Heart Of A Knight Read online

  "How you do tease, Lord Thomas," Lyssa said, ducking her head to the cat to hide her blush.

  "I do," he agreed amiably. Then suddenly, "Have you leave to go abroad today?"

  Lyssa lifted a brow. "I am the lady of the castle, sir. I have leave when I wish it."

  He chuckled. "Then come with me to swim. I am so weary of this heat, and remembered your swimming place."

  "Swim?" Lyssa felt a fluttering pulse alight in her wrists. "Is this another trick to steal a kiss?"

  That lazy knowledge filled his face, transforming it. "I think I would not have to steal kisses. You could be persuaded to give them freely."

  Lyssa scowled at him. "You are too sure of yourself, sir, and inconstant as a moth, fluttering here and there."

  He had the grace to bow his head. "I had no wish to force my attentions upon you, my lady."

  Lyssa sighed. "And they say women are a puzzle."

  "Did you miss my kisses, then?" He lifted his head, a smile hovering on that fine mouth. "You need but say the word."

  "I coped well enough," she said, rolling her eyes.

  "What say you? Will you come with me to swim?"

  Lyssa narrowed her eyes. Was he offering her the dalliance of an afternoon? If she went to swim with him, would they make love there in the forest, beneath those spreading boughs? "What is your aim in this, Thomas? Do you plan a seduction?"

  He glanced away. "Nay." He raised his head, his mouth sober. "Well do I see the divide between us. You are an honorable lady, and I am more honorable than I would like." He cocked his head. "But I do mourn your company when I do not have it, and swimming gave you joy. I cannot stay much longer if I am to find freemen to take back to Roxburgh before the snows come. I would spend what time I have with you."

  A warmth went through her at his frank words, a warmth as gilded and delicious as melted butter, and she found herself responding in kind. "Twill grieve me when you leave us, Thomas. And well would I enjoy a swim this hot day."

  He smiled. "Let's settle these poor little cats, then, and go."

  * * *

  Thomas had meant his words of intent. After the night when his need of her had broken through his careful holds, he'd vowed he would keep his desire to himself.

  But as he walked with her through the cool of the forest, he knew he'd lied to himself. She had burned in his blood these many weeks until he could not sleep or take a breath without wishing for her. He watched her moving through the halls and imagined what taste her breasts would have. He admired her light step as she danced with some clumsy oaf of a guard and wondered how his hands would fit her hips. He dreamed of spreading her hair over his body like a glazing of silk, and of giving her pleasure she'd never imagined.

  So he'd lied to himself and to her and said his intentions were honorable, so she would come with him where there were no eyes to see their passion, so there would be no mark on her name. He'd brought her out to these silent woods where he might kiss her endlessly, and as he'd said, he'd known he would not steal those kisses—they would be freely given. As would all else she gave, and all she allowed to be given her.

  For he had seen he had to leave Woodell. He did need to return to Roxburgh before winter came, and well would he like to have a handful of freemen to go with him. Finding them would take time.

  Beyond that need to return to his own village, his life was becoming too entangled with those in the castle. The fabric of his soul was being woven daily more thoroughly into Woodell, until he ached to think of leaving, as if the exile would tear his heart from him. Best to leave now, while he could. For if he stayed, he risked death. 'Twas only a matter of time till some stray traveler remembered him, and gave him away.

  But just now, walking with Lyssa alone in a dappled forest, he could not find it in him to care that he would be hanged when he was discovered. She wore little below her thin tunic, and with a lazy pleasure, he watched her breasts move with her steps. For once, he let his mind give forth the full throated visions he'd tried to halt: he imagined his mouth suckling those points, imagined his hands sliding over her slim waist. Imagined himself buried between her thighs.

  They spoke little as they walked, and the silence seemed to underscore the growing awareness he had of her. His only thoughts were of touching her, of kissing her, of forgetting all the world beyond.

  And at last, in a place thick with trees, where one would have to know where to look to see them, he stopped. An ancient oak stretched long arms over a leaf-cushioned expanse of ground, making a sweet and comfortable bed. "Lyssa," he said quietly.

  She halted innocently, her green eyes mildly curious as she looked up to him. Awareness flashed over her face suddenly, and she stepped back, raising a hand against him, against what she knew was coming. Desire and fear warred on that smooth brow, that odd mix of hunger and wariness that seemed always to trouble her. "Thomas… you said…"

  "Aye," he said regretfully. "I lied."

  She let her hand drop, disappointment marking her mouth, making the full curves go hard. "Then you have no honor, sir, and are not worthy of my kiss."

  He took a step forward. "I have never claimed to be worthy, my lady." He reached out quickly and snagged her wrist. "Only mad with desire."

  She backed away, and Thomas held her wrist loosely, following until she trapped herself against the tree trunk. "Thomas, do not! I will hate you."

  He shook his head. "Nay, you will not hate me." He stepped closer, until their thighs brushed very lightly, and put his hand under her chin. "Tell me that you do not think of my hands on you, Lyssa." Her wide green eyes darkened a notch, and he took one of her hands and put it against his chest. "Tell me you do not think of touching me, feeling me. Tell me and I will stop now."

  Like a wild creature caught in a hunter's snare, she only stared at him, stricken. Slowly, he let his fingers slide down her throat, to the square of her bodice, where he traced the upper curve of her white breasts. "Your skin is smooth as cream, Lyssa. It feels the way I imagined, only much finer."

  She closed her eyes, and he saw her control was close to snapping. Her breath caught in her throat as his hand trailed down, brushing the tip of her breast.

  "All I've thought of these long weeks is the feel of you. All I can think of is how your mouth fits mine. Do you not wish it, my lady?" He stroked her shoulder, ran his fingers down her arm, and twisted a lock of her hair round his fingers. His blood burned in him, pounding, driving out all but Lyssa and the yearning he had conceived for her.

  And still she only stood there, her eyes closed as if to block out the sight of him. Her nipples were aroused, and her nostrils flared, and her breath came too quickly. Even the brush of his fingers down her arm made her shudder. But she did not speak.

  He hesitated, for he truly had no wish to hurt her. Her lashes, black against her pale cheeks, made her look as vulnerable as a child, and with a curse at his own weakness, he let her go. "Ah, I have no heart for it."

  He turned away, trying to breathe in gulps of clean air to chase away the scent of her flesh. His arms hung loosely at his sides, and he tipped back his head, praying for strength.

  "Thomas." Her sweet voice on his name, softly coaxing, sent a fierce heat through him, but still he waited without turning so she could say what she might. Her fingers, sliding around his hand, surprised him, and he looked down at her.

  She looked at him for a long moment, both of her hands laced around his, then she slowly lifted his hand and put it over her breast. "Please, Thomas," she whispered. "Make love to me, so I will have that one memory of you when you must go."

  He cupped his hand around her soft breast, and bent to kiss her, feeling her arms fly around his neck. Joy burst in his veins. "How I've ached for you," he breathed against her mouth. "Every day." He drank of her lips. "Every hour."

  And she, too, was inflamed, kissing his chin, his lips, his neck. "Oh, Thomas, I should not say it, but I have burned for you. Ached for you." Her hands slid over his chest, on his arm
s, into his hair. "I thought I could not feel this."

  With a glad cry, he captured her waist and hauled her against him, lifting her close as they kissed wildly and without grace, only long-denied hunger. When even that was not close enough, he swept her into his arms to kiss her deeply. Her hands moved on his face, on his neck, on his chest, and he knelt, then sat, then fell over her, stretching her out on the carpet of thick leaves so he might touch her.

  And only then did he pause, lifting his head to look at her in wonder, smoothing a wisp of dark hair from her smooth white face. "You're so beautiful, Lyssa," he said softly, drawing his fingers lightly over her breast. "You cannot know how I've ached for you." He found the tightly budded nipple below her gown and dragged his nails over it. "How I've ached to do this." He bent his head to the beaded tip and put his mouth over the place, sucking it into his mouth through the cloth, and felt her arch against him, a soft gasp of surprise coming from her throat. He lifted his head briefly and then suckled again, harder, and longer, and she writhed in his embrace, her hands going to his head to pull him against her.

  Drunk on the headiness of holding her at last, Thomas was more than willing to please her. He gave her what she wordlessly asked, kissing her throat, plying her breasts with his tongue and fingers until she was panting softly, then he skimmed up her skirts, running his hands over the backs of her quivering thighs.

  He felt her mindlessly pulling at his clothes, as if she could not wait to touch his flesh, and he halted for a moment to help her, unlacing his tunic while he kissed her. She eagerly slipped her hands below the cloth, palms against his chest, but the opening thwarted her again, and Thomas halted in kissing her long enough to pull the tunic over his head, and cast it away. Then he turned back to reach for her.

  At her expression, he hesitated. Her eyes, smoky with arousal, widened as they traveled the length of him, and her lips parted softly. "Oh, God," she whispered.

  "Ah me," he said, and reached for the discarded tunic. "Did I frighten you? I did not—"

  Her startled laugh halted him. "Oh," she breathed, "I am not frightened. I only want to look at you."

  He smiled wickedly. "Only look?"

  She had risen to a sitting position, and as if she'd been presented with some wondrous new gift, she examined him, her hands running over his chest, and through the mat of hair there, over his shoulders and the rounds of his arms. She raised her eyes. "I did not know men could be so beautifully made," she said. "You are so beautiful, Thomas." She put her hands on either side of his face and kissed him, her eyes open.

  A wild bolt of yearning and lust and need went through him. He grabbed her close, into his lap, kissing her as he grasped the hem of her gown and slid it upward, putting his hands against the flesh of her hips and back as he moved.

  A sudden cracking noise broke behind them, and Thomas froze, pulling her gown back into place, shoving her away inelegantly as he reached for his tunic. He tugged it over his head and sprang to his feet, armed with naught but his hands as three men came into the grove.

  He spared a glance toward Lyssa. "Run," he growled, and then could spare no more time for her.

  In an instant, he absorbed a dozen details. The leader was tall, and burly in the way of a working man, his hair red and ragged on his shoulders, a wispy beard hanging dirty from his chin. He wore a scabbard of some finery about his waist, and the sword was held with balance in a meaty fist. The man to his right was bony, small, and dark, but his snaggle-toothed expression lingered on Lyssa with an unholy delight, and Thomas marked him well. He'd fight hard for a taste of a lady.

  The third man was wiry and squat, with a low forehead of some stupidity. Thomas saw no weapon on him.

  His own dagger lay useless in the leaves and he had not time to retrieve it.

  "Ain't this a sweet scene, boys?" The first man made an obscene kissing sound. "Think our friend here could be convinced to share? I'd like me a taste."

  Thomas did not wait for more. With a roar, he sprung for the leader, using his size and surprise as his weapons. The stunned redhead gave an outraged cry as he fell, and Thomas slammed the sword arm hard against a rock, then left the man and flung the sword into the trees before turning to brace for the next onslaught.

  It was Snaggletooth who came at him from one side, then the little one from the other. Thomas sprung as lightly as a cat, slamming his fist into the ribs of the small one with his right hand, then feinted with his left and kicked hard at the groin of the other, bringing him to his knees. He dropped the dagger and Thomas snagged it, slamming his elbow with brute force against the bandit's jaw. From the corner of his eye, he saw Red lumbering to his feet, and Thomas slashed toward the smaller one with his dagger, catching the man across the jaw. But like an enraged bull, the little man lowered his head and charged, red fury making him heedless of danger.

  Thomas braced himself, hunkering to take the butt with his shoulder, but he misjudged and the man ploughed into his chest, and slammed him backward into a tree with such force his teeth slammed together and the wind left him in a whoosh, leaving him gasping.

  For a blind minute, Thomas could not catch his breath, and managed only to hold off half the rain of blows from the wild little man with fists like rocks. They landed against his face and his ribs and once in his eye with a shattering pain before Thomas rallied. He caught the man's head in his hands and twisted, breaking his neck as cleanly as a hen's.

  Which left only Red, who smiled nastily. "Come, my little bird. They fell like flies, but I'm a man, and I'll fight for that prize."

  Thomas circled warily. Man-to-man, no weapons, for all had been scattered, he measured his opponent. Thomas was taller and broader, but Red outweighed him, and there was about him an air of cocky survival and singular lack of fear at facing a giant that made Thomas know he faced the battle of his life.

  And like the small man, Red took the initiative, barreling forward with a speed and force that belied his size. This time, Thomas met it squarely, gritting his teeth to absorb the force, finding a grip on the blubbery body. They rolled and pounded, and staggered to their feet, and fought some more, until Thomas staggered with exhaustion. Only his dread at Lyssa's fate should he fail kept him on his feet.

  At last, Red threw a wild punch and staggered, tripping over a branch. Thomas leapt upon him and with the same brute force he'd used before, he broke Red's neck with a barbarian roar.

  * * *

  For long moments after the men burst upon them in the grove, Lyssa stood frozen in shock and terror, torn between fleeing in hopes of eluding the bandits, or staying to be of some help to Thomas if he needed her.

  But when Thomas seized the sword, she let go a breath, knowing that a man so powerfully strong, armed with a broadsword, could slay these three rough bandits with no more effort than swatting a trio of flies. And he had tossed it away.

  Thrown it.

  Away, out of reach.

  Stunned, Lyssa stood where she was, her arms hanging loose at her sides. With bewilderment, she watched him dispense the men, batting the first aside with barely a breath, taking longer with the second, struggling with the fierceness of the small bandit, taking blows he need not have suffered.

  She covered her mouth to stifle her cries when she saw his blood drawn. When the big redheaded man finally clambered to his feet to fight Thomas to the death, she found her wits and bolted. With only his hands, even Thomas might fail, and she would not pay the price of his folly.

  She ran until her lungs near burst, stumbling and tripping, her hair and gown torn by the branches and brambles, her feet ripped to ribbons, for somewhere her slippers had come off and her soles were unused to such rough treatment.

  Blindly, she ran, knowing what fate awaited her if the filthy creature bested Thomas: a slow and torturous death, and much suffering before the breath left her. She had no weapon but her fleetness.

  A gnarled branch, reaching bony fingers through the dry earth, snagged her at last, and Lyssa sprawled, f
ace first, to the ground. The blow scraped her hands and knocked the wind from her, and she lay there for a moment, trying to collect herself enough to move again.

  Her hands trembled violently. Nay, not only her hands. Her whole body trembled with fear and the hard run and the punishing fall, and she did not think she could find the steadiness to stand.

  Instead, she slumped against the tree, covering her face with her raw palms, and tried to push away that vision:

  —he lifted the broadsword with two giant hands, as if to bring it down in wrath upon the heads of the brigands, but flung it, flung it away, so it went sailing, end over end, into the forest, so heavy Lyssa heard it land with a cracking of branches and a thud—

  Flung it away.

  "Lyssa!" The voice, booming and dark, came from Thomas, and even with her fear and sorrow and the trembling reaction, Lyssa found herself bolting to her feet, a glad cry on her lips. He was not dead!

  Then she pressed her lips together to hold back the greeting, knowledge rushing through her at a gallop, showing her all she did not wish to know, fitting all the odd bits together.

  "Lyssa!" More intent now, worried.

  "Here," she called.

  And now she heard him running, as she had run, his feet making more sound as he crashed through, as if a huge stag were coming. He came into sight, his face bloody, his hair tangled with leaves and branches, his tunic unbelted and loose.

  In his hand, he carried the sword and scabbard.

  Looking at him, Lyssa knew two things.

  This day had changed everything between them, everything in her life. All she had known to be true and real until this moment narrowed to nothing at the sight of Thomas alive and whole but for bruises that would heal. He'd opened all the long-shuttered rooms of her soul, and poured his bright light through them.

  And he had as black a heart as any man who'd ever walked the earth. When she gazed at him, knowledge in her breast, she was proud that the tears in her eyes did not fall and shame her.