Forbidden Warrior (Midsummer Knights)

After that, he did not speak.

This silence, it was a device of torture. She paced the tent, marking its perimeter in a restless march, touching the things she passed—a shell, the satchels and packs lining the bottom of the tent walls.

But she soon stopped, for every time her hand brushed across something, his gaze came up from the wooden trinket and landed on her.

And every time, it was like a douse of cold water. Chills ran over her skin whenever his gaze touched her body anywhere.

Everywhere.

He was, at the moment, the center of her universe. She'd never been so aware of a man.

Unfortunately, he was nothing like the willowy, accomplished troubadours who floated from castle to castle, lutes in hand, singing of forbidden love and rarified passion between great ladies and high-minded, chivalric knights.

No, this one was the antithesis of that. Rough-hewn, blue-eyed, dark-haired, and black-souled.

He did not even smell like a perfumed courtier. He smelled of wood smoke and leather and...maleness.

His calloused hands held the gnarled butt end of the piece of wood with a surprisingly light touch. The small knife moved in swift, assured movements as he whittled.

Sprawled back on the stool, spine to a tent post, boots kicked out, his legs were hard-packed under his hose, revealing curves of muscle, ending in high, cuffed brown boots. Under his loose linsey-woolsey tunic, his body moved with a fluid, masculine grace even when he was doi

ng nothing more than shifting the wood to a new position.

His forearms were sprayed with dark hair, his head bent as he concentrated on his work, which made some of his hair swing forward, tugged out of the band at the nape of his neck. A single braid slipped from its confines and dangled beside his cheek and square jaw, roughened by a shadow of facial hair.

He was a handsome devil.

Devil is what matters.

Nonetheless, her cheeks flushed.

His gaze lifted and snagged her from across the room.

She jerked away as if she hadn't been watching him.

She wanted a drink. She would enter a jousting ring if it secured her a sop of wine.

Outside the tent, fires were springing up. Sunset was nigh. Darkness would follow close behind. The haze of fiery brightness flickered against the tent walls, and silhouettes of people passed by in twos and threes, walking through the crushed grass, greeting one another, joining around fires and sharing roasted meat, wine, and laughter. Occasionally a horse nickered or a dog barked.

Right now, inside the castle, people were feasting and merrymaking. Noble ladies were dancing carols and drinking wine, firelight shimmering off their silks and veils...having the same conversations as ever. Sharing the same mislaid concerns. Worrying whether this man or that had the greater estate, the brighter armor, the deeper bow...always the same...

Ever and anon, to the same end.

They were naught but packages to be delivered.

And here she was in a devil’s tent, held hostage.

A package. Worth no more and no less than how many coins could be accounted against her.

“Have you no wine in this accursed place?” she blurted out.

He made no reply. He seemed not to have heard at all. Then he abruptly reached behind him, into one of the many packs that lined the edges of his tent.

She half-turned to watch.

He extracted a pretty little silver flask and held it in the air, a brow raised in silent invitation.

She turned fully. “Is that wine?”