The Warrior's Reward

by Samantha Holt

  And she would have her little adventure.

  Skirts in hand, they made their way down the steps. Stars twinkled overhead, the night as clear as the day had been. Fresh, cool air filled her chest and she couldn’t help but grin to herself. When they made it to the bottom of the stone steps, her heart had almost stopped pounding so heavily.

  “Come on. Before we see anyone we know,” she said, slipping her arm through Bella’s.

  “If your father—”

  “Oh hush, he will never find out.”

  Arm in arm, they made their way down the short embankment of the castle toward the tents. The two sennights the tournament had been on had been utter torture. To see all the bold knights and the villagers enjoying themselves so close by and she, trapped in her castle like a prisoner, only able to watch from her window... But no longer. The boldness of that knight today had inspired her. If he could be so brave as to approach her whilst she was at her father’s side, she could find the courage to enjoy one night of revelry. Whatever memories she made tonight would carry her through whatever the years brought.

  More summers trapped behind the stone of her father’s keep, most likely. It didn’t look as though he would ever say aye to a suitor or allow her a little more freedom. It was so unfair.

  Flaming torches held in iron stakes that were in turn stuck into the ground led the way past the pavilion tents which housed most of the knights and, of course, the surgeons which were inevitably needed. Her father’s tournament was never meant to be a fight to the death but accidents happened and occasionally tempers flared.

  She gripped Bella closer to her while they made their way past a group of men sitting around a fire. The merchant tents were farther back, some still open to sell their wares. Food and drink was most popular at this time of day and several men, and even a few women, stumbled along the wide mud pathway that led to the centre of the revelry.

  Ahead a huge bonfire blazed. Smoky swirls rose into the air then vanished into the blackness and sparks danced from it. The scent of burning wood mingled with that of a hog roast that Rosamunde saw was being carved from one of the many stalls surrounding the fire. But the main attraction was the ale tent. Set up by the local innkeeper, the shouts and singing told her many were in it and the innkeeper would do well from this tournament.

  “Should we go in?” Rosamunde asked when they neared the tent. The flaps were lifted far back and rows of tables were occupied with knights and simple peasant folk, all bonding over their shared passion—for getting into their cups.

  “I don’t think that’s wise, my lady. What if someone recognises you?”

  “They will not. No one would believe for one moment that my father would let me out without him.”

  Bella’s arm tensed on hers but Rosamunde would not be dissuaded. She refused to have regrets about tonight. They ducked into the tent. No one turned to look at them as she feared. In fact they were all far too busy enjoying themselves to care about the two new women in their midst.

  And if the scantily clad state of some of the wenches was anything to go by, no one would bother. Breasts were pressed into faces and thighs draped across laps of the obviously richer patrons. Rosamunde had to fight to keep from gaping. She had no ambitions to be a... well, to be a fallen woman, but a sharp jolt of something knifed through her. To have no inhibitions, to have such freedom. The thought of pressing herself against a muscular man, of his fingers on her thighs or maybe even her breasts made her pulse flutter.

  Before she got carried away with such ideas, she urged Bella to the trestle table that housed several dozen tankards of ready-poured ale. Rosamunde pressed a coin into her friend’s hand and urged her forward. “Buy some,” she hissed.

  “We don’t even know what’s in it.”

  “’Twill just be ale.”

  Bella dropped her shoulders and shuffled over to take two beakers and hand the coin to the innkeeper. Then she gave Rosamunde one and made a good show of checking the contents.

  Rosamunde clasped the earthenware tankard and took a great gulp. Bitter hops flooded her mouth and she fought to keep from spluttering.

  “I warned you.”

  Narrowing her gaze at Bella, she lifted the tankard defiantly and drained it, even allowing some to slip down her chin. She swiped a hand across the back of her mouth and they both laughed.

  “That is certainly not like the ale we have in the castle. And not nearly so weak, methinks. I feel all warm and tingly already.”

  “Oh, my lady, whatever are we to do with you,” her lady-in-waiting said indulgently.

  “I could think of a few things,” a man slurred from behind them.

  They both leapt forward when the large man wrapped his arms about their shoulders. Bella managed to slip away but his grip on Rosamunde tightened. Acrid breath washed over her. Rosamunde wrinkled her nose. The man needed a bath.

  She tried to wriggle away again, reluctant to draw attention to herself, while Bella darted her gaze wildly around.

  “Release me,” Rosamunde said in her most impervious voice.

  “Come join me for a drink, wench. Ye look lonely. I’ve a fine lap for ye to sit on.”

  “I thank you, kind sir, but I do not want to sit on your lap. I’m quite happy where I am.”

  “Nonsense.” Securing his other arm around her waist and drawing her into his body, he began to move her toward one of the benches.

  Rosamunde wriggled. This wasn’t meant to happen. She had thought of being pressed against the muscles of a knight perhaps, not the soft, round belly of a man who had clearly not bathed in the two sennights the tournament had been running.

  What to do? Should she reveal herself?

  Bella rushed forward then froze when the man put a hand to Rosamunde’s neck. “I’ll go for help,” she declared before racing off.

  Rosamunde tried to kick back with her feet but met nothing but air. She wriggled again. She tried pleading. No one paid any heed to her. Her captor simply laughed. Mayhap he thought she played some game with him.

  He sat and pulled her down with him so the air left her chest in a whoosh. One thick arm wrapped about her waist and settled her on him. She pushed at the arm but might as well have been held there by the iron restraints in the donjon. Her strength was no match for his.

  “Pray, let me go,” she begged, frustration turning her voice raspy. This was not how her adventure was meant to go.

  “I think not. Have a drink.” The man shoved a beaker across the table, causing some of the ale to spill onto her silk skirts.

  “You know not what you’re doing. Release me. I’m not... I’m not a whore.”

  “They all say that.” He drained a beaker of ale and turned his face to her. A finger came up to her mantle. “Let’s have a look at ye.”

  “Nay!”

  She closed her eyes and waited for him to press back the mantle and then something happened. The hold on her loosened. She found herself tumbling to the ground. The man holding her seemed to lift from the bench and stumble out of the door. Rosamunde pressed her stinging palms to the ground and forced herself to sit upright. A large palm greeted her, offered in assistance. She took it without thinking, the coarse warmth instantly soothing her.

  Her rescuer helped her to her feet, bundled her into his side and led her out of the tent. She gulped. Muscle. So much muscle. It felt as though horses were stampeding through her chest. Then he drew her to one side, in front of a closed tent, and released her. Icy disappointment washed over her but she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, ready to offer her thanks.

  Her mouth dropped open. “Ieuan!”

  In the light of the bonfire and scattered torches, she recognised those full lips and that dark facial hair. Without his helm, she had a fine view of a strong jaw. A small scar sliced down through his bottom lip and into the hair on his chin, leaving a tiny sliver of a bald patch. It made him seem, well, dangerous and, sweet Mary, so very exciting.

  His brows dipped and he
reached up to press back her mantle. She instinctively went to prevent him but forced herself to drop her hands. There would be no stopping him. She only hoped he didn’t run and tell her father of her antics.

  “My lady.” His lips quirked as his gaze ran over her features.

  Rosamunde gazed up at him. A mere pace separated them. He towered over her. Even in a simple tunic and chausses, he appeared every inch the warrior. He needed no metal armour to widen his shoulders.

  “Whatever are you doing out here?”

  Should she confess all? “Will you tell my father?”

  He shook his head. “I swear upon my honour. It shall be our secret.”

  Our secret. A tingling thrill wound through her. They had a secret. “I sneaked out,” she spilled out breathlessly.

  “Indeed.”

  “I did not mean to find trouble.”

  “It seems trouble found you, my lady.”

  His warm smile drew one from her and she laughed. “It seems it did. I must thank you, sir.”

  “I am your champion, am I not? And, pray, call me Ieuan.”

  “As my champion, you must call me Rosamunde then.”

  She tucked her hands behind her back and licked her lips. Had he moved closer? The gap between them seemed to be closing. She knew not whether to move back against the fabric of the tent or allow him to press up against her. If that was even his intention. She had very little experience with menfolk. The two brief courtships had mostly been directed at wooing her father rather than herself.

  Lord, but he was handsome. The golden light gilded his features, warmed his dark hair. She laced her fingers together behind her back and squeezed them tight.

  “Rosamunde,” he said softly, her name whispering across her face like a caress.

  Never had her name sounded so enticing or sinful.

  A soulful tune moved through the air toward them, breaking the way his gaze locked with hers. He turned his head to the sound and she did the same to see several troubadours had gathered to play for some dancers. It was a simple tune with no singing. She didn’t know it, but it was soft and flowing. It made her want to sway... mayhap even forward, into his arms.

  Rosamunde studied his profile for many moments, tracing the sharp angle of his nose. It was slightly bent, she realised, with a bump in the bridge. He must have broken it. In battle or at another tournament?

  Ieuan turned back to her, his gaze locking with hers once more. “I must escort you back.” Regret hung in his words.

  Or had she imagined it? She shook her head. Nay, the night could not end. Not now she was in the company of this hardened warrior. The sword on his belt gleamed, reminding her of the danger surrounding him. A thrill thrummed through her body.

  “I wish to stay,” she finally managed to say.

  “’Tis not safe here.”

  “You are my champion, are you not? I shall be safe at your side.”

  His lips straightened, the crease in his brow deepened. Instead of the amusement she might have expected in his gaze, only a deep, dark intensity echoed. Her whole body tightened, but she couldn’t tell if it was from excitement or a little nervousness.

  A few dancers twirled past them, their movements enough to break whatever had turned his eyes so dark. She watched their slow turns enviously and drew in a breath. Had this man not inspired her with his bravery?

  And so she too would seek courage, even if it was for but one night.

  “Will you not dance with me?” The words tumbled out into the night air before she could think on them or regret them.

  His gaze locked with hers and for several heartbeats, she expected him to say nay, to tell her he must return her home. Then his hand touched hers. He said nothing. Simply twined his warm, rough fingers with hers. The contrast between their skin, hers soft and his rough, twisted her stomach into knots. She, who seldom used her hands for more than a little embroidery, and he who fought for honour and prestige, and likely his life at times.

  Ieuan had dropped his gaze to their joined hands and did the same as he lifted her hand and drew her away from the tent toward the crackling heat of the fire. Ribbons of smoke curled about them though the gentle breeze prevented it from swallowing them. Nonetheless, everything in the background faded when he dropped into a bow and looked at her from under his brow.

  Rosamunde felt as if they were in a world of their own, as if she was a free woman. Free to dance with handsome strangers, to drink ale, to dance around a fire. People did not dance around them, there was no music from the troubadours—only the music of their hearts. No laughs or rowdy songs emanated from the ale tent. Everything vanished, leaving only her and this knight.

  “I know few courtly dances,” he warned. “We Welsh are not ones for dancing. We turn our attentions to other matters.”

  “Like fighting,” she blurted and she clapped her free hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “I mean—”

  His lips tilted, his eyes crinkled. “Aye, like fighting, but the Welsh are not so barbaric as you may think, Rosamunde. We take pleasure in many things. Fine food, good tales, the art of poetry and of course... the wooing of fair maidens.”

  Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird in her chest. He had dropped his voice for the last few words, lowering his tone until it became dark and sinful. Wooing maidens was no sin if a man intended to marry said maiden, but they were not to be married, and he was wooing her, was he not? Still after his victory, he would be gone—back to Wales probably—so what harm could one night of wooing do?

  Ieuan used a gentle pressure on her hand to draw her close until only a whisper of air separated them. She had to crane her neck to peer up at him. The most delicious tumbling sensation flipped her stomach over and over. Wooing indeed. She had not meant to come to flirt with this knight yet she could not deny she’d secretly hoped she might see him.

  He directed her back again, guiding her with nothing more than his large hand. She followed his lead and allowed him complete control of her movements. He turned her slowly, giving her enough time to meet his gaze for long moments before turning away. The movement brought her close again and in spite of their leisurely movements, she found herself breathless.

  “You shall return to Wales soon?” she asked, needing reassurance. Nothing could come of their dalliance and nor did she want anything to. A sweet memory was all she wanted.

  “Aye, two day’s hence. Once I have secured my victory and... my prize.”

  There it was again. The drop in his voice. He spoke of the prize pot as though it was some decadent reward, like the kiss of a lady. She supposed he must need the money. Wales was suffering after the failure of the rebellion. The King of England had fined many of the nobles involved and even hanged some for treason. The Prince of Wales was nowhere to be found so his leading men were punished instead.

  Thank the Lord Ieuan had not been one of them. She knew little of him, save what Bella had told her but her father would never have allowed a traitor to compete. Still, he might well have found his lands attacked during the rebellion. From what tales her father told her of the war, Wales had been ravaged by attackers on both sides as they fought for control of the main castles.

  A pang of sympathy darted through her. She didn’t fully understand the reason for the uprising but she understood the need for freedom. But she had no oppressor to fight against, only her father, who behaved as he did out of love for her. Rosamunde could hardly blame him after what happened to her mother.

  “Is my dancing so poor that it saddens you?”

  “Oh, nay, not at all.” She returned her attention to the gentle moves and found herself coaxed around the back of him only to come around and stand directly in front of him once more.

  He loosened his grip on her fingers and pressed his palm to hers. “What saddens you, beautiful maiden?”

  “I was thinking of your country.”

  “And that saddens you?”

  “Aye, it does.”

  Aware of every callus on hi
s hand pressing against her skin, she reflected on the only other men—aside from her family—to have touched her. Her suitors had been noblemen, not warriors. Their palms were soft. They spent time at court and had men do their fighting for them. Political intrigue was their forte. Ieuan’s was how best to kill his enemy.

  Yet from the way he looked at her now, she would struggle to find the warrior in him were it not for his obvious strength. Though the blue in his eyes was dampened by the glow from the flames, they were soft, searching. It wasn’t until someone brushed her arm did she realise they’d ceased dancing. They stood, palm to palm, gazing at one another. Her heart lodged in her throat. Would it be possible for her to gain a kiss from him this night? To live her one dream before he vanished back to Wales and she returned to the castle to be hidden away until the next tournament?

  And mayhap he would return next summer and claim another kiss. Then the summer after that. And every summer after. For surely her father intended for her to remain an old maid or else he would have accepted one of the generous offers for her. What else could she look forward to but a kiss from a darkly handsome knight?

  Ieuan dropped his palm from hers. She blinked, losing the dreamy haze. She’d always tended toward daydreaming but never truly believed such foolish dreams. He was her champion, a man of honour, and likely lived a chivalric life. He would not kiss her, no matter how much she willed it, and he certainly wouldn’t travel across the country for a mere kiss once a year.

  “’Tis late. I should return you to the keep before you are missed.”

  “My father shall not miss me. He knows not that I’m gone.”

  Admiration revealed itself in a grin. “You are bold indeed, Rosamunde.”

  Bold? If only. Then she might beg for his kiss or even step forward and press her lips to his. “My father doesn’t let me out alone,” she said as if that explained her rash behaviour. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “Oh Lord, my lady-in-waiting. Whatever could have happened to her?”