Forbidden Warrior (Midsummer Knights)

Surely.

She told herself adventures could be complicated things. After all, one could not dictate an adventure be pleasing in every way. Surely there would be moments of mild discomfort.

Sir Bennett was the best knight here. Champion of tourneys in England and on the Continent. A jouster par excellence.

His gaze slid appreciatively over her body. “My lady, you shine more brightly than the sun which can never be dimmed.”

She smiled. “I thank you for the compliment, sir. And yet, as the annals show, the sun can indeed be dimmed, as during the eclipse in King Henri I’s reign, when it was said—”

Her father leaned forward. “Forgive her,” he said, his jaw tight. “She has had too much learning.”

Sir Bennett’s flat gaze shifted to her father. “Think nothing of it, my lord,” he said with a bow from his saddle. He cast a last dubious glance at Cassia and rode off.

She’d inexplicably failed again.

Her gaze skidded back to the gate. The man was still there.

Her father grunted in irritation. “What are you looking at?” He bent to follow her gaze.

Without warning and in a single fluid movement, the m

an pushed off the wall and walked out of sight.

“Nothing, Father.”

He started to say something, then glanced toward the lord's box. From the shadows within, someone beckoned to him.

“I must away,” he said. “I will gather you later. Stay seated and for God’s sake, show some decorum. You have six potential husbands here. Do not make them regret placing a bid for you before they've even fought for the privilege of your hand.”

Face flushing with embarrassment, heart hardening with the old bitter ache, she sat back and acted proper as he strode off.

Chapter 3

The knights continued to parade into the arena and the gate stood open, attendants milling about, jostling each other good-naturedly as they maneuvered to see inside.

Máel stood a few paces back, scanning the stands and boxes reserved for honored guests, debating his choices.

A straight-out attack didn't seem wise. On the other hand, he didn't have many options.

It was at times like this he wished he was more like Fáelán, who didn't sneeze without a plan.

Máel had nothing even approaching a plan.

One could not simply pull a sword on a cursed English nobleman in the middle of a tourney surrounded by a plethora of other cursed noblemen—armed ones at that.

He supposed he could sneak up on d’Argent and stab him, but that would not get him Moralltach.

Which left...what?

“Hold your horse for you, sir?”

He looked over sharply. Seeing no one, he looked down.

A boy stood there, no more than ten years old, peering up expectantly. His face was dirty, his clothes dirtier yet. Clearly, one of the legions of poor or homeless youth that populated every town and city. A tournament like this, with battle, festival, and market rolled into one, was an unprecedented opportunity. The children were everywhere, offering every conceivable service, robbing one blind along the way if they could.

Máel respected the sort.

But he didn't need any help, and he surely didn't need any attention on him.