Seduced by Grace Read Free Page A

It was Oliver of Sienna, a companion of the tournaments who had become his squiresome six years back. His Italian friend did not speak or look at the lady, but only tilted his dark head to indicate a dim track that left the main road just ahead. It gave access, without doubt, to the position the squire had been sent to scout out for their retreat. As one, he and Oliver and the men behind them plunged into it, entering a dim green tunnel created by the interlaced branches of the trees that grew close upon the rutted way.
    The sun had dropped below the horizon. Though twilight lingered, it scarcely penetrated this wood that had never felt axe or wedge, never heard the grunts and shouts of those who took timber for His Majesty’s ships or manor houses for nobles. Coolness crept from under the great limbs along with the dank smells of lichen, decaying leaves and bleached bones of animal kills. They swept deeper along it, the noise of their passage echoing both before and behind them until it seemed certain they were being pursued. No horsemen showed themselves, however.
    In due time, the smell of wood smoke came to them on the cooling air. Small fires appeared. They multiplied, flickering in the gloom. A woodsman’s cottage, little more than a hut, stood silhouetted by their glow. Lantern light glimmered behind its rough shutters and smoke drifted from the opening in the thatched roof. Beyond it lay what had been a horse barn, with a low shed leaning against it meant to house pigs.
    He pulled up before the cottage, while Oliver and the other men-at-arms cantered past to where the whiff of roasting pork drifted from the fires. The lady riding upon his thighs still said nothing, though her bodyturned as stiff as a nun’s starched wimple as she sat staring at the primitive accommodation before her.
    Irritation touched him. The cottage was no manse, no moat-encircled castle or nobleman’s ancient keep, yet it was clean, dry and safe. He had suffered far worse and no doubt would again. Lady Marguerite could bear it for one night.
    “Why are we stopping here?” she asked finally, the words stifled in her throat.
    What did she expect? A fast and lusty tupping followed by being shared among his men? Or was it only a straw mattress and shared blanket, with him to keep her warm in exchange for the right to discover what was under her skirts? He could find out soon enough, if he pleased.
    The ache in his groin warned against the idea. It was entirely possible he would not be able to stop short of plundering the tender treasure he found.
    Regardless, and against all reason, he was affronted that she could imagine it was possible.
    “It is our lodging for the night, milady,” he said, his voice rigorously even.
    “Ours.” The word held flat disdain.
    “What would you? We must lie somewhere.” He could feel her quick, uneven breathing now that they were still.
    “I prefer private quarters.”
    “Without protection, and while sleeping among men-at-arms? Unwise, milady.”
    “And you are to be my protection from them? Forgive me if that seems…less than satisfactory.”
    There was defiance in that reply as well as in the setof her shoulders, the lift of her head. He allowed himself a private smile. He did not want her cowed and afraid. “It’s how it will be.”
    She gathered her veil to the side, turning her head to stare up at him in the gathering twilight. The dark slashes of her brows drawn together over her nose turned her frown into a scowl. The familiarity of that look smote him like a blow to the heart, and he was suddenly glad of the face and nose guard of his helm, which shielded his face from her view.
    “Who are you?” she demanded. “Why are you doing this?”
    He could put an end to her apprehension, might have except for some deep-felt need to gain acceptance in spite of it. It was unfair, mayhap, but there it was. “You know how I am called, I believe.”
    “Oh, yes, the Golden Knight. The tales say many