and fending for themselves when it came to dinner. The meat they cooked wouldn’t be tasty, but it would be far more filling.

  He almost wished he could be one of them. This afternoon had been a disaster. In the span of his and Bronwyn’s relatively short interaction, he had felt hopeful, elated, guilty, incredibly jealous, envious, and deeply angry.

  And worse, she knew why.

  Her accusation had been uncomfortably accurate.

  It had been a long time since he had mulled about his injury or what it had cost him. For years, his scars had impeded necessary relationships and negated the idea of finding voluntary ones, such as companionship. Passion, he quickly discovered, had to be reciprocated for it to be called such; otherwise it was just an animalistic lust to be satiated and forgotten. As he grew older, he learned that pleasure and desire were far from common and few couples truly shared either. That helped.