The Warrior's Reward Read Free Page B

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