A Kiss in the Night Read Free Page A

gloves, before unlacing his heavy leather jerkin and the heavier haubert underneath. For the first time in his life he wished to God for a page or squire. He could not get his clothes off fast enough. She looked wild and mad and more beautiful than any maid he had ever seen. His hands trembled with his need to touch her, to cup the softness of her breast, to lay her down to the soft moss of the bank and part her thighs.
    Linness felt Mary's blessing cascading over her like a stream of warm tingling caresses. She closed her eyes and held perfectly still, wiping at her wet cheeks, overwhelmed with gratitude. She was alive…
    The strange stillness and whispers of the forest came to her in a sudden heightening of senses. She heard the running stream, the slow plod of the warhorse moving to it, the rustle of the leaves overhead. A merlin called out in flight above. She listened to the little noises of footsteps, soft fringed wing beats, her own pounding heart and deep breaths. Then she perceived his labored breaths.
    She opened her eyes as her arms came over herself to protect her modesty. The knight stood a dozen paces away. The orange sun was setting behind him, casting him in a majestic glow. He stood unusually tall for a man, taller than any man she had seen before. Like all warriors, tightly corded muscles encased his towering frame and his bronze skin displayed more battle scars than stars set in the distant Milky Way. Red cuts and bruises were laid over these. His hair was light brown, streaked by the sun, and the only soft thing about him. His was not a handsome face, but she was struck by the compelling lure of its unnatural strength: his square-cut, too large chin, his hawkish nose and wide lips, thick brows that darted like wings over his black, widely spaced eyes. Absolutely black eyes. His bare chest had a mat of curly dark hair. His heavy clothes lay in a pile behind him: the leather metal-plated jerkin and chain mail, boots, helmet, and gloves. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered but the idea that presented itself to her.
    In a whisper of wonder, she said, "Mary sent you."
    The words were tossed up in the still air. She was unsure if he heard her. She was unsure if he was real…
    The idea disappeared as her gaze riveted to the mound of his raised manhood beneath his breeches. He was enormous; he would kill her. She started to shake her head in protest that rose from her virgin's fear.
    "Aye," was all he said. All he had to say.
    She froze, watching with widening eyes as he stepped towards her. Mary sent him, Mary sent him, she told herself to keep herself still and give herself courage as he came to stand in front of her. He towered above her, a good foot taller, maybe more—and she was considered tall for a woman. She stared into his eyes, dark blue eyes, but appearing as black orbs reflecting her own pale and frightened face. Her senses filled with his scent made of fire and blood.
    Her sight did not often come so forcefully.
    It was like an opening into a kaleidoscope made of images drawn from his memories. First she saw him practicing the warring arts as a boy, then mounting his warhorse as a man. She saw the mangled bodies of his slain—and they were many. He was discussing wine vats with an old man he loved, a man with blue eyes that had lost their shine, but none of their wisdom. She saw him staring in wonder at fields of vines. He was studying books and paper by candlelight. Now, kneeling at the altar as he married a lady clad in yellow velvet. She saw the woman's death and felt his grief. There came to her mind a beautiful castle surrounded by farmland and vineyards, and she felt his love for this place. He was nursing a sick hound that he loved, then helping children climb a ladder to the hayloft where they swung from a rope he had made. He joked and teased his peasant cottars and made them laugh. He was singing as he bathed.
    The string of images lasted a minute, no more, and yet she now saw the