Jonathan stopped in front of a wooden door and knocked. “Father, the harpist is here.”
“Tell him to wait,” a powerful voice called back. “My daughter is reading scripture to me.”
Jonathan pushed open the door. “This man sings scripture and weaves the words with music. I promise you’ll be delighted.”
David gulped back fear. The young prince was so bold. But it wasn’t his head on the line.
The king grunted for them to enter. David clutched his harp and stepped into the overheated chamber. The pungent odor of burnt hemp tightened his chest. King Saul, as large a man as rumored, slouched on a gilded couch.
A young woman placed a scroll on the table and stood to leave. David closed his mouth and dropped to the floor. Her stunning beauty drained any trace of composure from his heart.
“Michal, sit. You may stay,” the king said.
Michal. David whispered her name. He closed his eyes and moistened his lips. “My king, I’m David, the son of Jesse, your servant.”
Jonathan tapped David and pointed to a sheepskin-covered dais at the side of the couch. David took the seat and inhaled to quiet his speeding pulse. He forced his shoulders back and lifted his hands to strum, unable to keep from glancing at the princess. Her gaze drifted from his eyes, to his mouth, to his chest and hands. His throat tightened. How could he sing with her looking at him like that?
The king prodded his daughter, and she lowered her face. David willed his fingers to stretch and caress the taut strings. The harp responded with a sprinkling of chords, and he sang of God’s glorious creation and marvelous works. Again, his eyes gravitated toward the princess. And he sang of beauty, grace, and God’s loving-kindness.
The princess smiled, lifting an eyebrow. Her father looked at her and thumped his pipe on the table. David flinched, frozen in mid-strum. Panic speared his chest, and he pinpointed his gaze to the floor. The guards at the king’s side did not move. Sweat trickled down the side of his face as he counted down the minutes of his life.
“Your music pleases me,” the king said. “You’re dismissed.”
David bowed and backed out of the chamber. The princess stood, graceful and lithe. Her eyes were green and flecked with emotions he could not read. A cascade of rosewood-colored hair swept the challenging tilt of her face. She walked toward him. A thunderbolt slammed his heart, and he could hardly breathe. She belongs to me.
She shut the door.
* * *
My elder sister, Merab, stepped into my room and poked me with her spindle. “Well, Michal, what do you think of Father’s new servant?”
I tightened the threads on the loom and adjusted the weights. I had hoped Merab wouldn’t notice David. But as usual, she made it her business to inquire about every young man who frequented the palace.
“He’s a servant.” I lifted my chin and swept a thread off my sleeve. “And besides, I’m not supposed to talk to him.”
She twirled her spindle. “All the better. He can’t refuse to talk to you. I’ve always found serving boys very accommodating.”
“Well, if you’re so interested, why don’t you—” I didn’t want Merab to toy with David. She had a way of stripping her suitors of their dignity before she refused bride prices rich enough to buy the daughter of Pharaoh.
She tapped my shoulder. “Way below my sights. A shabby servant. And you? Blushing and stammering already. I dare you to kiss him, baby sister. Don’t forget to pay Mother’s maid to look the other way.”
She walked away with a dismissive laugh.
I set my weaving aside. Unlike my sister, I had never spoken to a man alone nor been kissed. But I had observed her tactics. And I was no longer a baby.
Perhaps I would approach David. He appeared humble and kind—and oh, so handsome. And when he sang, he showed a tenderness that made me tremble. And his fingers, solid yet fluid, caressed over chords as delicate as the morning dew.
David. His name meant ‘beloved.’ Dah-veed. I clicked my tongue and pinched my lower lip with a wet bite. David and Michal. I rolled the words and imagined long walks in the woods and lingering evenings in the moonlight.
I changed into a delicate, rose-colored dress and twisted my hair with a golden comb. A necklace of fiery rubies and matching earrings completed my outfit. Satisfied with my appearance, I opened my door and peered down the corridor.
It was the quiet time right before the evening meal when Mother napped and Father held court. Merab sang love songs in her room, mooning over Adriel, a married friend of our family. What my parents didn’t know could fill a book.
I meandered through the garden and slipped past the kitchen to the servants’ quarters. What luck! David sat alone on a bench, reading. I stepped to his side, cast my shadow over his scroll and startled him.
“Walk with me.” I presented my hand, and he took it. But before he could press it to his lips, I withdrew. “You’ll have to catch me first. There’s an abandoned guard shack right above the granary on the old section of the palace wall.”
Not waiting for a reply, I walked across the storage yard and skipped up the wooden steps. A new set of walls extended a hundred yards beyond, leaving this part of the battlements isolated. Here, I often spied on my brothers while they exercised in the training yard below. I also had a view of my parents’ separate bedchambers.
A veiled woman entered my father’s chamber. A few years older than I, she was given to my father to promote her father’s position. I would have pitied her if she weren’t so haughty, although being bed toy to the king was hardly a laudable accomplishment.
“I found you.” David appeared at the top of the steps.
“I knew you’d come.” I pursed my lips to hide a smile of delight. This was easier than I thought.
“Are you alone?”
“Why no. You’re here, aren’t you?” I held out my hand. “We haven’t been properly introduced. Michal, daughter of Saul, of Gibeah.”
He clasped my hand. “David, son of Jesse, of Bethlehem.”
His voice as unyielding as his grasp, he swept my palm to his lips. Warm tingles radiated from his kiss. His honey-colored eyes brightened before lowering under gold-tipped lashes.
I leaned toward him. “Have you ever courted a maiden?”
He straightened to release my hand, but I squeezed his fingers and trapped him with my other hand. A fierce blush colored his face. “I’ve never courted a princess.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Would it matter?” He cocked his head and turned up a corner of his mouth.
“How dare you! Of course, it matters.”
“Would it matter that I’m a poor man? A servant of your father?”
I dropped his hand and leaned over the windowsill. The scent of night jasmine wafted from the garden below. “It depends on what you wish for in your heart.”
“My wishes or yours?”
“Yours first. Tell me.”
He gazed at the horizon. He seemed an intelligent man with a masculine face. Not broad, but angular—strong brows over deep set eyes, a distinctive nose, and a crown of copper-brown hair unruly like my goat-hair pillow. When he settled his eyes on me, I hardly dared to breathe.
“Peace for Israel,” he said.
“Is that possible?” I drew closer.
“Yes, if we have peace with God first.”
His profound statement stirred my pulse and kindled a flame, an aching, twisting pang. Unable to sustain his probing gaze, I turned toward the setting sun. Its burnished rays bathed the jagged walls of our palace, dappling the rugged hills with shadows of gold, crimson, and brown.
“So you’re a man of peace. Very good. What about love? Do you wish for love?”
He took my hand and traced my palm with his thumb.
Oh, my soul. A thrill shot straight to my heart. A lone hawk screeched, banked and crested toward the tip of the disappearing light.
“Princess, how old are you?” His voice deepened.
I hovered into the warmth of his chest. “Ancient. As old as these hills.”
“Have you ever been courted?”
I shook my head.
“As old as you say you are and a princess too. Tell me, Michal, have you ever been in love?” He raised my hand to his lips but dropped it without kissing it.
Crickets serenaded the darkening sky with scratchy chirps, accompanied by the throaty croak of a persistent toad. I trembled, and David wrapped his arms around me. His scent pulsed hot with sandalwood, raking me with a newborn sense of longing. And his hands, oh, so firm, tightened around my waist, and his prayer shawl entangled my fingers, and his body, oh, the press of his body… made me want…
Voices sounded from the courtyard below, and I pulled back from the window ledge.
David turned me into the shadow of the wall. He brushed my lips so lightly I couldn’t tell if he had touched me with his breath or his mouth. The wind gusted, and he was gone.
I clung to my shawl, holding in his warmth, the strength of his shoulders, the excitement of his chest. I had never allowed a man to hold me before. But David was different. He awoke strange and uncontrollable sensations. A tiny star shivered, wavered, and plummeted straight into my heart, mingling with my unspoken wish. And I knew at once why songs are sung and ballads told.
* * *
The sun broke through after a few days of rain. I donned a saffron gown trimmed with golden threads and pulled golden bracelets on my wrists. Mother braided my hair and insisted I wear a scarf. I pulled on a diaphanous one and headed for the wall to enjoy the sun. Unlike Merab, my olive complexioned skin did not burn easily. The small scroll of Ruth under my arm, I climbed the steps two at a time.
David looked up from the bench in the guard shack. His eyes widened, and a smile crept on his face. “Nice day, Princess.”
I stopped at the top of the stairs. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“This is such a peaceful place. You don’t mind sharing?” He moved his harp to make room.
“Not at all.” I scooted next to him, slightly breathless, my body humming with an unsettling frisson. “What are you doing with your harp?”
“Changing strings. Wouldn’t want them to break while I play for your father.”
My father’s temper had raged and thundered with the recent storm. I took David’s hand and touched the blisters on the tips of his fingers. “Is my father feeling better?”
“Thankfully, he’s settled down. I’m free for the rest of the day.” His breath was a little too hot. I giggled and dropped his hand.
“What do you have there?” He pointed to my scroll.
“My favorite story. Ruth and Boaz.”
He regarded me with a clandestine smile, shook his head, and pulled a new string onto his harp.
“What?” I shoved the scroll aside. “You know, David. You’re on my bench.” I removed my scarf and unbraided my hair. “I came here for some sun and quiet.”
“Oh, excuse me for intruding.” He gathered the loose strings and prepared to leave.
I pressed him down, one finger on his shoulder. “Since you’re on my bench, you might as well show me a few things.”
“Only a few?” He twirled a string between his thumb and forefinger.
I pointed to his harp, perched on his lap. “May I touch?”
“Um… sure, it’s a shepherd’s harp. My grandfather made it for me.” He handed it to me.
I trailed my fingers over the smooth curves. The wood where his hands rested was well-worn and polished. “It’s splendid. Lighter than I thought.”
The scent was reminiscent of crushed bay leaves, clean and fresh. Swirls of tan, red, yellow and brown grain rippled along the contour of its body.
“It’s made of myrtle wood,” he said.
“And the strings?”
“Sheep gut.” He laughed. “Go ahead, pluck them.”
I picked the fibrous strings. The tones jarred. “Ooph. It sounds much better in your hands.”
David took the harp back. “Forgive me, the strings are not tuned. I’ll finish and show you how to play.”
His nimble fingers made quick work of the restringing. With closed eyes, he plucked two strings at a time and adjusted the pegs until they rang true. His face took on an angelic aura, and his hair shimmered in the sunlight.
The harp tuned, he placed it on my lap, arranging my hands to hold it, and plucked a few strings to demonstrate. “The pitch of the longer string is deeper. Those from the shorter strings are higher. Some intervals sound nice when plucked together. If we skip a string or two… this string, this one, and this…”
My head swam with possibilities, and I could not catch his words. His hands touched my hands, his thigh pressed against mine, and his breath tickled my hair. My bracelets jangled as I strummed a cacophony of disharmony as wild and frothy as my feelings.
He was so close, I could hardly breathe. My shoulders wobbled, and my fingers fluttered over the strings. Tempted to melt into his arms, I pushed the harp back and warned myself to behave as a princess should.
“Giving up already?” His lips curved with barely concealed amusement.
“No… I’m just hot. You know, the weather. Can you sing for me?”
I caught my breath as he sang and picked the strings to the cadence of a rippling brook. The earthy timbre of his voice wrapped around the clean tones of his instrument. Wooing, seducing, trapping—he held me with the promise of his song.
When he finished, he handed the harp to me, the frame still vibrating. His fingers toyed with my hair, and his warm breath caressed my face. His mouth drew near, eyes intent, seeking permission.
Hesitant, my lips parted. Curious, my eyes closed. And his lips brushed the corners of my mouth, an invitation to taste, to touch, to hold. I accepted and held my breath as his tongue slipped over mine. A flurry of tingles danced around my waist and trailed down to my toes.
I clutched the harp, unable to move. Everything was possible, and the world was mine, and life was glorious.
And at the center of it all was David.
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Don’t go away! Watch for my next sports romance Spring 2016 with Playing Catch: A Baseball Romance
On the field and off the field, bartender Jeanine Jewell plays, collecting one-night stands like baseball cards. She doesn’t need a man, except to curl her toes and make her scream. She’s learned the hard way that the one who cares more is the one who gets hurt—and the last thing she can handle is getting hurt, or having anyone discover her shameful secret.
Scoring women is easy for catcher Kirk Kennedy—they don’t call him “Catch and Release” for nothing. He never goes back for a repeat performance. Being traded to a new city is an opportunity for new adventures. Everything changes when he runs into Jeanine and she refuses to go home with him.
Intrigued, Kirk is determined to catch the elusive blonde and keep her to himself. When he proposes a wingman to wingwoman friends without benefits relationship, he’s surprised she accepts.
The no benefits clause soon falls by the wayside when neither Jeanine or Kirk can resist their explosive chemistry together. But despite the sparks between the sheets, they both refuse to acknowledge they’re anything more than friends.
A phone call changes everything when Kirk discovers his past is the one Jeanine's hiding from …
About the Author
Rachelle Ayala is a bestselling author of dramatic romantic suspense and humorous, sexy contemporary romances. Her heroines are feisty and her heroes hot. She writes emotionally challenging stories but believes in the power of love and hope.
Rachelle is the founder of an online writing group, Romance in a Month, an active member of the California Writer's Club, Fremont Chapter, and a volunteer for the World Literary Cafe. She has won awards in multicultural
and historical romance.
Check out her website at http://rachelleayala.me and visit her Reader’s Guide.
Acknowledgments
Intercepted by Love was designed from the start to be a serial novel delivered in parts. I had a lot of fun preparing the cliffhanger and structuring the story this way. Of course, my beta readers and fellow writers in my Romance In A Month writer’s group helped me with early feedback and comments to hone this story for the hopefully surprising cliffhangers.
Many thanks to: Lillian Maddocks Cummings, Terri Merkel, Racquel Reck, Amber McCallister, Shecki Bernard, Jeanie Jackson, Elisabete C.F. Martins, Jessica Cassidy, Keli Morgan, Rebecca Austin, Reggaewoman, Tope Awefoso, Corissa Palfrey, Sharon Coady, Debbie Rosa, Linda Scarchuk, Sherelle Ellis, Patricia Shepard, Brenda Pratt, Sifa Edwards, Dana Anderson, and Rachel Marie Williams for their awesome feedback as well as guidance while I was writing Cade and Andie’s stories. Their comments and remarks helped me know whether I was hitting the right note or not.
My love of history was instilled in me by my high school AP history teacher, Rayilyn Brown. Thanks so much for making history come to life. Of course, I took it to the next level and imagined the personal lives of historical figures, but I’ll never forget that you taught us to always look behind the scenes at primary evidence and to question everything.
Thanks also Coach Ferragamo and my high school football team who instilled in me a great love and respect for athletes. We were the Banning Pilots, All City Champions, and I’m proud to have been one of the team managers and friends with the wonderful guys on our team.
I will especially miss my friends, Joe Montijo (#10), Leroy Irvin (#23), and Ronnie Settles (#37), who have passed on way too early. This story is dedicated to them, although all characters and events inside are purely fictional. Thanks guys for being the heroes we looked up to, and being humble and down to earth. Go Pilots!
Boxed Set: Intercepted by Love (The Complete Collection): Books One - Book Six Page 73
