Forbidden Warrior (Midsummer Knights)

“Why do you not wait until it’s over, and decide then?” he suggested.

She laughed through the tears. “You are the most reckless man I have ever met.”

“I made a vow.”

She looked surprised. “You never promised me—“

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sp; “I vowed no harm would come to you. That Bennett man would do harm to you. Your father is nothing but harm. Every man but me is harm to you.”

She wiped her eyes, but her smile was as bright as a flame. He could almost feel the iron around his heart melting.

“You are also quite arrogant,” she whispered, smiling.

“And that is why you love me, lady.”

Bright eyes held his. “In fact, I do love you.”

“And I, you, princess.”

She straightened and gestured for the tip of his lance. “Bring it here,” she commanded.

He dipped it and presented it to her. She tied her sleeve to the end, nodded regally, then added in a whisper, “Do not hold the lance too high. Keep it tucked in tight. Palm up, thumb away from Sir Bennett. When you are about four strides off, bring it down.”

He lifted his eyes. “Did you translate a tract on jousting as well?”

She smiled. “Yes, I will read it to you later. For now, you are my champion.”

And for that, he would risk everything. He hoped to win everything. But if necessary, he would lose it all, even his life, for her.

He passed Bennett on the way back to his end of the arena, and caught the man’s eye. He nodded to the purple sleeve fluttering off the end of his lance and raised a brow.

Bennett’s face grew beet red.

It might help distract him. Infuriate him. Overwrought people rarely fought well.

Any advantage would do, for unless and until he could unseat the vaunted Sir Bennett of The Many Words, Máel was well and truly doomed.

Chapter 34

Cassia dropped her sleeve, and the match began.

Máel’s first pass was truly awful. His lance too high, his aim off. Whereas Bennett’s was like an arrow in flight. It smashed directly into Máel’s chest and shattered. She thought it would pierce him straight through and send him sailing to Oxford.

But he was not unhorsed.

Two points to Bennett.

Máel reined about and trotted away, bent over in the saddle, a hand on his chest, covering where he’d taken the hit.

She rose and cried, “Sir Bennett’s lance is not blunted!”

Bennett spun. His face twisted. “You lie.”

The lance had shattered, and his squire and herald were already out, collecting the pieces. The evidence.

“Observe those!” she demanded. “Every lance should be inspected before the run begins.”