Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  "Am I so easy to know?"

  "Usually," she admitted.

  "And what of you?" he asked. "Why are you so difficult to know?"

  The wall of sarcasm and wariness formed around her. "To protect myself." She felt Slane's gaze shift to her.

  "Has it been so painful for you?"

  There was such sympathy in his voice that it angered her. "Don't pity me," she flared—and flushed when he said the words at the same time.

  "I guess you're not so hard to know after all," he chortled.

  Heat suffused her cheeks and she had to grin and shake her head. Unwillingly, she felt her body sink lower into the chair, relaxing. The warmth of his smile encompassed her body, reaching her soul where the heat of the distant fire could not. "Have you always been so deceptive?"

  "I learn fast," he murmured.

  Startled, she looked at him and chuckled. "Then I must be a very bad influence on your honorable character."

  "I'm not so certain about my 'honorable character,' but, yes, you are a bad influence on me in other ways." Slane paused for a moment. As if with a will of its own, his gaze slowly traveled up and down her body. "Very bad indeed."

  "I guess it's good for you nobles to mingle with the commoners," Taylor said, looking at him through lowered lashes. "It's not good to stand on that pedestal all the time."

  Slane nodded. "Yes, occasionally I do feel the need to sit down with the peasantry. It's the only way to stay in touch with what is really happening in the country." Slane scratched his chin, waiting for a response. When he received none, he added, "So, peasant girl, tell me of the local gossip."

  "Oh, yes, m'lord. As you wish," she proclaimed. "Shall I bow before you as I'm telling you the gossip or do you prefer your wenches upright?"

  "I prefer all my wenches to prostrate themselves before me in adoration," Slane replied.

  "Then you must not have had many willing wenches," Taylor quipped. Suddenly, the thought of Slane holding and kissing a woman with long chestnut hair erupted in her mind. She cleared her throat and pulled her knees up to her chest.

  "Actually I prefer the ones who put up a fight," he said. "They're much more intriguing."

  "I'll bet," she murmured.

  They settled into silence, the crackle of the distant fire the only sound in the room. Taylor couldn't help but turn to look at Slane. And when she did, she found him gazing at her. She had to grin at the fond way he was studying her. And he answered her smile with a grin of his own. It transformed his face from the dark and troubled look she had grown accustomed to into one filled with warmth and promise. She felt her wariness melting under his glow. Then she realized something with such clarity that it burned her heart; she wasn't worthy of him, even if he would have her. She would touch his white, flawless soul, and it would become black and charred, like her heart.

  Taylor looked across the room at the hot flames in the hearth.

  "Why do you turn away from me?" he wondered softly. "Are you afraid of something?"

  "Afraid?" she laughed. And then she turned to face him, bravely, foolishly. "I'm not afraid of anything."

  "I think you are," he said softly. "I think you're afraid of many things and you hide behind that shield of indifference."

  Startled that he had read her so well, Taylor again turned away from him but this time she avoided looking into the fire. Instead she watched the light cast by the dancing flames shimmer over the rear wall.

  "Tell me what you see, Taylor." His voice was soft. "Tell me what keeps you from facing the world."

  The light played on the wall before her, flickering around their two dark silhouettes like fire burning victims at the stake. Tears rose unbidden to her eyes.

  "You won't find the answers there," he whispered.

  Slane's voice sounded so close, as if he were leaning over to murmur in her ear. She swiveled her gaze to him, and his image wavered before her teary eyes. He was close, very close. His blue eyes shimmered like the hottest part of a flame. Startled, she blinked and looked closer, only to see the firelight reflected back at her.

  The seductive, dancing flames captured her, tormented her, their flickering strands beckoning.

  She suddenly realized she was trembling, shivering even, in the warmth of the room.

  "Taylor?"

  She barely heard. She could see the dark smoke rising like fingers against the blue sky at Sullivan Castle. She remembered the horrible smell of burning flesh as if it were happening again.

  "Taylor?"

  She blinked and whirled away from the horror the visions inspired. The memory was gone. But the smell was not. She could never erase its acrid stench.

  She saw Slane staring at her with concern. It was a moment before she realized he was holding her hands. "Are you all right?"

  All she wanted to do was curl up in the warmth and protection he could offer her. But she didn't move; she just nodded.

  "You're shivering," he observed and rubbed her hands vigorously to warm them. "Where did you go just a moment ago? It looked like you had seen a ghost."

  "A memory," she answered with a dry throat.

  He glanced at the flames of the hearth before turning back to her. "A memory that has something to do with the fire?"

  Taylor nodded, but was unwilling or unable to tell him further.

  "A memory that has to do with your mother?"

  She jerked as if he had slapped her, and she almost rose, except he pushed her back down.

  "I know she was burned," Slane said.

  Taylor attempted to rise, but this time Slane shot to his feet and braced his hands on either side of the chair, trapping her. There was something akin to panic racing through her veins, clenching her insides, telling her to flee.

  "It was a long time ago, Taylor," Slane coaxed. "It's time you tell someone about it."

  Taylor looked away from him, unable to meet his eyes.

  There was one way she could escape his hold. "Where's Elizabeth?"

  Slane cupped her chin and Taylor felt bolts of lightning rock her body. He gently lifted her chin so his eyes met hers. "I sent her on to Castle Donovan."

  Alone. They were alone. Was he a fool? Or did he really believe his honor could protect him? His thumb stroked her cheek, tracing her cheekbone. Taylor felt her heartbeat quicken.

  Slane's gaze dipped to her lips. Tingles followed his eyes' caress, and Taylor held her breath, afraid to move, afraid that he would remove his hand from her chin. She instinctively licked her lips as if that would hide them from his view.

  Slane swallowed hard. He was so close that his breath fanned over her face, smelling faintly of sweet ale. His hand glided over her jaw and down her neck to rest on her shoulder.

  She wanted him to kiss her. She desperately wanted to feel his lips against hers. But she couldn't move. She was caught in the spell of his eyes, his touch.

  And then he was leaning closer to her, moving so close that their noses almost touched. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, but when she lowered her gaze to them, they closed without issuing a word. Her blood hammered in her ears; her entire body trembled with a want she had never known before.

  A log cracked in the fire and sparks shot out from the hearth.

  Suddenly, he grabbed her shoulders tightly, his fingers digging into her skin. "I'm an honorable man," he ground out between his teeth. "I have given my oath."

  Taylor opened her mouth to speak. She wanted to tell him it was all right. She understood. She knew what kind of man he was. But no words came.

  He dipped his head and Taylor closed her eyes, anticipating the kiss. But then he shoved away from her with a growl. "It wouldn't be enough," he snarled. "Not with you." And Slane stalked up the stairs to his room without a single glance back at her.

  Taylor sat for a long moment with her eyes shut tight, willing him to return, willing the feel of his fingers from her skin. But neither came true. When she opened her eyes, the room was empty. Her gaze w
as drawn to the lone shadow on the wall, surrounded by the swirling, dancing light from the fire. She watched the light surround her and a shiver shot through her body. With a sigh, she stood and headed back to her own room.

  As soon as she stepped through the door, she unsheathed her sword and laid it on the bed. She paced for a moment, unnerved by the feelings Slane unleashed in her. Then her gaze was drawn back to her sword.

  The full moon shone up at her, the bright orb reflected in the polished silver of the blade. She knew she should pick it up. She knew she should practice and prepare for the battle with Slane. But part of her didn't want to. Part of her wanted him to defeat her.

  No. She couldn't surrender to him. She knew she had to fight him with everything she had. Just as Jared had taught her.

  She reached out and grasped the sword's handle, staring down at the clear reflection in the polished blade. Her eyes were ringed with sadness; there were lines of misery about her mouth. She had never looked so lonely and lost in her life.

  This face, this image, staring back at her was not her. She was stronger than that weak thing with the tragic eyes. Taylor's hand tightened around the pommel. She knew what she had to do.

  "Are you certain you're all right?" Slane panted, glancing at her wounded side.

  A large orange moon gazed down at the clearing, showering Slane and Taylor with golden light as their swords clanged in the night.

  "If you're afraid to fight me, you can surrender now," Taylor retorted.

  Slane felt a smile ease across his face and he couldn't wipe it away. A sense of pride filled him as he watched Taylor handle her blade. She obviously had put the last week to good use.

  She feinted left and then swung right with amazing speed. He blocked the blow, but had to move quickly to do so. She really was very good. Much better than he had expected. Only a trained eye could see how she favored her left side. She was not as strong as he was, but she was quicker. Like a sleek little cat. Her green eyes even seemed to glow in the night.

  In the midst of battle, her face flushed with a radiant glow. There seemed to be such life coming from her, as if she thrived on the conflict. Then he realized suddenly that most of her life had been a battle.

  Taylor arced her blade over her head, and when Slane moved to block it she brought her weapon down and in. Cursing, Slane had to spin out of the way to avoid the move. Damn, but she was fast! She continued after him, raining down blow upon blow.

  Breathing hard, she paused, circling slowly to her left. Suddenly, she lunged to the right. But when Slane moved to block her blow, she pulled back. A soft rich laughter bubbled from deep in her throat, mesmerizing Slane.

  "You're taking this rather seriously, aren't you?" Taylor wondered.

  "I believe what I'm fighting for is important," Slane responded, pushing aside the warm feeling her chortle sparked in him to concentrate on their fight.

  "You should really learn how to relax," Taylor advised.

  "And you should learn not to —" Slane drove his sword toward Taylor in a tight arc— "talk so much when you're fighting."

  Taylor met his blow with the ease of a trained fighter. She stepped in close to him, casting him her most beguiling smile. "But that's how I win my fights," she murmured in a husky voice.

  Slane pushed his blade forward against hers, moving his body toward her. "Not all," Slane growled, his voice barely above a whisper. He pushed harder and she was forced to retreat a step.

  But then she halted, pushing against his blade and lifted those damned full lips toward his. "Do you love Elizabeth?"

  Startled, he almost stumbled back, but righted himself instantly. "We are to be wed," he replied. "Does it matter whether I love her or not?" Her parted lips drew his gaze. Her mouth looked so soft, a velvet pillow to rest his own weary lips against. "Honor and duty are not as fickle and fleeting as love," he managed to add.

  "There's no such thing as love," she spat with sudden bitterness. "I was just wondering if you were foolish enough to believe in it." She shoved him off. Her blade glistened in the moonlight as she pulled it back, then swung forward, the sword slicing toward his head.

  Slane raised his sword, gripping the handle tightly, and took the brunt of the strike, grunting as the surprising power behind her blow sent a jolt through the muscles in his arm. He redirected her swing to the side, forcing her blade down toward the ground, pinning the tip of it against the earth. The sweet smell of her breath fanned his face as she glared up at him. He pushed her blade away and took a step back.

  Taylor straightened up. "She'll make you a fine wife," she said. Her face was a mask of composure, but her chest rose and fell with her quick breaths.

  Slane watched with a growing burning in his loins as her breasts strained against the fabric of her tunic with each glorious breath. It would be so easy to slide his blade through the cloth and shred the last remaining barrier between his hungry gaze and her tender flesh. Slane snarled, pulling his gaze away. The thought enraged him because it had come so easily. So damned easily. He swung his blade hard toward her, the air itself screaming as the silver metal cut violently through it.

  She lifted her blade to block the blow, but as Slane's sword connected with hers, Taylor fell beneath the brutal weight of it. She landed on her bottom with a cry.

  Slane's eyes widened in shock. He hadn't meant to hurt her! "I'm sorry, Taylor," he said quickly and reached out a hand to her.

  She pivoted on the ball of her foot, lashing out with her opposite leg. It smacked into his knees, sweeping his legs out from beneath him. He tumbled to his back. Taylor lurched forward, placing the tip of her blade to his neck.

  Slane frowned at the triumph he saw in her green eyes, the sparkle of amusement glittering there. "That was dishonorable," he observed.

  "I like to win," she said, a grin stretching across her lips. "Yield to me," she urged.

  A muscle tightened in his jaw and his eyes narrowed. She pressed the tip of the sword into his skin. His lips thinned as he muttered, "I yield."

  Slane stood in the darkness of the common room, watching Taylor eat. At least her appetite had returned, and then some. She ate ravenously, as if it were the last meal she would see for a while. Her long dark hair shimmered in the flickering light of the hearth, thick waves of black falling over her back as she bent over her porridge.

  She had beaten him! he thought for the thousandth time. And she'd wasted no time in accepting her triumph; he had already glimpsed the packed bag on her bed when he went to find her for dinner. She was ready to leave. He clenched his teeth and turned away from her. It shouldn't bother him. She had beaten him dishonorably! She had tricked him. But it did bother him. Immensely. Not because he had lost to her. He even begrudgingly admired her ingenuity beneath his anger. But because he had lost her.

  He had promised he would say nothing when she left. That was the wager. But he had not counted on losing! Even left-handed, he was a match for the best swordsmen. He had had no doubt in his mind he would defeat her.

  But she had continued to taunt him with her body and the fiery looks from those bewitching eyes! She had distracted him with her infernal chatter! It was no wonder he had lost!

  No fight with her could ever be fair. She would always have him at a disadvantage with her soft curves, the siren song of her voice, the eternal emerald depths of her eyes.

  Slane threw back his head and took a long drink of ale. He stared at the reflection of his face in the shiny surface of the liquid. His eyes looked haunted, possessed by the image of a woman he could not have. And should not want! He looked up at the cause of his anguish.

  Taylor opened her mouth to take a bite of bread. As he studied her lips, the fullness of them, the cherry sweet redness of them, her innocent look seemed to turn wanton. And then blatantly seductive. Even though he was standing in the back of the room, her mouth filled his vision as if she were sitting but mere inches from him. His gaze traveled up to her cheekbones, marveling at the delicate roundness o
f them, the hint of color that gave them such vibrant life.

  Then she turned to stare right at him. Her eyes drew his gaze on, forcing them upward, locking them into a tight stare. For a long moment, he lost all sense of who he was, where he was. Her emerald gems shimmered, priceless jewels buried in the treasure of her face.

  Suddenly, he was on his feet, stalking toward her. He would end this charade. How could she think of leaving his protection? How could she think she would survive one day out there alone with Corydon's men and Richard's mercenaries looking for her, especially after what had happened last time?

  As he drew near, his shadow fell over her like a dark storm cloud. He towered over her for a long moment, staring at her inquisitive eyes with fierce anger burning through his body. He opened his mouth to order her to stay by him, to stay at his side... but stopped cold. He had lost. He had given his word that he would let her go.

  Taylor kicked out the chair her foot had been resting on and Slane fell silently onto it.

  He could do nothing but stare at her. At the way her hair tumbled about her shoulders in clouds of curls, the way her deep green eyes seemed to see into his soul, reading and understanding. Then her lids fell over her eyes as she looked down at her mug of ale.

  "It would be safer for you to stay," Slane finally said quietly.

  A grin tugged at her lips. "I knew you couldn't resist."

  "I'm not trying to stop you," he insisted. "I just think you should consider your options."

  She lifted her luminescent eyes to him. "I have."

  "Hmm," Slane mused. "You'd rather take your chances with a dozen trained fighters looking to kill you or who knows how many mercenaries looking to kidnap you. Kill. Kidnap. Kill. Kidnap. Maybe even both." He looked at Taylor. "You're right. An easy decision to make."

  An amused smile twitched the corners of her lips. "I'm going to miss your humor, Slane." She lifted the mug to her lips, taking a long drink; then she slowly set it down again on the table. But this time, she did not look at him; she turned to stare at the back wall.