A Crimson Frost (27 page)

He frowned. “You offend me, lady!” he exclaimed, only feigning offense. “Do you think I would not remember one of the greatest events of our kingdom’s history…the birth of the fair Scarlet Princess?”

She smiled, though she was, of a sudden, made somewhat sad by a then realization. The Crimson Knight ever called her Prissy—ever termed her the Scarlet Princess. It was never did he call her by her true name; never did he utter Monet. Though she had long named him Broderick whenever they spoke, he did not name her her true name. She silently whispered to herself he was only being wary—careful that they not be found out in their exiled state. Still, it caused her heart an odd aching in that moment.

“It is no more important than the birth of any other girl,” Monet said.

“It is true that every birth is a gift from God and should be celebrated,” he said. “But I do not serve every person ever born…nor do I hold every person as favored as I hold you. Thus, glad tidings…for tomorrow the kingdom will celebrate your day of birth, Princess!”

It was dark in the cottage. The flame of the hearth fire mirrored in his eyes was fierce and somehow alluring.

“You are very kind,” she said. “In truth, I must admit to being astonished you remembered.”

He frowned playfully. “What?” Shaking his head, he opened the cottage door—as if with purpose to leave.

“No! I-I did not mean to offend you, Broderick!” she exclaimed.

Broderick smiled and reached without the door.

Monet gasped, her hands going to cover her mouth as awe and delight washed over her. Broderick closed the door and drew the bolt. He held in his hands a warming pan—a brass pan with a long handle meant to hold fire embers and coals from the fire, that it may be placed between the linens of a bed to warm them.

Monet felt tears brimming in her eyes. How had he come by such a luxury in Ballain? Further, a more thoughtful gift she had never known! The pan would warm her bed far better than hard, quick-cooling stones! She stood in disbelief, overcome by his gift.

“It is a brass warming pan,” Broderick said.

“I know,” Monet whispered, accepting the warming pan as he held it out in offering it to her. She studied the shining brass of the pan—the long, intricately carved handle. Tears renewed in Monet’s eyes. Never in her life had she been given anything so attentive! She winced for a moment, her thoughts lingering on the endless near whining Broderick had endured—the near nightly complaints she had offered to him over being forever chilled.

“It is…perfect!” she said, smiling at him—silently praying she could restrain her tears of tender joy.

Broderick shrugged broad shoulders. “It was the second best thing I could fathom to keep you warm at night,” he chuckled.

“Oh, this is far better than heated stones…and you well know it,” she giggled. “How can you endeavor to imply stones are still the first best thing to warm me in my bed?”

“You misunderstand my implication,” he said, a delicious grin of mischief on his handsome face. “I merely said this was the second best thing to warm you in your bed. I did not say the stones were first.”

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 passion 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.