Forbidden Warrior (Midsummer Knights)

His eyes held hers. They were quite blue. “He hasn't a good seat on the horse. Aye, the saddle will hold him in for a bit, but...” He shook his head sadly. “That's not enough. You need some strength in here.” He tapped his broad, calloused hand—and

the luscious red strawberries held in it—against his chest. A chest that looked as though it had a great deal of strength.

She should not be noticing such things. Especially about impolite rogues who spoke to ladies they should not be speaking to.

Cheeks hot, she slid her glance back to the arena field, making a solemn vow to ignore him. She would not say one more word.

Before she could ignore him sufficiently, though, he continued his unwanted commentary by aiming his strawberry-fisted hand in the direction of Sir Bennett.

“Now that one, he looks like he could do some damage. Too bad his legs are spindly.”

Her jaw fell.

“And his armor is parted just there, behind his left shoulder—”

Unable to resist, she examined Sir Bennett's left shoulder, then spun in indignant anger. “That is Sir Bennett of Carlisle and he is one of the greatest tourneyers of our age.”

He gave a low whistle. “Our entire age, is it?”

She sniffed. “He has won more tourneys than almost anyone here. He is confident, skilled, unbeatable in fact, and he may well be my betrothed in a sennight.”

“Ahhh.” It was a low sound that could be comprehension or flat-out mockery. “Well, you might want to tell him about the armor.” He angled his hand over his own shoulder to indicate the area.

She stared down her nose at him, as much as she was able. “Who are you?” she demanded.

His ice-blue eyes met hers. “No one, my lady.”

She felt the presence of this “no one” like heat from a fire. Best to keep her distance.

She turned her face decidedly away, then, unable to resist, whipped back. “You look to be of sound body, if not mind, sirrah, yet I don't see you out there, braving anything.”

“Oh, I'm not brave,” he said comfortably.

She was almost dizzy at his escalating impropriety.

And still she did not get up.

Instead, she retorted acidly, “Of course you are not. Else you would not be sitting in the stands being inappropriate with a lady above your station. You’d be fighting like a real man.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “Fight?” he said incredulously. “For what?”

“For honor. And chivalry—”

“That's not what these men are fighting for, lady.”

She looked at the silks and colors and parading knights and thought him quite mad.

“Then why are you here, if not to fight? In fact,” she looked around, “how did you get in here at all, Sir No One, if you are neither noble nor a fighter?”

“Who said I am not noble?”

She looked at his dull armor and simple tunic and gave him an almost pitying look. “Are you saying you are noble?”

“I did not say that, did I now?”

The way these particular words flowed out, the cadence of them, made her brow furrow in surprise. “You are not English.”

A muscle along his jaw rippled. “Never.”