Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Good for them, because her father was going to tell them to go to Hell, she was aggrieved to admit. It mattered not what she’d said, or what she secretly hoped, she wouldn’t delude herself into thinking otherwise. They were stuck with her, didn’t they know.

  If she didn’t freeze to death first.

  Or if she didn’t manage to escape.

  She heard their voices long before she spied them and her stomach lurched as they came from the woods. The MacKinnon and the one called Lagan—the boor who had shoved the despicable rag into her mouth. They stood whispering beside the fire. Something else she could thank them for—setting her so far from the fire’s heat, as wet as she was, and leaving her to freeze in the chill night air! Thoughtless, infuriating barbaric wretches!

  The firelight flickered between them, casting its copper tint against their bodies and faces, distorting their images. Caught between the eerie glow of the flame and the obscurity of shadow, the MacKinnon cut a daunting figure, to be sure. Dressed in a black woolen tunic and cloaked in his belted breacan, he stood at least six inches taller than her father in his thick leather-lined boots. In a leonine display of masculinity, his dark wavy mane was unbound and fell below his shoulders, and his stance was one bred of confidence. He was a man born to lead, she couldn’t help but cede.

  Was he a murderer, as well?

  The prospect made her throat tighten with renewed fear.

  Her heart lurched. What would he do when he discovered her father wouldn’t deal with him?

  She couldn’t even begin to make out their discourse, and then the one called Lagan left the MacKinnon’s side to jostle another man awake.

  He whispered something into the man’s ear and the man rose at once, shaking off his slumber. Together the two spoke to the MacKinnon and then stumbled off into the shadowy realm beyond the fire’s brightness.

  Only Page and the MacKinnon remained still awake.

  Starting at the realization, Page turned to look at him and gasped to find him simply standing there, watching her, the firelight playing upon his face, making his harsh features appear all the harsher for the contrasting shadows. She prayed he couldn’t see her where she sat so far from the light, and was relieved when he turned and bent to retrieve something that lay beside the fire. Her relief was short-lived, however, for he pivoted suddenly and came toward her, and a shock of pure hysteria skittered through her.

  Reacting instinctively, Page slammed her head backward against the tree trunk and swore a silent oath, closing her eyes, feigning sleep. Jesu, but she was being foolish! She knew it, and still couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t face him just now. She didn’t know why, she just couldn’t. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  He values you? the ghost of his voice whispered in her ear, and the question tormented her. She had to remind herself he’d not spoken it aloud. ’Twas merely her imagination mocking her, making her the fool.

  His footfall was light, but Page could make out the soft sound of moss surrendering beneath his leather-soled feet and knew the moment when he stood before her.

  Bare limbed.

  The thought accosted her from nowhere, and her heart gave a little start, beating faster as he crouched down beside her—at least she imagined he crouched. She could swear that he did, for she thought she felt the heat of his breath against her cheek.

  A sigh blew across her face.

  Or had she imagined it?

  Merciful Lord, was he watching her so intently?

  Nay... oh, nay...

  Her heart began to flounder, and she tried not to panic, tried to pretend he wasn’t hovering so close, scrutinizing her every breath, but failed miserably. She knew that he was, and was only grateful for the veil of darkness to conceal her when she felt the telltale flush creep up from her breast, to her throat and face, warming her.

  And then suddenly her heart slammed to a halt, for he touched her—sweet Mary, the way that he touched her.

  Her breath left her, and her body quivered as his hand cupped her face, the gesture so much a tender caress. She leaned her face hungrily into the warmth of his palm, and then realized what she’d done, and her eyes flew wide. She drew in a breath, and lifted her face to his.

  Their gazes met, held, locked.

  He didn’t remove his hand, and Page, though startled by the embrace, could scarce protest with the rag still filling her mouth. Scarce could she breathe. Scarce could she think.

  With a gentleness that belied his strength and size, he brushed his thumb across the hollow above her cheek, and Page closed her eyes and felt the sting of tears anew.

  How inconceivable it was that this man, this stranger, her captor, would be the very first to touch her so gently?

  “Dinna be weepin’,” he whispered.

  Was she? Page nearly choked on her denial. She hadn’t even realized.

  He removed the gag from her mouth and brought it to his nostrils. They flared at the stench and he glowered, tossing it away. She swallowed with difficulty. “Damn Lagan,” he grumbled, and shook his head in disgust.

  Page couldn’t find her voice to speak, but it wouldn’t have mattered, she wouldn’t have known what to say.

  So near, his face lost none of its masculine beauty.

  It held her mesmerized.

  He seemed so young to lead, she thought, despite that his hair proclaimed elsewise; dark as it was, the shock of white at his temples stood out distinctly against the black of his hair. It was braided, she noticed for the first time—the silver at his temples. How old was he? His youthful face declared six and twenty, no more, but his hair bespoke some two score years and more. His cheekbones were high, his nose perfectly aquiline, and his lips... his lips were the sort to make a woman fancy stolen kisses. And his eyes... she still couldn’t make out their color in the darkness, though she tried.

  Her heart beat a steady rhythm in her ears.

  “Ye’ve my word, lass, that ye’ll no’ be harmed.” His voice was low and husky. “Dinna look so woeful.”

  He stroked her cheek, and confusion flooded her. Why was he being so gentle? Jesu, but she didn’t know how to deal with this!

  Page jerked her face away from his touch. “I—I was not!”

  He arched a brow. “Weeping?”

  He lifted his hand abruptly and Page flinched, thinking he meant to strike her for the denial, but he brought his thumb to his lips, instead, sinking his teeth there. Watching her, he sucked the salt of her tears from his flesh. “Were ye no’, lass?”

  A shiver coursed through her at his gesture—the way that he addressed her—the way he continued to stare. She tried to ignore the heat that suffused her under his scrutiny, taking refuge in her anger. “No. I was not!”

  “Nay,” he agreed, still suckling at his thumb. “Of course not. You’re much too... fearless. Are ye no’?”

  He suckled his thumb an instant longer, then withdrew it from his mouth, and Page lapped at her lips gone suddenly dry. She swallowed convulsively.

  “Still... ye’ve my word... ye’ll no’ be harmed.”

  Page closed her eyes, trying to blot out the image of him kneeling before her. “How gracious,” she drawled, concealing a quiver. She opened her eyes once more, narrowing them, and her voice was steadier with anger. “In the meantime, my hands are bruising at my back!”

  His lips hinted at a smile—the rogue—a smile that snatched her breath away and made her heart flitter wildly. Jesu, it should have made her yearn to slap his face instead! God curse him for that! And her, too, for allowing herself to lose her composure over a comely face!

  Her wits were addled for certain!

  “Some things are necessary,” he told her without the slightest trace of remorse, “but verra well, I’ll grant ye a moment’s respite.” He fell back upon his rump and reached behind her to free her hands.

  “How generous... for a heathen Scot!”

  He merely chuckled at that, and it multiplied her confusion tenfold. What was wrong with the fool?
Did he not realize he was supposed to be angered by her quips? Page wasn’t certain what to make of him—less so by the instant.

  He released her hands, and then slipped his fingers across the small of her back. She squealed in alarm, arching away from his touch. “What!” she shrieked, “do you think you are doing?”

  He didn’t bother to beg her pardon, nor to remove his hand. It burned her flesh even through her shift.

  “You’re wet,” he announced.

  “Am I really?” She recovered her composure and glared at him vengefully. “How peculiar! I wonder if ‘tis because you abducted me wet from my swim... refused to allow me to dry... and then thrust me away in a damp corner far from the heat of the fire.”

  She tried to shrug away from his touch, to no avail. “Remove your hand from my person this instant!”

  His brows drew together, though his eyes glinted with unconcealed amusement. “You’re an impudent wench,” he said, with too little heat, but he complied at once. “Did your da beat you oft?”

  Once again Page found herself aggrieved by his question. “Nay!” she countered, but she swallowed the ache that rose like a goose egg in her throat. In truth, her father hadn’t cared enough even for that. She averted her gaze. “How dare you speak of him so!” she mustered herself to say. “My father... he would never...” She rubbed at her wrists, trying to ease the pain that flowed into them.

  Naught could ease the ache in her heart.

  “Well, then, mayhap he should have...”

  Page glared at him.

  “Let me see your hands.”

  It was a command, no matter that it was spoken so softly, and Page bristled. “I can see to them myself, thank you!”

  He sighed. “As you wish.”

  “Aye, ‘tis my wish!”

  “You’re a stubborn fashious wench,” he apprised her.

  “And you—” From the corner of her eye, she saw that he lifted his hands toward her, and Page flinched again. Aha! Now it began!

  He moved quickly and she was staggered to find he merely placed a dry gown over her head. Her own gown, for the material was familiar, soft and worn with age. The scent was hers too.

  And it was toasty warm.

  He’d gone after it—but not only had he retrieved it, he’d gone so far as to dry it before the fire.

  Shock filtered through her. Stunned, she allowed him to draw the gown over her body, smooth it down, and like a poppet, she thrust out her arms to place within the sleeves.

  Her throat squeezed shut so that she could not speak. No one had ever elicited so many emotions from her as did this stranger. No one had ever looked after her so. No one had ever worried whether she was comfortable, or hungry, or lonely...

  Her heart wrenched, and once again, despair threatened to strangle her.

  She couldn’t believe he was treating her so... kindly.

  He was staring at her strangely... as though he would read her thoughts. And then his expression shuttered and his brows drew together, as he commanded, “Place your hands at your back.”

  Page recanted her opinion of him at once and gave him a glare he was like never to forget.

  He cocked his head, and entreated, “Dinna make me force ye, lass...”

  He could, she realized, and she gritted her teeth. Still, she couldn’t make herself obey quite so easily. “You’re a wretch, you realize?”

  He chuckled, seeming impervious to her wrath. The man wore his good humor like an accursed suit of armor!

  “So I’ve been told,” he confessed without apology. “Now place your hands at your back so I can bind them.”

  “Why can you not leave them free?” she protested, but obeyed nonetheless. Better to bide her time and choose her battles wisely.

  It might help to know how many men she must do battle with and she wondered if he would tell her. “What have you to fear of me?” she asked, trying to sound casual. “You’ve fifty men and more...”

  “Do I?” he answered noncommittally, peering up at her, his lips slightly crooked.

  The wretch! He knew very well what she was asking and wouldn’t even give her so meager a concession!

  “As for your hands, wench, I’m simply no’ foolhardy enough to allow ye to remain unfettered. I’ll be needin’ my sleep tonight and dinna have in mind to play nursemaid to a foolish lass who doesna seem to know enough to keep her tongue stilled.”

  He reached behind her to bind her wrists together behind the tree, this time not so tightly. “I’m sorry Lagan was so harsh wi’ ye,” he said, testing the rope. Page cursed him for his small gesture. It only served to discompose her all the more.

  She decided to ignore the apology—and the gesture, as well. “Surely you cannot expect me to sleep this way!”

  “As I’ve said, lass...” He met her gaze. “Some things canna be helped.” He proceeded, then, to adjust her gown so that her legs were covered, and Page bristled at his manipulations. She didn’t wish to be appreciative—didn’t want to be indebted to this man for any reason at all!

  Did he treat his son so patiently? So thoughtfully? She couldn’t help but feel a prick of envy at the notion.

  Then, too, his actions only served to stress that her own father had lied yet again. The man before her no more beat his son than he would beat her. The thought both relieved and aggrieved her at once.

  Only belatedly did she realize he was staring. “What are you looking at?” she asked peevishly.

  His lips curved. “I should think it would be evident.”

  Page lifted both brows. “Are you wondering whether I’d make a tasty meal?” she ventured caustically. “Don’t bother, you would find me bitter, I assure you.”

  His lips turned a scant more. “Tempting thought... but nay.” His expression turned sober. He reached suddenly to brush a strand of tangled hair from her face, and Page fancied biting off his fingers, so much fury was she feeling. He merely held it there before her face, separating the damp strands between his fingers. “I was simply wonderin’ at what ye were thinking, lass.”

  Lass.

  The way he spoke the single word... as though it were laden with affection, made her shudder to her soul. “Naught,” she lied, and nearly choked on her anger and her grief. “Only that my father—” He tucked the strand behind her ear, and her thoughts scattered to the winds.

  “I know... he’ll pluck oot my eyes,” he finished for her, sighing, as he untucked the checkered blanket from his belt. He drew it from his back, and covered her with its formidable length.

  To Page’s dismay, it was warm with the heat of his body, and the bestirring scent of him rose to accost her; sunshine, horseflesh and man. Unreasonably, she found herself wondering whether his skin would be swarthy from the sun, or pale—somehow, despite the fact that she could not see him clearly through the shadows, she knew he would be dark from his labors in the sun.

  She imagined him bare-chested, working... and then realized he wore no breeches, and expunged the image at once, shocked by the realization. Jesu, but she felt herself grow warm even at the thought of him bared to the bottom. She found her protests silenced by the fierce pounding of her traitorous heart.

  Until he stretched out before her suddenly and rested his head upon her lap. Then she found her voice at once. “What, in the name of God, do you think you are doing, sir?”

  He grinned up at her and had the audacity to wink, as well. “Sleeping, o’ course.” His long hair spilled over her lap, dark as ebony silk.

  Jesu, but he was bare bottomed beneath his tunic! “Not on me, you’ll not!”

  “Ah, but ye’ve my breacan, lass,” he pointed out quite reasonably, his voice silky. “Where else would ye have me sleep but here?”

  “In a tree for all I care!” she hissed, and squeezed her eyes shut. No use, the image accosted her behind closed lids with greater detail. “Stop calling me lass!” she snarled, her eyes going wide.

  His eyes glinted by the light of the moon. “Aye, lass,” he ag
reed, “but then what would ye have me call ye if no’ lass?”

  He was mocking her, Page realized, and she found herself mute with anger and chagrin. She’d be hung by her toes before she’d reveal her name to the likes of him! “Oaf! Take your accursed breacan! I’ll not allow you to sleep with me! Get off me!”

  His lips curved roguishly. “Ah, but I’m no’ sleepin’ wi’ ye, lass. I’m sleepin’ on ye,” he pointed out, without the least compunction. “And nay, I’ll not. What better way to keep you warm and free from harm?”

  “What better way to watch me while you sleep, isn’t that what you really mean!”

  His grin widened. “That too.”

  “Arrogant wretch! I could spit upon you, you realize. And I might do that! Just you wait and see!”

  “Aye... ye could,” he agreed, “but then I’d be sorely taxed and have to send Lagan to guard ye, instead and I’d be guessin’ my randy cousin would take great pleasure in a buxom English lassie for a pilloo.” He snuggled a little to prove his point, burying his face into her lap, nuzzling between her thighs. His chest expanded with his intake of breath, and he sighed audibly, sounding as contented as a child left to fill his belly with tarts.

  Page’s stomach floated into her ribs. Something deep inside her woman’s core quickened at his brash male gesture, and heat trickled into her nether regions.

  “Och, but if ye dinna mind Lagan’s wooing...”

  He made to rise, and Page shrieked. “Nay!”

  He chuckled, and lay back down at once. “I didna believe ye would relish the thought. G’nite, then, lass.” He snuggled his head once more, like an innocent boy with his beloved mother.

  But he was no innocent.

  Nor was she beloved.

  And he was lying within her lap!

  Bare bottomed!

  So was she for that matter.

  “Overbearing brute!” she spat, glaring at him fiercely. “’Tis God’s own truth that the only harm I have to fear is that from you!”

  “Then ye’ve naught to fear, at all,” he countered, shifting indolently to his side and thrusting an oversized arm over her leg, cozying himself.

  His arm was as big as her thigh!