The Heat of the Knight

by Scottie Barrett

  “Now you will remind me of my cowardice to make certain I do not gloat overlong on your enjoying my touch alone. I’ve heard the story enough. It gives Colin great pleasure to describe how I’d fainted from the saddle while you were in danger.”

  She laughed, her breath warm against his chest. “’Twas Colin who swooned while you threw yourself in front of the boar. You pierced the beast with your spear right through the eye. You did faint soon after, though, from the broken leg. I had to contend with two unconscious de Saxbys.”

  Her eyes drifted shut.

  He pinched her bottom to rouse her. “You mentioned two boars?”

  “The fox,” she slurred the words. “That awful Pikhorn. I recognized the signet ring. He was the one who kidnapped me. Wanted to deliver me to a nunnery.”

  Had the Pikhorns conspired to remove the one temptation that prevented him from pledging his troth to Blanche? Nearly sick from the thought of what might have been had they succeeded, he clutched her tighter.

  Chapter Eleven

  Christiana woke to Colin and Beckett arguing. She opened the bed curtains just enough to pop her head through.

  “Colin, have you come for me?” she asked. The thought chilled her. She’d roused a few times during the day. She knew that the sun had been up for a very long time. Somehow she was hoping for magic, thinking that if she slept the day away, she would never have to leave him.

  Beckett’s black brows furrowed threateningly, and Colin appeared surprised to see her.

  “Have you a notion what trouble this reckless bastard has gotten himself in? The king’s man has just entered the gates. He’s got the goddamned helmet with him.”

  “This is about Lord Revynwyll’s slaying, isn’t it?” she asked.

  Beckett turned on her with a sneer. “What matter is it to you? If I hadn’t detained you in bed, you’d have been gone at daybreak and none the wiser.”

  He directed his fury on Colin now. “How do I know you aren’t the one who betrayed me? After all, you betrayed me once.”

  “You can’t let that rest.” He thrust his chin out and tapped it, and Beckett obliged by slamming a fist into it. Colin landed hard on his backside. “You iron-fisted bastard. Four years of saved up rage makes for a powerful wallop.” He struggled to his feet and gave his head a shake. Wincing, he moved his jaw from side to side. “You want to know how I seduced her into the mill? It was a struggle. First I sweet-talked. When coaxing had no effect, I wheedled and begged. And when all that failed, I shattered her heart. I told her you cared not a farthing for her.”

  Beckett rubbed his fist. “Why?”

  “I caught her staring at you. As if you were the sun and moon wrapped in star shine. I wanted to keep it as it was. Three friends.” He shrugged. “And her beauty is undeniable. Christiana could turn a eunuch hard.”

  Embarrassed, Christiana ducked back behind the curtains. “Here you both go again. Stop talking about me as if I am not in the room.” She screamed into a pillow.

  Beckett lifted a corner of the curtain and peered in at her, a small, sad smile tilting the corner of his lips. “Get dressed, Christiana, Colin is ready to escort you.”

  “Stay abed, Christy. I will greet the king’s man with Beckett.”

  “If you wish. It should prove quite a spectacle,” Beckett told Colin. It sounded to Christiana as though he were offering a measure of forgiveness.

  Christiana reached under the bed hangings, feeling around until she located her clothing.

  “Tiana, you will not be coming.”

  Balancing on the mattress, she yanked on her clothes. “I will do as I want.” Thankfully, the cousins knew better than to issue any more dictatorial edicts.

  Though she’d retched herself weak in the chamber pot, nausea threatened again as Christiana descended the stone staircase. The thought of seeing Beckett escorted out of his own hall to his imprisonment or execution made her mouth dry with fear. But she followed in the wake of the de Saxbys knowing she was facing her own doom as well. If he were no longer on this earth, she would find life unbearable.

  She took his hand as they walked toward the hall. He looked over at her, his thick lashes shadowing the blackest of eyes. Lifting her fingers, he rubbed them along his bottom lip. He exchanged glances with Colin over her head.

  “You know I will always look out for her,” Colin said.

  An ill-omened hush fell over the assembled people. Dinner had been served, but the great mounds of food lay untouched. The only guests dining as though nothing unusual was afoot were the Pikhorn women.

  “That’s quite a hearty appetite your betrothed has, Beckett,” Colin muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

  “You must look past that leg of mutton she nibbles upon. It is only a way to mask her very real worry for me,” Beckett said dryly.

  “Stop this,” Christiana’s voice cracked. “Beckett faces the threat of execution, and you two are making jests.”

  The cousins glanced back at her and then grinned at each other. Colin’s smile had a lopsided tilt because of his swollen jaw.

  “Perhaps, Beckett, Cook is plumping her up so that she can be the main course at her own wedding feast.” Colin’s voice echoed in the vast room.

  Despite her misery, Christiana giggled.

  A loud gasp was followed by a choking cough. Lady Pikhorn delivered a ruthless slap to her daughter’s back as the woman reached for the chalice in front of her. After swallowing back the wine, she slammed the vessel down. She shot a poisonous glare across the room at Christiana.

  Christiana scooted out of view behind Beckett and grasped his tunic with her trembling fingers. “Please do not leave me, Beckett,” she whispered.

  He reached around and squeezed her against his hard body. Then he released his comforting hold and stepped onto the dais. Christiana scurried to stand near Colin. She would watch the whole scene from over his shoulder.

  A humorless smile played on Beckett’s lips as he spotted Pikhorn. The Fox was standing in the corner, his eyes glinting with unnatural excitement.

  “Lord Treshingham has honored us with a visit, Dareford.” Pikhorn waved his hand toward the king’s envoy as he crossed the room accompanied by his guards.

  The fur cape clasped with a jeweled brooch bespoke prestige, but the breeches beneath were of a rough fabric and the boots weathered, a concession to days on the road. Sweeping his cape aside, Lord Treshingham exposed the ebony helmet he carried. He set it before Beckett.

  The man nodded toward the helmet. “Familiar?”

  “Aye. An ill-built piece of hardware. The eye piece is too narrow, like looking through a kettle spout.” Awed whispers and mutterings spread through the hall.

  Almost instantly, the dais filled with men. Some of the scarred visages were familiar to Christiana. The men’s frames were so broad that they presented a human wall behind their leader.

  But they would present no protection if the king were bent on bringing Beckett to justice.

  Roger Pikhorn walked purposefully across the room and insinuated himself between the envoy’s retainers to stand beside Lord Treshingham.

  “Can you tell me of Revynwyll’s fate?” Treshingham inquired.

  “He died by my hand.” Beckett’s men shifted threateningly. A second row of men had formed behind his dedicated warriors. They were guardsmen who were clearly puzzled by the situation.

  The envoy held up the palms of his hands in a placating gesture. “Do not agitate yourselves.”

  “My retainers were under my orders. I will not have them held accountable,” Beckett insisted.

  Christiana felt as if the ground were sinking beneath her. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She sniffled once and the noise caught Beckett’s notice immediately. He gazed at her for a moment, and the tears rolled faster. Then he returned his attention to Lord Treshingham.

  The envoy smoothed his hand over his whiskers. It seemed an unsuccessful attempt to suppress a smile. “Mayhap, you should let your men decide tha
t. They may prefer to share in your good fortune.”

  Beckett picked up the black helmet and contemplated it. “Which do you fancy, men, the gallows or the dungeon?”

  “His majesty wishes to show his appreciation in less lethal ways.” From his wallet, the envoy removed a parchment and tossed it atop the table. “Revynwyll’s holdings are yours. We have culled the traitors from the estate. Those who remain have pledged their fealty to their king and their new liege lord.”

  A shriek of elation came from the direction of the two Pikhorn women. Lady Pikhorn smothered her daughter in an embrace. “My dearest child, now you will be lady of two great estates.”

  Christiana swayed with relief. To prevent herself from collapsing, she clutched at Colin’s sleeve.

  Lord Treshingham reached for the helmet. “May I present this to the king? It may help to discourage traitorous instincts.”

  “’Tis yours and good riddance. I’m retiring that guise.”

  “Hopefully, if your king requires your help again, the Blacksmith can be resurrected.”

  “As always, I’m at his service.” Beckett filled a goblet with wine and handed it to Lord Treshingham. “I’d be honored if you joined us at table.”

  Pikhorn made a disgusted sound, and Lord Treshingham gave him an impatient nod and moved in closer to the table. “I’ve another matter to discuss. It involves Pikhorn.” Only those atop the dais were now privy to the conversation. Christiana sensed the rest of the gathered people straining to hear.

  “I’m afraid I owe Pikhorn a favor for retrieving the Blacksmith’s armor and leading me to its rightful owner. He found your treatment of him last night somewhat heavy-handed. Some compensation for his humiliation might set the thing aright.” He tugged on his beard and winked. “Let him have his dalliance with the girl.”

  Christiana peered around Colin’s arm. Lord Treshingham’s shrewd eyes scanned the faces in the crowd. Christiana’s pulse raced as his gaze stopped on her. His lips curled into a smile more suited to a brigand than a courtier.

  “Dareford,” he addressed Beckett again. “A rut might make Pikhorn more appreciative of your hospitality.” Lord Treshingham opened his hands wide, gesturing munificence. “I hear you are to wed his sister. Bad blood between kin is not the way to begin a new life.”

  “True words, Lord Treshingham. Bad blood is no way to begin a marriage. And I don’t know when I have ever met any family with worse blood than this brood of Pikhorns.”

  Coarse laughter erupted from Beckett’s guardsmen and quickly infected the entire crowd.

  Pikhorn cursed, and the envoy laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Let it rest, sir. There is nothing more to be gained here.”

  Lady Pikhorn pushed herself from the table, her face blotched with fury.

  Beckett’s voice boomed, as if he wished to drown out any of Lady Pikhorn’s objections. “I had intended to fulfill my father’s wish, but it proved impossible. I made no pledge, which I am certain Mistress Pikhorn will attest to.”

  With a sullen nod, Blanche reluctantly acknowledged Beckett’s statement.

  Lady Pikhorn hurled a goblet to the floor. The ring of metal on stone caught the crowd’s notice. “That silver-haired witch has ensorcelled him,” she shrieked as she pointed a knobby finger at Christiana.

  Feeling exposed and alone, Christiana was desperate to escape. She circled behind the broad backs of the retainers. Even in her distress, she did not fail to notice an odd ripple of movement passing through their ranks as though they were exchanging an object.

  Once in the empty hallway she hugged herself against the chill. The sound of her shallow breaths ricocheted off the walls.

  She started as Arnulph suddenly loomed around the corner. He winked his lone eye and shoved something into her hand. She took a surreptitious peek at the ring she now held. This is what she had seen the guardsmen transferring from hand to hand. Curiosity brought her back to the entryway of the dining hall.

  Beckett acknowledged her with a flick of his eyes. “I must ask, Treshingham, it has been a long while since I visited the king’s court, but has it become customary for a man to favor his guests with a tumble with his betrothed? Because if it has, I can assure you I am not that generous of a host.” Beckett handed the man a drinking vessel.

  Christiana soon became the target of Lord Treshingham’s keen gaze. She pretended to fiddle with the little pouch at her belt. Blushing, she produced the de Saxby’s heavy signet ring. Beckett was studying her carefully.

  She felt certain that the envoy wondered why a de Saxby was throwing away the chance for a profitable alliance to marry a girl of lowly birth. After all, it would have been simple enough for Beckett to install an ill-tempered wife in one of his homes that he rarely visited.

  With the ring resting on the palm of her hand, Christiana stepped forward. “’Tis a love match,” she said as way of explanation. Beckett blinked as though surprised by her revelation.

  The envoy looked from her to Beckett.

  Beckett pushed the documents deeding rights to Revynwyll’s estates across the table. “I’d prefer the king’s consent to marry as reward. I will see that my men are compensated from my own treasure.”

  Christiana’s heart started beating wildly. Was Beckett in earnest about the betrothal?

  The envoy stared hard at Beckett as if gauging whether he had all his senses. Christiana’s hopes plummeted. Of course, it would be madness for a lord to marry a serving wench. What a risk he took lying to the king’s man just to rid his house of the Pikhorns.

  “I pray I never find myself so lovestruck.” Lord Treshingham grinned like a goat. “Because of your service to the realm, the land and the girl shall be yours. I see no difficulty convincing Edward of the rightness of the union.”

  “And what of me? What sort of satisfaction will I be accorded?” The Fox made a great show of clamping his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

  “Pikhorn, you will have to work that out with your host. But do wait until I am out of earshot if you please. This is no business of mine.” Lord Treshingham seemed to flinch at the intent he glimpsed in Beckett’s eyes. “My advice, Pikhorn, do not tangle with the Blacksmith in his lair.” He gripped Roger’s shoulder in a gesture of warning and then strode purposefully away.

  Roger Pikhorn blanched as he stepped off the dais, nearly tumbling into the lap of his mother.

  “Swords, Pikhorn?” Beckett asked. “What type of weapon do abductors of maidens prefer?”

  “Mayhap your mother could lend you her dainty dagger?” Arnulph suggested.

  Pikhorn’s skin had turned as gray as aged linen. “Dareford, your barbarism knows no bounds.” He turned on his heels and shoved his way through the crowd, the guardsmen’s raucous taunts following him.

  With a signal, Beckett’s men scattered, and then, with a crooked smile, he beckoned Christiana.

  Christiana curled her hand so as not to lose the ring. “I will not give this back,” she whispered, mindful that the envoy was still present.

  With a hand on her elbow, he whisked her out of the hall. Once alone, he cornered her.

  “I was only teasing. I really wouldn’t have kept it.”

  “You will keep it.” His hand wrapped hard around hers, the big ring biting into her skin. “Keep me. Marry me.” His beautiful black eyes burned into hers.

  “You are my ultimate weakness.” She stroked his face. “And my ultimate strength. I feel as though I’ve loved you forever, Beckett de Saxby.”

  He pressed his mouth to her furled fingers. “And I’ll love you longer than that.”

  The Heat of the Knight

  Copyright© 2016 by Scottie Barrett

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights are Reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Look for these titles by Scottie Barrett:

  Angel’s Guardian

  Carnal Deceptions

  The Viscount’s Addiction

  Branded: Wanting the Wrong Dalton

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  The Heat of the Knight