A Knight Most Wicked

Now he found himself playing courtier to her when what he really wanted was far less chaste.

“I should not stay.” Her eyes told him a far different story, however. And her feet—remaining firmly planted on the dark earth of a rocky hillside—were even more telling.

He would not take advantage of her. But he could linger with her.

“We will stay but a moment. Would it not be useful for you to learn the steps of our dances out here, where there are no witnesses but the trees? The great halls of the English king’s keeps might be less forgiving.”

She bit her lip and his mouth watered. He knew he played unfairly with her. And yet it was she who had left the safety of the countess’s hall. She who had put herself in this most vulnerable position.

“Do I have to wear my slippers?”

Tristan laughed, drawn to her untamed spirit. They would be well matched in so many ways that he ached at the thought.

“Nay. You do not need your slippers.” He drew her a step closer, trailing his thumb over the back of her hand to savor the delicate skin. “Allow me.”

Sweeping Arabella off her feet and into his arms, he strode to edge of the clearing. She started to protest until she seemed to realize his intent. Gently, he sat her down on a large, flat rock and knelt to remove her shoes.

“I do not blame you for wanting to be rid of these shoes your princess has all of you wearing.” Forcing himself to keep his touch gentle, he skimmed his hands over one ankle in the space between her hem and her shoe. It was only a thumbnail’s width of her that he stroked, but the knowledge of how easily he could take more was enough to make the touch sweetly passionate.

“I—” Arabella’s breath caught in her throat as he trailed a finger down the arch of her foot. “The curled toes are a bit awkward for me.”

Tristan removed her other shoe quickly before he scared her out of the clearing. He would carry this only so far—at least for tonight.

“The ground is smooth here.” He offered his arm and guided her a few steps away toward a patch of open ground. “Do not stray from me, lest you step on a root or fallen branch.”

Not that he would release her long enough for her to go that far.

He explained the pattern of the dance—the step together, step kick alternating—and then moved her briefly around the clearing to demonstrate. When they were ready to begin, Arabella faltered for a moment.

“What?”

“What if I miss a step?” She peered down at their feet, his heavy and booted, hers small and bare. “You will surely break my foot.”

“You will be safe as my partner.” Tristan squeezed her hand, reminded anew of her innocence despite her earthy appeal.

“Shall I sing the minstrels’ tune to guide us?” Her green eyes were dimmed under the dark sky, the stars reflected in her gaze.

“You have such a gift for song?” He could not even recall the music, let alone repeat it, yet a tune hummed from between her lips, light and sweet.

Gently, he steered her forward to begin their steps, the song wrapping them in the moment. She followed him easily, although her focus remained directed at her feet for the first few passes as they wove their way around the clearing. When at last she looked up at him, a smile lit her face.

The knowledge of her joy damn near robbed him of his breath. Her happiness made him regret his duty to inform his sovereign of the rumors about her. Indeed, in that moment, he found them difficult to believe himself.

Moments passed before he realized her song had faded along with their steps. They stood frozen in the moonlight, their breathing evenly matched.

“Thank you.” Her simple gratitude humbled him at a time when his thoughts already strayed to a future date when she would resent him for revealing her past. Her family.

By all that was holy, he already resented his position himself.

“It was my pleasure.” He bowed over her hand, recovering his wits. “Shall I deliver you back to the keep?”

“Only if you promise to safeguard our encounter as a secret. I would not have my princess think that I am as wayward a lady as you once believed.” Arabella’s scent drifted on the cool breeze, her gown and her hair bearing a hint of spring flowers despite the lateness of the year.

“If I protect your secret, you must agree to keep mine.” He would be damned for taking advantage of her. He knew it, and yet he could not stop himself.

“I know nothing of you to remain quiet about.” She shivered from the chill in the air, or perhaps from her body’s awareness of his.

He hadn’t missed her response to his nearness as they danced, as her gown was a tighter fitting affair than the costumes customary for English noblewomen. Heat suffused his limbs, calling him to advance upon her and show her exactly why her cheeks burned and her soft breasts tightened whenever he touched her.

“You must never tell anyone about this….”

Lowering his mouth to hers, he brushed a kiss across her lips. She made a small sound in the back of her throat—whether it was a squeak of surprise or protest, he did not know. But he did not lock her against his body and she could easily back away.

She did not. Her cry faded into a sigh of pleasure before she relaxed against him. She parted her lips and only then did he pull her into him, wrapping one arm around her waist and lifting her off the ground to stand atop his boots. He gathered the dark masses of hair flowing down in his other hand and gently tilted her head back. Arabella followed the subtle demand, arching her back to offer him a better taste. The effect of her breasts flattened against his chest stole his last intelligent thought and steeled every inch of his flesh.

He ran his tongue along her lower lip before allowing himself the sweet reward of her mouth. He let go of her hair and stroked the length of the silken tresses, feeling the curve of her spine right through the soft locks. When his hands reached her rounded hip, Tristan summoned every scrap of restraint to resist a more carnal touch. Instead, he reached up to touch her face, his fingers none too steady from the force of blood pounding his veins.

He half waited for her to push him away, to find some sense of maidenly outrage. But instead she wound her arms about his neck and held tight, forsaking all control of the situation. Raw lust swamped him, testing his honor and his will, until a noise sounded in the forest very close to them.

A light, animal snuffle.

Tristan stilled, gripping Arabella’s arms tightly as he shot her a warning look. Only when he was certain she understood did he turn to peer into the surrounding woods.

Responding to the slightest movement to their left, Tristan charged into the forest only a few feet behind a dark figure. He knew he would quickly overtake the person who lumbered awkwardly through the night, but just before Tristan laid his hands on the spy, the fleeing man reached a scrawny horse. The lout leaped onto the mount and urged the nag as fast as it would take him.

Devil take the rutting hound.

“Tristan?” Arabella called from much too near and he realized she had quietly followed him through the trees. He had to admire her speed and soundlessness, though her feet would no doubt protest the trek.

Tristan swore a mild oath as he trudged back to where she stood.

“You’re going to need to be very careful, Arabella. I don’t know who would be watching us secretly, but I have to believe whoever it was could be following the princess’s retinue.”

“Of course.” She swept her hair behind her ear, her silver circlet askew. “I will return to the keep with all haste.”

“Not without an escort.” Tristan halted her quick retreat with a restraining hand. “There will be no more late-night escapes from the rest of your party or secluded searches for herbs unless you are with me. Do you understand?”

Her curt nod told him that he had wounded her feelings, yet he could not temper his warning when her safety depended on it. He had been idle-witted to allow himself to touch her, to allow himself to forget for a moment his purpose in escorting the princess’s women. The mission that had started out as a courtier’s errand had turned into a critical duty with high stakes.

No wild and reckless beauty would tempt him away from it, no matter how sweetly she danced for him in the moonlight.

Rosalyn hid herself behind the small wardrobe when she heard the door to Tristan’s chamber open. She tensed with anticipation as she heard him step into the room and close the door behind him. Too bad she had to resort to such drastic measures, but Tristan had disappeared after their dance. Afraid he had gone to find the Gypsy Rowan woman, Rosalyn decided she would waste no more time. She needed to lie with him tonight.

It was fortunate that the captain of the English guard had been given his own chamber in the castle, rather than sharing quarters with the other knights. Tristan’s quarters gave Rosalyn the opportunity to see him in private and to consummate their relationship before her condition developed more noticeably. With the help of a few restraining garments, her waist remained tiny. The only hint of her upcoming babe was the new weight in her breasts that enhanced her figure. She smiled in the darkened room, knowing that she had already won this battle.

Surprised Tristan had not already lit a candle and discovered her, Rosalyn wasn’t sure how to proceed. Should she wait for him to spy her in the moonlit room, or should she announce her presence? He might not notice her at all and she could slide into bed beside him after he lay down. She decided to do just that if he did not notice her on his own, and watched in breathless anticipation as he removed his houppelande and the tunic underneath.

Rosalyn ran her tongue around her lips as her mouth went dry. The man was magnificent. His broad chest boasted great strength. The muscles that his tunic had hinted at were now clearly revealed to her hungry eyes. Sitting on the bed, Tristan removed his boots and let them fall to the floor. He was about to remove his breeches when she stepped out from the shadows in her scarlet gown, one sleeve already slipping purposefully down her shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” His stillness was not the response she had expected.

Taking a deep breath, she called upon devices her mother had taught her long before Rosalyn turned away from her father’s fallen whore to claim the nobleman’s protection. Rosalyn arched her shoulders enough to press her breasts more fully against the seams of her surcoat.

“Are we back to being strangers, Tristan?” She draped herself across him. “I thought we were better friends than that,” she purred into his ear.

“Mayhap we could have been. But I fear you are sweetly attired trouble.”

He had spoken softly, but his words cut her almost as much as his obvious imperviousness to her offer.

She slid from the bed and stared him down.

“What are you insinuating?” Rosalyn’s mind raced, wondering how he could have guessed her plan.

“I mean no insult. But I fear ’tis not me you really want. Are you using me to hurt someone else? Another lover, mayhap?”

She spun away from him as though in the throes of emotion, although she needed solely to conceal her surprise. He missed the mark on her intentions, but—truth be told—not by all that much.

“No. I have no other lover, although mayhap at first I spoke to you to take my mind off of a cruel man who misled me.” Sniffling, she turned back to face him and thought his stance appeared slightly softened.

“He was a fool,” the English knight assured her, his taut muscles bronzed by the golden glow from the hearth.

“A man of noble standing in Bohemia led me to think he wanted to marry me and I foolishly let him pay court to me at our home.” Heaven knows, her father hadn’t helped her obtain the match. De Clair thought he’d given her all she deserved when he’d opened his home to her six years ago and had graced her with his name.

“The matter of marriage is often fixed long in advance. Perhaps your father had hopes that you would ally yourself with another.”

Someone well beneath her, no doubt. But Rosalyn would not be sold off so cheaply.

“I cannot say, because I forgot all about the Bohemian nobleman and my father’s wishes when I saw you.” She reached out to touch him and smoothed her fingers across his chest—a most pleasurable diversion. Something stirred inside her and it was not her fledgling bairn.

Trusting her womanly senses, she trailed her hand down his bare stomach to the waist of his breeches and beyond. Only then did he reach out to restrain her, holding her hand in midair.

“You are a beautiful woman, Rosalyn.” The hoarseness in the knight’s voice made her hopeful. “But I am without lands and a title. Your parents would not approve of me.”

“But you are well respected by your king. Your undertaking here proves that. King Richard will reward you when you bring him his bride.” And by the saints, she had affected him. She could see it in the impressive rise of his garments.

“The English king rewards knights who win battles, not knights who guard royalty. I am afraid I will receive no such reward, no matter how valuable the princess is to my sovereign.”

Something in his answer did not settle well upon her ears. She had told enough lies in her time to recognize one when she heard it. Tristan was obviously a strong warrior. Anger swelled in her belly where desire had been. With an effort, she forced a few tears from her eyes, desperate to make her ploy work.

“I am rejected again, no matter how prettily you spoke to me at dinner.” With a broken cry, she lunged for the chamber door, hoping he would stop her. She even paused on the threshold.

“Good night, my lady.” His feet remained firmly planted until Rosalyn had no choice but to leave. She would try another approach tomorrow, or perhaps she would shift her attentions to Tristan’s second in command.

Departing the chamber and closing the door softly behind her, Rosalyn heard a startled gasp in the hall. She turned around to see a wide-eyed Mary drop her eyes quickly to the floor. Of all the blessed, wonderful good fortune.

Hiding a smile, Rosalyn feigned embarrassment as she straightened her drooping gown and wiped false tears from her eyes.

“Oh please, Lady Mary,” she begged. “Do not tell anyone.”

Chapter Six

Arabella stretched contentedly in her bed beneath the sun’s warm rays. She must have slept late for the sun to be so high. She was loath to wake because her dreams were so inviting. So hopelessly inappropriate for a woman who did not wish to draw attention to herself.

Throwing off the covers, she walked to her chamber door and peered out into the corridor, just in time to see Tryant Hilda bustling toward her.

“Well, look who we have here. If it isn’t the sleeping beauty. I was beginning to think we’d have to call in a prince to wake you, Arabella.” Hilda pushed her way into Arabella’s chamber after calling for a maid to help her dress. “I hope you don’t mind I didn’t wake you for the hunt—”

“Hunt?”

“I could not imagine you wanting to shoot down a wild boar, so I let you sleep on.”

Arabella could not envision herself shooting a wild boar either, but she knew the party would be hunting on horseback, and she would very much have liked the chance to sit her own horse.

“Did Mary go?” Arabella asked, thinking her gentle friend would not want to participate in the bloody sport.

“Yes, my lady. But I think it was more for the arm of the knight who asked than for the sport itself.” Hilda winked.

“A knight?” Memories of her moonlight dance rushed over her, filling her with a warmth she knew she should not feel. Her mother had warned her all her life, yet Arabella had foolishly made herself vulnerable to Tristan’s touch.

His kiss…saints preserve her, she did not know how she would ever put those heated moments out of her mind.

“The English guard’s second in command. Sir Simon Percival, I believe.”

Arabella nodded, although she only had one knight on her mind this morning.

“Did anyone else stay behind?”

“Hmm…I think several women did not go. And the English captain stayed behind. Of course, very few of the servants were needed.”

Tristan had not gone. Arabella wondered if he would have ridden if she had.

“May I go down now, Hilda?” Arabella asked. “I am frightfully hungry now that it is so late.”

Obtaining the lady’s approval, Arabella excused herself to steal a muffin from the sideboard in the great hall, but she did not bother to sit down to break her fast. She wished to wander about the grounds, although she would stay close to the keep since Tristan had warned her away from solitary walks.

Besides, who would wish to steal her from the countess’s home? Arabella might possess a noble connection, but she did not have any great wealth. Mary might have to be more careful as the emperor’s ward, but Arabella Rowan did not fear for her own safety, especially not in the comfort of woodland terrain where she knew how to keep herself safe.

Outside the keep, she could almost forget she was halfway across Europe from her Bohemian home. The forest surrounding Countess von Richt’s home was beautiful. More lush than the woodlands Arabella had known, the forest seemed alive even in the middle of December. The sun’s warm rays felt more like those of early autumn, and the dense trees beckoned. The smell of the woods and dry leaves soothed her. Arabella realized how much she missed the quiet solitude of a forest after the endless days in a carriage full of other women.

She had wandered into the trees when she remembered her muffin. Taking a bite of the still-warm pastry, she hastened ahead, enjoying the crunching of the leaves under her feet. But as she listened, that sound mingled with another, more threatening noise.

Hoofbeats.

Someone approached at a breakneck pace. Turning to see the rider, she discovered Tristan Carlisle astride his fearsome beast of a horse. Her muffin dried in her mouth at the sight. He did not look pleased.

“What in the name of all that is holy are you doing out here?” He halted a mere foot in front of her.

“Gathering the herbs I dropped yesterday, when you scared me out of my wits.” She dusted the crumbs off her hands and peered about the clearing.

“Do you not remember my command that you leave the keep only with an escort?”

“I can see the towers from here.” She pointed to the roofline, where the countess’s men-at-arms guarded the walls and could surely see her. “I purposely remain close to the keep.”

“And you expect those men to protect you?” He slid from the back of his horse and stood a hand’s span from her. “What makes you think one of them would not spy you alone out here and decide your foolishness makes you fair game for their sport?”

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