A Crimson Frost (25 page)

Bronson’s eyes narrowed; an approving smile spread across his face. “And this is why Dacian has charged
you
with preserving the kingdom, Broderick…because you are a man above men…a man of true and infinite honor.”

“I am that…or a fool,” Broderick said.

Bronson chuckled. “Well, lad, take heart, for in all of it…you are pretty at least!”

“I can see I should hold my tongue with you…in some regard at least,” Broderick chuckled.

“Let us strike hands once more, Sir Broderick Dougray,” Bronson said. He held forth a strong hand, and Broderick accepted. “Brothers in knighthood are we, Crimson Knight. I can be trusted, with your life and that of the Princess Monet. In this, you believe…do you not?”

“I do,” Broderick said.

Bronson nodded. “Good.”

Broderick would not press Bronson to reveal more. He was an Exemplar, cast out by King Seward, one who had forged not only swords but a life as Bronson the blacksmith. In knowing it had been full seventeen years since the Knights Exemplar had been banished, he knew Bronson must ever remain the blacksmith of Ballain.

Warming

Monet was thankful in owning Bronson as ally. Not only did the knowledge of his loyalty and strength lend comfort to her, it seemed to encourage Broderick. In some manner she did not fully understand, Broderick now knew assistance in bearing his burden of protecting her, and she could see it offered a tiny respite to his mind. Monet’s pretty Crimson Knight still labored fierce. Yet it was often Broderick and Bronson would retire to the woods just behind the cottage and spar with swords or maces. Monet knew Bronson’s friendship and knighthood fed Broderick’s hunger to remain battle-ready—assured him that his strength and power had not been lost for having to live common and confined in their exile.

Further, Monet was glad of Sarah’s knowledge of their secret, for it offered her friendship and strength as well. Sarah spoke to her as ever she had before—as if Monet truly were just the wife of Ballain’s horseman and not the princess of the kingdom. This gave Monet respite. As Broderick found strength in the company of a fellow knight, so Monet found strength in a true friend. Certainly, Sarah was older than Monet—near the age her own mother would have been had she lived. Still, this was trivial, for both women owned youthful hearts—hearts that were kindred in spirit.

“There is a rather large cropping of holly…not so far from the village,” Sarah said. “It is ever I gather it to adorn the hearth—not just at Christmas, but through the winter full. It is so bright and cheerful in its green and red berries. We will go together and gather some in a few weeks’ time.”

Monet smiled as Sarah stitched. “Your stitches are so dainty, Sarah…so very perfect,” Monet said. And it was true. She had seen no finer embellishment on linen, not even in the castle.

“Thank you, Prissy,” Sarah said. “I hope it will please Wilona. Young Dacian must have a pretty blanket for his cradle.”

“I fear my stitching is not so fine as yours, Sarah,” Monet sighed. “Wilona will well know which edge you stitched and which edge did I.”

Sarah paused, studying Monet’s work as she held it up for her approval. She smiled and patted Monet’s knee.

“Your stitching is full as good as ever mine was,” she said. “And Wilona will be pleased with our gift…no matter if the stitches are mine or yours. She is a sweet girl. I can only hope my own sons settle with such sweet wives as Wilona is to Grayson.”

“Does it worry you?” Monet asked. “Their taking wives…setting out on their own paths?”

Sarah nodded. “Near constant,” she admitted. “Still, I keep busy…and faithful in hoping they will all be as happy as ever Bronson and I have been.”

Ever Monet had noticed the faithful, true, and consuming love Bronson and Sarah shared—a thing rare and to be admired. Since learning Bronson was indeed one of the banished Knights Exemplar of Karvana, she had often wondered at Sarah’s knowledge of it all. Still, she had paused in inquiring—till now.

“Did you know Bronson was exiled when you married him?” Monet asked.

“I did,” Sarah answered, continuing to stitch. She smiled. “Yet he was as handsome as any mythical god of legend…and quite as strong. Furthermore, never had I known a man more akin to mirth and merriment. Ever he was smiling. Ever he still does smile…and laugh. Even with such a burden as banishment—lost wealth and honor—ever he smiles. Ever the sun shines in my Bronson’s eyes.” Sarah sighed. “I loved him at once, and my love never wavered. It never shall.”

“I love that you love him so,” Monet said, exhaling her own sigh of delight. “I think it does not matter a man’s wealth and title. What matters are his character and spirit.”

“Let us pretend Broderick were in truth a mere horseman of Ballain,” Sarah said. “Would you full love him as well? Were he not the regarded Crimson Knight of Karvana…would you choose him over any other?”

“Of course!” Monet giggled. “And far more easily, for I
could
choose him then…and I would know if he would choose me for myself…and not because he was charged to.”

“You love him quite completely, do you not?” Sarah asked.

Monet shrugged. “It is ever I have loved him…since I first saw him, I think. And not simply because he is so handsome, but for the man that he is…for his loyalty, his integrity, his wit and wisdom.”

“And he loves you for the all that you are,” Sarah said.

“He cares for me, I know,” Monet said. “But if he loves me, it is because he loves Karvana. He sees me as her hope…her heart. All knights love the princesses of their kingdoms for this reason. But it is far different than being loved because you are the woman he would choose to love…as Bronson loves you.”

Sarah was silent. She studied Monet for a moment—pensive, it seemed.

“Do you truly think he cares for you only because you belong to the kingdom he protects?” she asked.

Monet shrugged. “I think he…in the least I hope he counts me a friend. We converse well. He appears to enjoy my company.” Monet smiled, feeling a blush rise to her cheeks. “It is even he kissed me once since we came to Ballain.”

“Truly?” Sarah said, her smile broadening with delight. “And still you think he only considers you the kingdom’s treasure to guard?”

“Yes. Oh, certainly he is a man owning desires all men own. I am not so foolish as to be blinded to the fact. And sometimes I wonder at my father’s cruelty…cruel in giving him a charge to have a wife he cannot…he cannot…”

“Have?” Sarah finished.

“Yes,” Monet said, blushing.

“If he did not love you, he would not keep your father’s charge so perfect,” Sarah said. “It is his love for you that keeps him from you, kitten.”

“He would not defy my father,” Monet said. “He has too much honor.”

“And you would not tempt him to…would you?”

Monet shook her head. “He would not esteem me if I could not prove myself capable of respecting his charge. He would loathe me then…and I could not have him loathe me. I could not live with such a knowledge.”

Sarah giggled, shaking her head.

“Why such mirth, Sarah?” Monet asked, giggling a little herself. “It is the truth I speak.”

“It is only I remember when I once thought similar as you do now…before my eyes were opened wholly to love and all its grand deceptions, trials, and misunderstandings.”

The cottage door opened, and Broderick himself passed over the threshold. At the mere sight of him, Monet’s heart began to hammer in her bosom—not so unlike Bronson’s hammer against the anvil in the smithy.

“The sun begins to set, ladies,” he began, “and yet you strain your vision at stitching.”

“We have only just finished, Broderick,” Sarah said, gathering the blanket and stitching materials, “and I am certain Bronson is bellowing about in search of means to soothe his appetite.”

“Thank you for allowing me to work at the blanket, Sarah,” Monet said.

“Thank you for helping me,” Sarah said. She smiled. “What do you think Wilona would say were she to know it was the Scarlet Princess of Karvana who stitched her baby’s new blanket?”

“My stitching is worth no more than any other woman’s in the village,” Monet said.

Sarah smiled. “She is humble…that one there,” she said, looking to Broderick as she cast a nod toward Monet.

“Thankfully, yes,” Broderick said.

Sarah reached forth and pinched Broderick’s squared chin. “And such a pretty knight she owns as her guardian!”

Monet laughed as Broderick sighed, shaking his head. “I am in thought of beating the blacksmith when next I lay eyes on him…for he amuses himself far too easily with vexing me.”

“Bronson amuses himself at teasing everyone,” Sarah laughed. “Sleep well, Prissy.”

“I will. Thank you, Sarah,” Monet said.

When Sarah had gone, Broderick closed the cottage door, drawing the bolt. Shaking his head as he chuckled, he removed his doublet, loosed the points at the front of his shirt, and sighed with great fatigue.

“It is well I should beat you, Prissy,” he said.

“Me?” Monet giggled. “Why beat me for Bronson thinking you are pretty?”

“Because it is you who termed me so,” he said, smiling.

“But it was not me who told him you were so termed,” Monet reminded. “Therefore, you cannot be vexed with me over his teasing you. I am already yoked with the penance you set forth…Prissy—indeed I loathe it.”

He continued to smile, his eyes bright with pleasure at their jesting.

“Furthermore, you are pretty…so why are you so easily vexed when you are told the truth of it?” she asked, mischief pure leaping in her bosom.

He frowned then. “Do you really think I am pretty? Girls are pretty…or sometimes young boys could be termed so, I suppose. But not men…and surely not knights.”

Monet smiled. He was truly discomfited in that moment.

“Oh, you know you are handsome, Sir Crimson Knight,” she said. “You know I only term you pretty, for it keeps my heart and mind light where you are concerned.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “What do you mean it keeps your heart and mind light where I am concerned?”

Monet forced a smile, though she felt quite out of countenance at having spoken so unguarded. “I…I mean, it amuses us both…gives us cause to jest and stay light of heart…rather than ever worrying over our circumstances of exile,” she lied. In truth, she termed him her “pretty knight” for the fact she liked to think he was hers—her handsome, strong protector and her heart’s desire. Further, she found she was more able to resist throwing herself into his arms and begging for his love by so teasing him. Still, she could not confess it. “You call me Prissy…and I call you my pretty knight. Laughter is the best way in which to endure hardship. Is it not?”

His frown deepened. “Then you do not think me pretty?”

Monet smiled, giggling with delight. He was next offended? In the first he had been vexed at her terming him pretty, yet now he was vexed for thinking she did not find him handsome.

Monet went to stand just before him. She could not resist reaching up to weave her fingers through his soft coal hair. She would own honesty in speaking to him, even at the cost of her pride—and heart.

“You are the most handsome man I have ever seen, Sir Broderick Dougray,” she said. “You are pure evidence of the reason all women dream of belonging to knights…and not kings and princes.”

“All women?” he asked, a slight smile soothing the frown at his brow.

“All women,” she assured him.

“Even princesses?” he asked.

“In particular princesses…for they should reap more pity than other women who dream of knights.”

“Why? Why should princesses reap the more pity? They want for nothing.”

Monet shrugged. “Nothing save true love. Princesses are forced to kings and princes…very few of whom are the quality of my father. Arrogant and weak are most that I have known. Thus, though a noble lady or common girl can hope to win a knight’s heart and he her hand…a princess is imprisoned by duty. Her heart is not so free to choose. Therefore, do you not think a princess should own more pity?”

Broderick’s eyes narrowed as he studied the Scarlet Princess. She was clever—he could not deny her that. He was well impressed at the tapestry she had woven in order to settle his wounded pride. Princesses dreaming of knights—rubbish! Still, he could not but admire her wit and skill at flattery. He was certain any other knight may well have believed she was in earnest—claiming knights were more desirable than kings and princes.

As he gazed at her, the brutal and familiar flames of desire began to burn in his limbs. His mouth began to water for want of hers; his hands began to ache with wanting to touch, his arms straining with keeping from taking her in embrace. He could not linger, lest his strength be dissolved.

“Does your father know you are so sinful a liar?” he asked, chuckling and stepping back from her.

“I am not a liar, pretty knight,” Monet said. He continued to study her, though he did not move nearer to her again. Thus, she went to the hearth, for there was mutton stew for their meal warming in the kettle there. “But I have prepared our meal.”

Her thoughts still lingered on their conversation. Thus, as she stooped to move one of the stones she would use to warm her bed that she may retrieve the stew kettle from the fire, she did not think of the stone’s being hot. She cried out as the hot stone touched the tips of her tender fingers.

Instantly fisting her wounded hand—for the hurt was intense upon it—she drew it to her bosom, wincing with unfamiliar pain.

“You are burned!” Broderick exclaimed, striding to her at once. He took her hand, and she shook her head, certain his examining it would cause further discomfort. Yet Broderick slipped his thumb into her fist—pressing hard against her palm so that her hand was forced open.

“I must have cold water!” Monet said. Surely cold water from the stream would cool the burning pain.

“No,” Broderick commanded, however. “Cold water will hasten blistering.”

Monet gasped, her eyes widening with astonishment as Broderick then placed the end of each tender burned finger in turn to his mouth. The warm moisture of his tongue served to instantly comfort her pain. He was in repeat of this method of soothing her pain several times, his smoldering gaze holding captive her own enamored one.