A Crimson Frost (21 page)

Of a sudden, Sir Broderick stretched his arms, snapping the garlands that bound them and lifting Monet to bend over one broad shoulder.

“We bid you good night, friends,” Sir Broderick chuckled as he turned and carried Monet from the celebration of Grayson and Wilona’s fresh babe.

Once they were far from the center of the celebration, Monet said, “You may put me down on my own feet, Sir Broderick. I am well able to walk.”

“Ahh…but they yet watch us,” he said. “I will carry you to the cottage…and there you may find your feet.”

“I do not wish to be carried thus!” she exclaimed.

Monet gasped as Sir Broderick took hold of her legs, pulling her body from his shoulder to rest in the cradle of his arms. She could not stop her own arms from encircling his neck as he strode through the dark of the night toward the cottage they shared.

“I am sorry you were put to such grave humiliation,” he mumbled. “But they must believe we are in earnest in being wed.”

“What grave humiliation was mine?” she asked. Tears yet brimmed in her eyes, though she strove hard to contain them.

“The implication that you should bear a child of me,” he said. “You are a princess…and to be so offended as to endure the implication of bearing the child of a mere knight—”

“There would be no humiliation in bearing your child!” Monet interrupted. “Princess or not, I would bear your child willing and proud! I would find no shame in…” She ceased in her confession.

“You are the Princess of Karvana,” he said, his eyes smoldering with raw emotion as he glared at her. “If Karvana triumphs, one day you will sit on her throne as queen. The children you bear will be heirs to the kingdom.”

“And if my father falls…you will be Karvana’s king,” Monet whispered. “You would be father to her heirs.”

“Your father will not fall…nor will Karvana,” he mumbled.

“Then you have nothing to fear, Crimson Knight,” she said, struggling in his arms. “Karvana and her king will endure. Thus, soon you will be released from your charge and no longer shackled to me!” He let her feet fall to the ground and released her as she said, “Then you may kiss whomever you choose…instead of the silly princess you are ordered to protect.”

“But I am fond of kissing you, Prissy,” he said.

She looked up to him, astonished into silence.

“Thus we have traded confessions. I confess to being fond of kissing you…and you confess to owning no shame in bearing the children of a knight.”

He was not vexed with her. There was no anger in the sapphire of his eyes—only great fatigue.

Monet reached up, caressing his strong jaw.

“My father would honor you, Sir Broderick. If he knew the strength of hard labor and wise wit you employ in keeping me secreted, he would set you above all others in the world. And you are ever kind to me…though I know you are sore vexed to be so trapped.”

“I am fond of kissing you, Prissy,” he said as he opened the cottage door and bid her enter. Monet bit her lip—delighted by his confession—though she did doubt the full truth of it. “And you are not so terrified yourself, are you?”

Monet smiled as he bolted the door and removed his doublet and shirt in readying to retire.

He chuckled. “I shall never forget the look of pure dread on your pretty face at Ivan’s tournament…the moment before you would kiss me as the champion’s prize.”

Monet felt her cheeks warm with a blush as she watched Sir Broderick light the logs in the hearth. It was true! She had nearly fainted at the platform of Ivan’s tournament.

“The Crimson Knight,” she began, “not one to approach unwary.”

Broderick sat on the floor before the fire—stretched his long legs out before him, resting on one elbow as he considered her. Monet sat down as well, for the fire was already warming.

“I thought I would surely decease!” she confessed. “Imagine! To kiss the great Crimson Knight? To brave kissing him was frightening enough. Yet to kiss him before such a throng of people…terrifying!”

“You were quite pale,” Sir Broderick chuckled, unable to stifle a yawn, “as if you thought to kiss Lord Death himself.”

Monet giggled, delighted in his careless manner of repose. In truth, the bareness of his upper body was somewhat flustering. She wondered that he was not overly chilled. He was so very admirable to look upon—far more than well formed. His anatomy was profound, to say the very least of it. Still, though the sight of him so exceedingly disrobed was wholly unsettling, it likewise provoked a secret delight in Monet as ever it did.

Her gaze lingered a moment on the small pouch hanging from the leather strap around his neck. She had wondered at it before—wondered what small thing such a man would treasure so thoroughly that he would keep it with him always.

“And consider a moment my own feelings,” he said, startling her from her contemplation of his anatomy and leather ornament.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“To kiss the Princess of Karvana,” he answered. “To touch one held so profoundly forbidden to touch. Far greater men than I have been brought to death for less than a kiss forced upon one such as you.”

“You did not force a kiss upon me. I gave it,” she said, smiling at him.

“I accepted it. Rather, I took it,” he countered.

“And I was so relieved that you did,” she sighed, her heart fluttering at the memory. “For I thought sure you would refuse me…or in the very least think me a feeble fool.” She shook her head, “‘Kiss him well,’ Father told me,” she said, mimicking her father’s deep, commanding voice. “Kiss him well?” She laughed. “I asked Father if he thought I were cook’s red-haired maid, for I had no experience and…” She gasped in realizing she had only just confessed her tender rawness in the art of kissing.

“Cook’s red-haired maid,” Sir Broderick chuckled, however. “I have heard of this one. In truth, I have seen her.”

“Seen her? At the castle?” Monet asked, of a sudden overly curious as to where and why Sir Broderick had seen cook’s red-haired maid.

His smile broadened. “At the Emerald Crown. It is often she frequents the inn at late night…serving wine and ale.”

“She does?”

“She does. And you say she is known for kissing a man well?”

Monet frowned a little, the hot sting of jealousy rising in her bosom. “I have only heard such a thing. I have never witnessed it. H-have you? Have you witnessed her kissing a man? Or have you…that is to ask…do you know of your own experience that she kisses a man well?”

“Of certain I do not,” he said with another low laugh. His eyes narrowed—burned with a sort of devilish mischief as he said, “Though I
can
witness the Scarlet Princess may kiss a man well.”

Monet smiled—blushed in spite of her determination not to do so. “You only endeavor to soothe my tender pride.”

“Not in the least,” he said, “for you did kiss me well…though I admit to holding the second kiss you gave me as favored of the two. For you gave it freely…not because King Ivan commanded it.”

Again Monet blushed, feeling as if a swarm of yellow butterflies had taken flight in her stomach.

“Again you endeavor to soothe my pride,” she told him.

“No. It is well you kissed me,” he said.

“H-have many others kissed you well?” she asked. In truth, she did not want to hear of other women he had kissed. Yet she was driven to know—by some unseen device of self-torture.

“Not so well as you,” he said. The smile on his face was entirely that of allurement—the same some mystical creature of enchantment might employ to lure its prey. Monet was briefly too affected by him to respond. Her heart and body wished to believe him, yet her mind whispered that this was the Crimson Knight—a man known for his magnificent allure.

“Thus, you have only just offered to me proof of your wily ways,” she said.

“My wily ways?” he asked.

“It is said the Crimson Knight is able to infuse desire to the hearts of women…with merely his gaze,” she said. “You, my dear Sir Broderick, are gazing at me in such a manner as to…”

“Infuse desire to your heart?” he asked, his voice low—provocative in tone.

Monet blushed and felt breathless of a sudden. Still, she endeavored to appear calm.
 
“You, my pretty Crimson Knight…are a knave. A rogue of the worst sort,” she teased.

He sighed with feigned and false disappointment. “You have found me out then,” he said. “Thus, though I endeavored to lure you into once more kissing me well…I am bested by your cleverness.”

“Lure me into kissing you well?” Monet laughed. “If you want to be well kissed by me, Sir Crimson Knight…you have but to ask it.” She giggled, delighted by their friendly jesting. Their jesting had increased in their time spent in Ballain. Monet adored not only their moments of solitude in conversation but also their teasing and jest.

One dark eyebrow arched as Sir Broderick asked, “Do you offer challenge to me, Princess?”

Monet smiled, her soul of a sudden far too playful in nature—her mouth far too moist with wanting to kiss him.

“I offer you the chance to prove you are neither liar nor rogue,” she said. “If I truly
 
kissed you well at Ivan’s tournament so long ago…then you would desire that I should—”

“Kiss me now then,” he challenged. “And I will prove I am not a liar…though there may linger in me the slight soul of a rogue.”

“Do you think I am yet too fearful of the Crimson Knight to kiss you, Sir Broderick?” she asked—though in truth her limbs had begun to tremble.

“But I am only Broderick…the humble horseman of Ballain,” he said. Again his voice was low—alluring—near bewitching in its intoxicating effect. “Then kiss me…for you said I had only to ask.”

“Very well,” Monet whispered. Her heart pounded with such wild madness she thought sure Sir Broderick’s own ears could hear it. Yet so wanton was she of his kiss of a sudden, she cared not for propriety—cared not that she would never truly own his heart. Thus, leaning forward—heart mad-pounding—she kissed his lips ever so lightly. The simple sense of his lips to hers caused such a quiver of delight to rush through her body, she thought she might be rendered to fainting.

“Oh, but kiss me
well
, Princess,” he mumbled, his eyes smoldering with mischief and bewitching allurement. “Kiss me well…and such a kiss I will mingle with your mouth as to keep you bliss-bound for all the hours of the night.”

Monet gasped at the gooseflesh rushing over her limbs at the implications of his speech. It was then she realized—if the Crimson Knight’s gaze did not infuse the hearts of women with desire, then the words spoken from his alluring mouth most definite would—for she could raise no resistance to his command and promise!

As moisture flooded her mouth, Monet leaned forward, pressing her lips to Sir Broderick’s in another yet tentative kiss. Near at once he firmed the press, one hand sliding to the back of her neck. She trembled as his lips persuaded her own to parting. Dizzied by the wild waves of emotion and desire his touch and kiss were weaving about her, Monet pressed one palm to his stomach to steady herself. His flesh was warm beneath her palm; soft-skinned he was, yet solid as stone. Her touch somehow caused that the nature of his kiss should ripen of a sudden, and he pulled her into his arms—against the bareness of his body—as his mouth then drew hers into such kissing as she had never dreamt. Warm, demanding, and thorough was his kiss, and yet she sensed there was more—something in him held reserved. His mouth left her own, trailing kisses over her cheeks to alight on her neck.

“Broderick! I say, Broderick! Man? Are you there?”

Bronson’s deep booming voice and violent pounding on the cottage door so startled Monet as to cause her heart to leap in her bosom. Sir Broderick growled as the seal of their lips was broken by the sudden intrusion. He released Monet and clambered to his feet.

Striding through the room, the Crimson Knight opened the door.

“Wolves have attacked the miller’s horses,” Bronson said. “It is sure some cannot be saved. Yet will you come…try to do what you can?”

“Of course,” Broderick said.

“Were only horses attacked?” Monet asked as Sir Broderick snatched up the linen shirt he had cast aside a short time before.

“Only horses,” Bronson said. “It seems we did not hear them for the merriment of the celebration.”

“Draw the bolt until my return,” Sir Broderick said. Monet nodded, watching him disappear into the darkness without the cottage.

Drawing the bolt, she sighed. “Wolves,” she grumbled. She felt compassion for the Miller Aldrich, for she knew the loss of horses could be to his great detriment. Still, the moments before Bronson had pounded upon the door had been the most blissful of her life!

Monet sat before the fire. The sense of his strong arms about her still warmed her—as did the sense and taste of his kiss. She closed her eyes, remembering the champion’s prize at Ivan’s tournament—the kiss she offered the Crimson Knight in his pavilion—the furious sealing kiss forced in her bower—the lighthearted kiss in the village a short time before. Yet the cottage kiss—the kiss Sir Broderick had asked of her there before the fire—the kiss he had given and taken—surely nothing could meet the resplendent pleasure the cottage kiss had begat. Nothing!