Monet shook her head, too delighted with his gift to wade through solving one of his riddles.
“How did you come by this, Broderick?” she asked.
“By means of sending Stroud to Ballist…for I could not go myself and chance being recognized,” he said. “I am sorry you have been so cold in the night, Princess.”
Monet placed a hand to her bosom, attempting to still the mad beating of her heart. He knew her! He knew her well! Further, he cared for her comfort.
Monet placed the warming pan on the table nearby. She could not contain her joy! Turning, she threw her arms around the neck of the great Crimson Knight.
“Thank you, Broderick!” she whispered as tears escaped her eyes, running rivulets over her cheeks. “I…I cannot believe you have been so thoughtful toward me…after all my whining and weak complaints…and still you are thoughtful.” She paused, giggled, and drew back from him, her arms yet encircling his neck. “Or perhaps you are only weary of hearing me whine and complain. Perhaps your gift is not so kind to me as it is to you.”
He shook his head and smiled. As his arms encircled her, Monet felt the wild rush of gooseflesh over her limbs.
“I do not want you to be cold any longer,” he said. “I know what it is to sleep with heated stones…and cannot see you sleep in such discomfort any longer.” He frowned. “But I do not understand your tears, Prissy. You are glad of the warming pan…are you not?”
Monet glanced away, brushing the tears from her cheeks. “I have had many birthdays…many gifts—jewels, horses. Minstrels have written ballads in honor of my birthday; poets have penned sonnets for me.” She yet could not look at him. Still she continued, “Yet none of it…none of those was ever truly gifted with such…such thought to me. No gift I have ever received was as meant for me as was your gift now.”
“But…but it is only a warming pan,” Broderick mumbled, his brow yet furrowed with an inquisitive frown.
“I know,” Monet whispered. “You must think me such a silly girl.” She looked at him then. “But you do see…do you not? You thought of me…of me…not of the kingdom and how your gift would appear to others…not of my father and endeavoring to display your wealth and worth to him. You only thought of me and my discomfort…of how you might ease it.” He gazed at her, an expression of mild guilt on his countenance of a sudden. Thus she pressed, “And do not say it is your charge to my comfort. It will spoil the gift, and I know you did not think of the warming pan because of your charge.”
His guilt softened, and he shook his head. “I confess I did not think of it for reason of my charge…though I am of a sudden washed with guilt at not having done so previous.”
“No!” Monet laughed, taking his squared jaw between her small hands. “I am glad you did not think of it as per charge. Thank you, Broderick!”
Again she embraced him. She wished to ever embrace him—to be held against him as she was in that moment.
“I-I cannot full express my delight to you, Broderick,” she said. “How can I possibly tell you what your gift has meant to me?”
“Could such a gift, perhaps, earn Ballain’s horseman a prize like unto that a tournament champion might expect?” he said.
Monet drew back from him, of a sudden shy at having displayed her unguarded affection for him.
He was smiling at her, his eyes bright with the mischief she so loved to see in the blue mirrors.
“Do you endeavor to mock me on the eve of my birthday, pretty knight?” she asked.
“I endeavor to kiss you on the eve of your birthday, Princess,” he said, “to discern whether or not your flavor has altered…now that you have aged.”
“I told you once before,” Monet whispered, “I will ever kiss you at your bidding, pretty knight.”
“Then kiss me, Princess,” he said, smiling. “For it cost me a horse to Stroud…that warming pan there,” he said, nodding to the pan on the table.
Monet did not linger—did not allow a breath that a bashful nature may rise in her. Simply she pressed lips with him once—lingering—twice—lingering—thrice—moist, warm, and lingering.
Gooseflesh bathed her body—breathless was her bosom! Rapt in the arms of the Crimson Knight, Monet knew nothing else in the world! There was not Karvana in danger; there were no people who suffered in fear. She did not care that winter approached or that the coming snow may cause her cold misery. Only she cared for Broderick—only cared that he held her—that her heart was unleashed as she kissed him.
His mouth was warm and moist. He tasted a flavor she knew only to be Broderick Dougray. Firm he kissed her—slow and measured he kissed her—and Monet knew bliss.
Yet there was something—something her body whispered—something her heart defined. Slowly, she broke the seal of their lips, holding his handsome face between her hands as she studied him.
“You are being careful with me,” she whispered, gazing into the alluring blue of his eyes. “I can sense it.”
“I am always careful with you, Princess,” he said.
“Do not call me Princess!” she cried in a whisper of a sudden, her hands going to her forehead, and she winced. Her bliss fled as fear and doubt flooded her being. Even for his gift, was she naught but a piece of Karvana to him? “You call me Princess with purpose at times. I know you do…though I know not why, and I would ask you not to. Further, I wish you would cease in always being careful with me. I am not an infant.”
“Forgive me,” he said. Still, she glanced away from him, the pain in her heart near too piercing—the twisting frustration in her body and soul maddening.
Monet sighed. “I forgive you,” she muttered, still frowning. She felt her lower lip pulse with a tiny pout. She looked at him then, admiring the intense comeliness of his entire countenance. “For it seems I can never stay angry with you for very long.” Pain and fear were still in her, but she would not burden him with her weakness. Shaking her head, she forced her lips to curl in a smile. “Thank you for the warming pan,” she said. “It truly does hold more to my heart than you can know.” Lifting herself on toe, she placed a tender, lingering kiss on his whiskered jaw.
A slight gasp escaped her lips as his strong arms encircled her body of a sudden. Monet’s heart leapt in her bosom as Broderick pulled her body flush with his own, his embrace tightening. Warm moisture flooded her mouth once more as he gazed at her—as she studied the strong lines of his face, the tempting shape of his mouth.
“It is your birthday,” he said. The sweet warmth of his breath on her face caused Monet to quiver. “Thus, if you wish me to be intimate in names and careless in kisses…then I will be intimate and careless.” She was entirely overcome with desire as he whispered, “Or rather careless in names and intimate in kisses…Monet.”
She felt her lips part, struggling for breath as he held her face between his powerful hands.
He took her then—took her mouth with his own, ravishing her with moist, smoldering kisses! His hands encircled her throat; his thumbs braced beneath her chin as it seemed he endeavored to derive from her mouth some enchanted nectar to quench an insatiable thirst.
Monet found drawing breath near impossible—yet she cared not! The flavor of Broderick’s mouth blending with that of her own spurred her to being careless of comfort, propriety, or any other rationale. As his arms bound her against his powerful form, her hands knew pleasure at caressing the breadth of his shoulders, the back of his neck—at being lost in the raven softness of his hair.
He broke the seal of their lips as his mouth sought out the tender flesh of her throat. Again and again he trailed soft, moist kisses over her throat—to her cheek—at her neck just below her ear.
A gasp—a sigh of blissful felicity—escaped Monet’s throat as Broderick clutched the edge of her bodice at her neck, tugging at the cloth until her left shoulder was exposed. He placed several moist and lingering kisses at her shoulder before returning his attentions to her mouth. Carelessly driven kisses of near frantic passio
n burned between them—kisses offered and accepted—shared.
His arms banded ’round her waist. He lifted her—pushed her back against the cottage wall as his mouth bore down against hers.
Monet’s mind burned with her unspoken love for Broderick, her whole self aflame with desire. In those moments she wanted nothing—nothing save him—nothing save his passion raining over her—consuming her as the waves of the sea!
Of a sudden, he broke the seal of their lips. His arms released her, and he pressed a fist to the wall on either side of her head.
“Monet,” he whispered, hanging his head before her.
“No,” she whispered, for she could see lucidity threatening to own his mind once more. Reaching out, she took his handsome face between trembling hands, raising his gaze to her own. His eyes were narrowed, glazed with lingering passion and desire.
She leaned forward and kissed him soundly on the mouth. He seemed to draw nectar from the warm moisture of their kiss once—twice—and then he put her away from him.
He breathed heavy. “It is foolish to want what I cannot have, Monet,” he said. “Princess Monet.”
Monet felt tears brim in her eyes—placed a palm against his cheek as he straightened his posture.
“I am not fool enough to believe that the Crimson Knight would not have something if he truly wanted it…whether or not consent had been given,” she said. “You are ever my protector, are you not? And I am ever the charge given you by your king.”
He said nothing—only continued to near glare at her with smoldering sapphires. Thus, she dropped her hand from his face, brushed the tears from her cheeks, and forced a smile and pleasant countenance.
Glancing to the brass warming pan on her bed, she said, “At least I shall sleep warm tonight…and with no stones in my bed to disturb me. I thank you, Sir Broderick.”
Would that I could warm you in your bed, Monet, Broderick thought. Raking trembling fingers through his hair, he chuckled—a slight chuckle akin to some madness—and smiled, amused by her innocence. She had not understood his implication when he told her the warming pan was the second best thing to warm her through the night. She had not understood that the first best thing would have been the Crimson Knight himself. And it was just as well she did not comprehend it, for he could have endured very little further temptation where the Scarlet Princess was concerned—lest he find himself in breach of his covenant with the king, in forfeit of his honor and virtue as a knight. He well knew bedding her as wife would be worth any sacrifice. Still, he would have her only at her father’s will. For though she was not conscious of it, he knew she would not esteem him otherwise—no matter what passion may whisper.
“You are welcome, Princess,” he said, offering a single nod.
“It is my favored gift…of all the gifts I have ever received,” Monet said. As she moved past him, she added, “Save one.”
Monet smiled—for she thought she sensed a blush rose to his cheeks at her implication that his kiss was her true favored gift.
The Minstrel’s Message
Monet feared Broderick would withdraw—that he would now find necessity in keeping from her company. All through the long dark of night following their shared moments of passionate bliss, she had lain awake in worry over it. He already labored sore for all the hours of the sun. Though she thought he could not labor worse, she worried he would endeavor to do so—that he might avoid her company. Further, she feared he would find reason to be angry with her for being the cause of their exile—of his imprisonment in Ballain.
As she lay awake, gazing into the dark nothing of the cottage at night, she thought she could not endure were he to withdraw from her company. Were Broderick to cease in joining in conversation with her, cease in his playful teasing, cease to be the best of company she could imagine, then she could not endure. She thought of the other knights of Karvana—considered each great man at her father’s table round of conferring. Monet knew she could not have lived so content in exile had any other knight been given the charge to protect the heart of the kingdom. She knew her father knew it.
All manner of doubt, uncertainty, worry, and fear began to plague Monet’s mind there in the cold dark of night. Would King Rudolph join King James to fight against Karvana? Was her father yet safe? Were the novice knight Sir Eann Beacher and his squire, Richard Tailor, yet well and fighting with the legions battling to the north? Did Sir Alum Willham yet survive? Were many men killed? Would Bronson the blacksmith keep his secret of being one of the banished Knights Exemplar? Would Sarah see her sons well married to sweet wives? Would Stroud win the heart of the miller’s daughter? Would the village’s new babe, Dacian, be strong and healthy through winter?
For hours did Monet worry and weep, for it was the way of night’s darkness—to bring doubt and worry through weary minds and frightened hearts. Still, somehow—in some moment before sunrise—Monet did find sleep. When she at last awoke, it was near midmorning. She rose, and from the window she could see Broderick with the horses—with Tripp—currying the favored animal and speaking low to it as he did so.
She would not call to him through the window. She would not go out and intrude upon his solitude. Yet as she studied him, watching the manner in which he pampered the animal, her thoughts were whisked back to the night before—to Broderick’s gift of a warming pan—and to his kiss! As gooseflesh blanketed her limbs, as her heart swelled with the overwhelming love it hid for the Crimson Knight, she turned from the window. She could not allow her thoughts to linger on love, hope, or passion. She was a princess in exile—a princess whose kingdom was threatened—and she must remember it. Though she wished with all her heart she could be simply the wife of the horseman of Ballain, she knew she could not. It was not her lot in life to know the contentment borne of owning the true desire of one’s heart, and she must renew her acceptance of the truth.
“Sarah!” she breathed aloud. A visit with Sarah would divert her frightened and hopeless thoughts.
Quickly Monet dressed and prepared a simple breakfast. She did not even pause to eat at the table—simply placed a piece of linen over a plate she had prepared for Broderick, took two bites of ham for herself, and left the cottage.
As she neared the center of the village, she was curious, for there seemed to be far more people astir than was common. Monet smiled as she walked, delighted at seeing several of the miller’s daughters placing garlands of holly and pine boughs about the shutters of the mill.
“Hello, Prissy!” one of the girls called. It was Merry, Miller Aldrich’s daughter whom Stroud fancied.
“Hello, Merry!” Monet called in return. “Are you girls adorning the mill for winter celebrations already?”
Merry smiled. “Today is the birthday of Princess Monet…of the Scarlet Princess of Karvana! Did you not know?”
Monet forced a smile. “Of course! Of course! I had quite forgotten it was come upon us so soon.”
“You and your Broderick must come for the fire tonight,” Merry said. “There will be singing and dancing and pastry aplenty!”
“We will most assuredly be there,” Prissy said. She waved at the girls, who smiled and waved in return. She wondered what it would be like—to be able to join the revelry of a birthday celebration in honor of Karvana’s princess without having to smile for near the whole of the day, all the while having to express gratitude for a hundred different gifts given of obligation.
The thought of gifts led Monet’s mind to the brass warming pan Broderick had gifted her the night before—of the intimate kisses they had shared. Whether for the cold of midautumn or the delight at the memory, Monet’s arms prickled with gooseflesh, and she hastened toward the cottage of Bronson and Sarah.
“We are baking pies for the celebration this evening!” Sarah exclaimed as Monet passed the threshold into the cottage. “All manner of pies…any we can concoct.”
Monet giggled at the expressions of pure loathing and humiliation blazoned on the faces of Carver and Dane.
No doubt they were in deep wishing they were not the youngest of the blacksmith’s sons, for then they could be out sparring or splitting wood—instead of baking pies with their mother.
“And it seems you are having a marvelous time of it,” Monet said.
“Indeed,” Sarah giggled. She bent then, placing a tender, motherly kiss on one cheek of each unhappy boy. “However, if you are willing, Prissy, perhaps you could help me for a time…and Carver and Dane could away to the forge to check on their father for me.”
Instantly the boys’ faces brightened.
“Truly, Mother?” Dane asked.
Sarah nodded. “Yes. Off with you both. I too am a bit weary of baking.”
Monet laughed as she watched the boys race from the cottage, as if the Reaper himself were at their heels.
“What a cruel mother you are, Sarah,” Monet began, still smiling, “forcing them into baking pies.”
“It is true,” Sarah said, embracing Monet in a warm greeting. “I have learned well the art of torture.” She brushed flour from her apron and asked, “And are you enjoying your birthday, Miss Prissy?”
Monet shrugged. “I did not know the outer villages celebrated my birthday. I thought only Karvana made such a commotion.”
“Oh, no!” Sarah exclaimed. “It is a reason for frolic…and we commoners love to frolic. It keeps our spirits high, particularly in the colder seasons when oft life does not hold as much natural cheerful merriment.” Monet watched as Sarah went to a small wall cupboard nearby and retrieved something from within.
“I have a gift for you,” she said.
“Oh, no,” Monet whispered, shaking her head. “Please do not tell me you—”
“It is only a small token, kitten,” Sarah said, offering a lovely linen kerchief to Monet.
Monet smiled, delighted by the lovely stitching upon it. Tiny scarlet flowers adorned one corner of the kerchief; a white vine of leaves trailed along its outer hems.
A Crimson Frost Page 23