KISSING THE KNIGHT
Gilead had moved closer. Subtly, his face changed as he studied hers. His pupils dilated, turning the irises near purple. Slowly a hand came up to cup her chin and he traced her lips lightly with his thumb.
“Ye want to be kissed, lass?” It really wasn’t so much a question as a statement.
Dear God. She shouldn’t. He had made it clear with his strict formality that he didn’t want to have anything to do with her. This would mean nothing to him. She should pull away; she really should. He wasn’t holding her forcefully, but the gentle touch of his fingers might as well have been an iron collar. Deidre shut her eyes and parted her lips.
She heard his sharp intake of breath and then his lips brushed hers, tantalizing her as he kept the pressure easy and gentle. It was slow torture, and finally she could stand no more. She thrust her tongue deep into his mouth.
He hesitated but a moment and then brought his arms around her waist, pulling her to him as he responded…
My Noble Knight
Cynthia Breeding
My Noble Knight
Copyright© 2007 Cynthia Breeding
Cover Design Livia Reasoner
Prairie Rose Publications
www.prairierosepublications.com
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Historical Foreword
The Philosopher’s Stone has always had an intriguing aura about it. What is it exactly? From whence did it come? What is its purpose?
Laurence Gardner, in his book Bloodline of the Holy Grail (Fair Winds Press, 2002), explains that Thoth, the Greek name for the Egyptian god of alchemy and geometry, held special knowledge of the Lost Wisdom of Lamech, who was the seventh in succession from Eve’s son Cain. Lamech’s three sons, a mathematician, a mason, and a metalworker, respectively, preserved the ancient wisdom of creative science on two stone monuments known as the Antediluvian Pillars. Hermes discovered one of the pillars and transcribed its Sacred Geometry onto an emerald tablet that was inherited by Pythagoras, who discovered the second pillar.
Hermes believed in the adage “as above, so below,” meaning that the earth is the mortal image of the cosmological structure, and that a repetitive geometric law prevails through all matter and through all energy.
The emerald tablet became known as the Philosopher’s Stone. On it lies the code for human existence, for those who have eyes to see.
Prologue
Gaul, 532 A.D.
Deidre of the Languedoc leaned back against the sun-warmed rocks on the bank of the River Garonne and closed the ancient book, careful not to break the brittle, vellum pages. Her fingertips traced the Latin letters tooled into the smooth, old leather. Locus Vocare Camulodunum: “A Place Called Camelot.” Deidre’s cornflower eyes lit with excitement. In contrast to Gaul, with the never-ending squabbles of the deceased King Clovis’s four sons, Camelot was apparently a place of peace across the Narrow Channel, where courtly gentlemen honored and revered women as in the days when the Goddess fully ruled. If only Deidre could go there.
She frowned, remembering how furious her mother, high priestess to Isis, mother goddess of all, had been to find the book—or The Book—as Deidre liked to call it, lying in place of the Philosopher’s Stone in the grotto deep inside a hidden cave. Her mother had accused the old magician who had ensconced himself near the shrine of stealing it. She searched his goods, only to find nothing. But the next morning he was gone. Deidre’s burgeoning gift of Sight had not been able to find him. For the past two years, the magician had cloaked himself and the Stone well.
The Stone was one of Solomon’s lost treasures. The symbols of Sacred Geometry that defined all life and the sum of all wisdom were embedded in it. Deidre had not actually seen it, for she was too young to be initiated into the Ways, but it had been her mother’s duty and honor to protect the Stone, as it had been with her people since the Magdalen brought it with her when she fled Judea with her daughter, Sarah. The holy family’s bloodline traced through the Stone as well, for in Goddess circles, the Magdalen was believed to be descended from Isis herself.
Now the Stone was gone, and so was Deidre’s mother who, after two years, so despaired that the Stone would remain hidden forever that she jumped from a cliff high above the warm waters of the Mediterranean, never to surface from those lapis depths. Now, Deidre was being sent to her cousin Childebert, to the Christian king’s castle in Paris. She wrinkled her nose and tossed back her long, blonde hair defiantly. From what she had heard of the austere Christian court, there would be no ritual mating at Beltane—and this was to have been her first at four-and-ten—nor any other festival that held true to the Goddess. Just her luck, when she was finally about to find out what all the young priestesses in her mother’s care giggled about the morning after such celebrations.
Deidre had always dreamed that when she came of age, she would be allowed to choose her consort according to the Old Ways, as her mother had done with the Celtic-born Caw of Pictland. The Book had filled her adolescent head with even grander ideas. Her young man would be handsome and strong and pledge his faith to her completely, like the knights of the Round Table did.
Deidre hugged the volume to herself as she stood. She would hide it well within her trunk and reread the stories of honorable Arthur, courteous Gawain, steadfast Bedwyr, and the irrepressible Lancelot. The Book would be a symbol of hope that one day she, too, would find her true noble knight.
Chapter One
BELTANE
Scotland, ten years later
Scents of sex and musk permeated the cool night air, accompanied by deep grunts, soft moans, labored panting, and sharp gasps. Cautiously, Deidre pushed back the bracken where she was hidden and peered into the sheltered glade, canopied by a velvety black sky sprinkled liberally with diamonds. This adventure had seemed harmless enough in the beginning, but she’d lost both her escort and coin, and barely managed to escape abduction the night before. She wasn’t taking any chances. To her right, a banked fire sent slow spirals of blue smoke curling lazily into the air, interrupted only by an occasional crackle of yellow flame when the breeze fanned unburned wood.
Deidre squinted beyond the light of the smoldering embers and detected movement near a shrub. A giggle accosted her from the left, and she shifted her gaze. A naked young man, his erection huge in the dim light, was coaxing the shirt off a girl who lay writhing on the ground beneath him. Well, maybe he wasn’t “coaxing” her clothes off. Tearing them off might be a better description. Deidre blinked. In her unfortunately still-virgin state, she’d never seen a naked man before. She gasped a little as he lowered himself over the girl and she heard the muffled shriek that told her he had not been gentle. Apparently, though, the woman was used to it, for she was bucking enthusiastically, begging him for more.
Deidre surveyed her surroundings. The remains of a huge bonfire cast shadows of the trees near the glade. A road or track led off around a bend. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, she could now see more squirming couples beneath low bushes that spread toward the tree line. Quite a Bacchanalian sight.
Listening to gasps and groans of pleasure was really more than a reluctant virgin of four-and-twenty could take. She would have lost her accursed maidenhood and been wed long ago were it not for her gift of Sight, which kept her practically a prisoner at Childebert’s court. Her cousin needed her talent, he said, even though his Christian mother, Clo
tilde, frowned on anything pagan. Sometimes Deidre thought the only reason Clotilde tolerated her was for the large dowry she’d inherited from her mother, which Childebert had access to as long as she remained a maid. Between her cousin and his mother, they’d managed to discourage any and all suitors.
Suddenly, Deidre became aware of other noises. Boots. Male voices. Laughter. Drunken laughter, from the sound of it. She stepped back quickly, intending to seek shelter in the trees. Too late. She had been seen.
“Begorra! There’s a fine lass,” someone shouted. “Doona let her get away!”
Deidre tripped and picked up her long skirt. Dratted thing. Traveling clothes were always heavy. The skirt alone had to weigh near a half-stone. Deidre hiccupped hysterically, stifling a scream. She ripped the headdress off; the ungainly thing was hindering her sight as she raced toward the trees.
A big, burly arm caught her roughly around the waist, expelling the air from her lungs. She gasped as she fought to free herself, kicking and scratching.
“Och, a feisty lass. I like that kind.” The man laughed, and, with one huge paw on her shoulder, spun her around.
He wore a kilt and sash and his breath reeked of liquor, although he was not drunk. He was barrel-chested, big and bulky, with grey hair and a bushy beard, and his eyes glinted like steel in the moonlight. He grabbed her face in one beefy fist and leaned close, his mouth slack and drooling. As much as she resented her virginity, she was not about to lose it to this lecher. The thankful, young stable lads to whom she’d slipped forbidden sweetmeats at Childebert’s court had taught her a few things. Deidre brought her knee up hard to meet the lout’s groin.
A surprised look crossed his face as he doubled over. She lost no time in pushing back and starting to sprint away, but the man lurched for her and she landed on the ground with a hard thud. He rolled her over, his considerable weight pressing her down, leaving no room for air in her lungs.
“Ye’ll pay for that, lassie, but I like it rough,” he said, grabbing her long, flaxen hair and pulling her head back painfully. He pushed her skirts up and thrust a knee between her thighs, the wayward kilt obligingly out of the way.
Deidre struggled, but her arms were pinned. She fought to keep her knees together, but he only laughed and spread her legs farther. All those years spent dreaming of giving herself willingly to one of the gallant knights from The Book were about to disintegrate into her worst nightmare. Desperately, she snapped at him with her teeth, drawing blood from his chin.
He raised a fist and she turned her head, bracing herself for the blow. Perhaps being knocked unconscious would be the best thing that could happen to her. As if he read her thoughts, he brought his hand down and roughly flipped her over.
“Ye can’t do much damage like this,” he said, “and I can go deeper.”
Deidre tried to push against him, and then realized she was probably helping him more than herself. She gritted her teeth. Batard. Then, suddenly, the weight was lifted and she could breathe. She rolled to a sitting position, hands protecting her face, and gulped for air.
“I’m thinking the lass might not be wantin’ to play yer game, Niall.”
The voice of an angel. It had to be. A soft, rich Scottish burr, not menacing, but authoritative all the same.
Deidre opened one eye and peered up. By the saints. It could have been the archangel Michael himself, complete with flaming sword. Righteous indignation flashed across his face as he towered over her attacker, claymore at the ready. Relief flooded her and she couldn’t help but notice the muscular, leather-clad thighs that were at nose level. She forced herself to look up past a flat belly and narrow waist. Firelight reflected off a finely chiseled face with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a sinfully sensual full mouth. The wind rippled through her rescuer’s shoulder-length dark hair and caused the flowing white shirt he wore to flatten against a broad chest and powerful arms. A whimper escaped her. Angels shouldn’t look like this. If they did, she was definitely going to start attending more of those boring Masses she hated.
“It’s Beltane, mon!” Niall said churlishly. “What’s she doing out, if she doesn’t want to be taken?”
Beltane. The ancient pagan fertility festival held on May 1. She’d forgotten, after last night’s narrow escape.
Her personal god turned a discerning gaze on her. “I doona know why she’s here, but I’ll make sure the lass gets back to where she needs to go.” Niall gave him a challenging look. “Safe and unmolested,” he added, as he met the older man’s gaze.
Niall stared at him sullenly and then gestured to his men that they were leaving. He looked down at Deidre ominously. “Ye haven’t seen the last of me, lass. Nae woman gets the best of me.”
She shuddered slightly as he strode off, straightening his sash. And then, her divine savior was offering her his hand.
She slipped hers into his. Strong, warm fingers closed over her hand, sending tiny tingles coursing up her arm. He put a steadying arm around her waist as she stood and those sparks ignited into full flames that shot deeply through her belly. She wanted nothing more than to press her suddenly achy breasts against that hard chest. Even her wildest flights of fancy about Camelot’s knights hadn’t evoked such passion.
“I’m Gilead. Are ye all right? He dinna hurt ye?”
Gilead. Perhaps the comparison to the archangel Michael hadn’t been such a stretch, after all. Gilead was one of the names of the bloodline that traced through Kings Solomon and David all the way back to Abraham. The original Gilead’s father had been named Michael. Did this Gilead have aught to do with the Stone that she had come to find? Sometimes the Sight worked in strange ways. She wished her gift was more reliable.
For certes, he had the most brilliant blue eyes she had ever seen. Even in the near darkness, she could see they were fringed with thick, black lashes that any female would kill for. His clean soap and leather scent seared her brain; the man was intoxicating. He might have stepped right off the pages of The Book, even if he wasn’t wearing shining armor. He did have a sword. Here he was, all six-foot-plus of solid, muscular, good-looking male—exactly the kind of man Childebert had kept away from her—and all she could do was stare at him like a dullard.
“I’m Deidre. Yes. I’m fine.” Entretien éclatant! Brilliant conversation, that!
“Dee? Of Dundee?” He looked puzzled that her name sounded like a town.
Dee. She liked the Gaelic pronunciation, or maybe because it was coming from him. He really could make Adonis weep in envy. “No. My name is Deidre, but you may call me Dee, if you wish.” She added, hoping he’d respond in true knightly fashion, “Thank you for rescuing a damsel in distress,” Even with all the personal defense skills she’d covertly learned, she had been in need of rescuing this eve. Like it or not.
He nodded curtly. “I’d best be getting ye to the hall, then.” He turned abruptly and headed back up the path.
Not quite the answer she wanted, but…“Wait!” She ran to the bush where she’d dropped the satchel that held The Book and a few other necessities. “I’ll need this.”
He gave the small bag a curious look, but said nothing as he began to walk.
Deidre started after him and tripped again on her heavy skirt. Merde! Did her celestial deity have to take such long strides? She was a lot shorter than he was, barely coming to his shoulder. And, he seemed annoyed with her. Hurt swept over her and then she raised her chin defiantly. It wasn’t her fault she’d nearly been raped by some brute. She inhaled quickly as realization hit her. Certainement. It was Beltane. Her fabulous man had probably been on the way to rendezvous with some wench and she’d ruined his plans. She felt a ping of jealousy toward her unknown competitor. He was her knight, right from The Book. Mon Dìeu, to feel Gilead’s full sensual lips on hers…
Her fantasy paused. “Are ye coming?”
Her mother, rest her soul, always told her she was a dreamer, but just looking at him and hearing that delicious brogue…hmmm. The scowl on his
face brought her fanciful notions back to reality. Really, he didn’t have to spoil the moment and be rude. Swains who rescued damsels were supposed to pledge faith or something. That’s what it said in The Book.
She stuck out her chin, picked up the skirt, and hurried to catch up. “I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from an…appointment.”
His glance swept down to her bared legs and she thought she saw his mouth twitch. “Ye are a Sassenach, an outlander. ’Tis a strange accent ye have.”
Deidre thought quickly. Her cousin was powerful and the Franks were always a threat to the Isle. If Gilead found out she’d escaped from Childebert’s clutches, no doubt she’d be returned for a ransom and incur not only the king’s wrath, but his dungeon, as well. She couldn’t take that chance, not now when the mists surrounding the hidden Stone were finally lifting. If the Stone were found by the wrong person… Well, the fewer people who knew about her mission, the better.
Her erratic “gift” really was a curse, she thought again. Had the rumor not reached Paris that Bishop Dubricius of Britain claimed to have had a vision of a spectacular golden jeweled cup from which the Christos had drunk at His last supper—and had not that greedy holy man issued a reward for its discovery—Childebert would probably never have remembered the stolen Philosopher’s Stone.
But he had, and he’d called Deidre in to question her about it. The familiar light-headedness that heralded a Sighting had engulfed her immediately. After more than a decade of the Stone being hidden from her Sight, her senses stirred. An image of the sea and craggy hills spotted with heather had told her the Stone was no longer in Gaul, but if Childebert sent men to Scotland and he found the Stone, he would turn it over to the ever-needy hands of the Roman Church in exchange for Rome’s powerful backing. The wisdom of the Goddess would be lost to history. When found, the Stone must be returned to its grotto in the Languedoc and the priestesses recalled. It was her duty to see that it was done.
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