Forbidden Night With The Warrior. Michelle Willingham
everyone was staring. Shame suffused her, and she felt as if her actions were branded upon her face. ‘What should we tell them?’
Warrick led the way and shrugged. ‘The truth.’ His eyes grew hooded as if in memory of the shared kiss. But there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.
‘We cannot tell them that.’ She was aghast at the idea. ‘I will say that I wanted to see the forest, and you accompanied me. I fell into the stream, and you rescued me.’
‘But you rescued me,’ he contradicted, bringing his horse alongside hers.
‘They will never believe that,’ she argued. ‘My father certainly won’t. For my sake, please don’t deny my story.’
‘I will say nothing.’ But as they drew closer to the group, he lowered his voice. ‘Will you meet with me again?’
His words slid over her in an invisible caress. And although she knew she shouldn’t do this, she felt a rush of forbidden desire for this man. She hardly knew him, and it wasn’t at all wise. But her lips still tingled from the kiss.
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘My father would be angry.’
His expression sobered as if he had expected her to refuse. In his blue eyes, she saw the guarded look of a soldier who possessed no emotions at all. Looking at him now, she would never have imagined he had such hidden passion.
Someone had hurt this man in the past, she decided. And he had closed himself off from everyone because of it.
‘All right,’ she answered. ‘Where?’
He appeared taken aback by her sudden change of heart. The coldness receded, and in its place was a look of disbelief. Then he answered, ‘Meet me by the stream. Tomorrow at dawn.’
* * *
Over the next few weeks, they continued to meet in secret. Warrick was well aware that Rosamund’s father, Harold de Beaufort, did not want him anywhere near his daughter. He had made it clear that Warrick was not to speak with her again.
But the man’s insinuation, that he wasn’t good enough for Rosamund, burned through him, igniting the desire for rebellion. Rosamund was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. From the first moment he’d seen her, one word had been branded upon his soul: Mine.
Her black hair held a slight wave to it and curled to her hips. Her green eyes held joy, and by the bones of St. Christopher, the woman never ceased talking. She talked enough for both of them, which was fine by him. He preferred to listen and to judge people by their actions.
But after Rosamund had rescued him from the stream, he’d given in to primal instincts. He’d craved the taste of her lips, and he’d taken them without any regret. What startled him was the fact that she’d kissed him back. Why this exquisite woman would grant him her favour was impossible to understand.
He knew better than to imagine she would care for a man like him, landless and hardly more than a soldier. But he savoured every moment of their meetings, knowing they would not last.
Today, Rosamund was seated upon the stone stairs that led towards the battlements. She had brought her sewing, and the light summer breeze lifted strands of hair back from her face. The very sight of her was a distraction that quickened his pulse. He knew she had come to watch him train with his brother and the other men. When he stole a look at her, there was a faint smile upon her face.
He wore chainmail armour this morn, and his brother Rhys came up behind him. ‘Are you wanting her to watch, Brother?’
He turned and saw the knowing smile on Rhys’s face. ‘It matters not if she is there.’
‘I’ve seen the way you stare at her.’ Rhys handed him a quarterstaff. ‘Spar with me a moment. I’ll make you look good.’
‘Her father would be furious if he saw her here. It’s dangerous with so many men about.’
‘That is her risk to take. And she does want to watch you.’ Rhys grinned. ‘I think we should show her more.’
He had no idea what his brother was talking about. Then Rhys stripped away his chainmail hauberk and tunic, until he stood bare-chested. ‘If she’s going to look, shouldn’t you give her something to look at?’
He wasn’t at all certain of this, but Rhys was already reaching to help him with his hauberk.
‘I’ll wager her gaze is upon you this very moment,’ his brother said in a low voice.
‘This is foolish.’
‘Not for quarterstaffs,’ Rhys argued. ‘You don’t need heavy armour.’
He was right. Although Warrick felt awkward about it, he stripped to his waist. Just as Rhys had predicted, he caught Rosamund eyeing him. She gave a secret smile and continued sewing.
At that moment, Rhys lunged at him, and Warrick deflected the blow out of instinct. His brother was merciless, striking with speed and strength. Warrick dodged a blow and followed up with a hard strike to his brother’s ribs.
Rhys grunted and retaliated by slicing the quarterstaff at Warrick’s knees. He jumped out of the way, only for his brother to strike his back and knock him to the ground. He rolled away and caught his brother across the ankles, tripping him. ‘I thought you were going to make me look good.’
His brother cursed and got to his feet just as Warrick did. ‘I lied. But even so, she’s watching you.’
Warrick turned his head and moved out of the way at the same time. His brother’s blow missed him entirely, and Rosamund smiled.
He struck Rhys’s quarterstaff over and over again, moving with speed and intensity, until his brother was forced to retreat. He lunged hard, about to knock his brother to the ground, but Rhys dodged the blow, laughing.
‘Go and talk with her.’ His brother clapped a hand on his back, half-pushing him towards the beautiful maiden.
Warrick gripped his quarterstaff, pausing a moment. Rosamund remained on the stairs but set her sewing down. Her face softened at the sight of him with the hint of another smile. God above, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He couldn’t think of what to say to her, for his tongue tangled up.
The sparring match had ignited his desire for this woman. When he crossed the inner bailey, she stood to meet him. A faint blush stained her cheeks, but she never took her gaze from his. He stood two steps below her, and glimpsed the fallen sewing. It was like nothing he had seen before, with all the colours of the sky and clouds blended into a scene. It reminded him of a stained-glass window, with all the colourful pieces creating the whole.
‘You fought well,’ she said quietly.
Her face was so close to his, he could imagine sliding his hands through her thick dark hair and bringing her mouth to his. She was the sort of woman men would fight for, hoping to win her as a conquest.
Warrick wanted to tell her this or to compliment her sewing. But the words were caught in his throat, stifled by his own awkwardness.
Rosamund reached over her shoulder to pull a ribbon free from her braid. Her green eyes studied him with interest as she ordered, ‘Hold out your arm.’
He obeyed, and she tied the ribbon to it. The light touch of her fingers against his bare skin evoked a searing ache. He wanted to press her back against the stairs and kiss her until she could no longer stand. But he was aware of the others watching over them.
When she had tied the ribbon, she let her hands linger a moment before she lowered them to her sides. The small scrap of silk was a visible binding to this woman. In a low voice she murmured, ‘Now you have my favour.’
Warrick reached for her hand and held it a moment. His thumb brushed over the centre of her palm, and he answered, ‘Just as you have mine, my lady.’
A blinding smile crossed her face, and she gripped his hand in