Read Hot Summer's Knight for Free Online Page B

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    He was smiling, a small, private smile that barely curved his lips.
    “My Lady.” He bowed, not much more than a nod of his head, but far more meaningful than the carpenter’s overdone obsequiousness.
    Sweat glazed his tanned skin.  Standing this close to him, she found the leanness she’d first assumed was illusory.  Without his tunic, he was all muscle and sinew and hard-edged bone, without a trace of fat to soften the angles of his body.  She wanted to touch him, to run her hands over his smooth skin, to find out if he were really as hard as he looked.  Her hand had begun to move of its own accord before she realized they were in full view of anyone who chanced to cross the courtyard.
    She cleared her throat, confused and unable to remember why she’d come here.
    “You’re mending the gate, I see.” Even to herself, the statement sounded inane, if not downright stupid.
    “The hinges needed straightening.  The gates should close now.”
    Even the sound of his voice intrigued her.  His simple statement started warmth rising in mysterious places deep inside her; places she’d never given a great deal of thought to before he’d arrived.
    A scar began under his rib cage, and disappeared around his side.  Another slashed one bicep.  His nipples were small and dark. 
    A diamond of curling hair, the same hue as his beard, grew on his chest.  She wanted to run her fingers through it, to find out if it were really as soft and springy as it looked.  His body was a fascinating combination of textures and angles and planes.
    She licked her dry lips, and thought she heard him gasp, as though in pain.
    “Are you hurt, troubadour?  Are your wounds healed?”
    “Some wounds never heal, my Lady.”  His voice was so deep, so rich, so soft; like a fur cape on a cold winter’s night; like the warm milk and honey, flavored with a few precious grains of nutmeg, Esme brought her when the nightmares came and she was afraid to sleep.  She wanted to wrap herself in the sound of his voice, immerse herself in it completely.
    “Is there,” she hesitated, looking up into his misty grey eyes, knowing there were many things about this man she couldn’t understand, “can I, I mean, do you want me to help, in any way?”
    “Oh,” the sound this time was definitely one of pain, “you do help, my Lady, believe me.”
    He touched her then.  The tip of his finger tucked a stray curl beneath her headdress.  This gesture was far more intimate than the meeting of their finger tips in the dance the previous night.  The dance had had its ritualized movements, and they’d been surrounded by people.  Now there was only the two of them in the deserted courtyard.
    She wanted to lean her face into his palm, and feel the heat of his calloused hand on her skin.  Instead, she took a step away.  The realities of her life were simple: she was the Lord of this valley until her husband’s return, and upon his return she would be his wife, and the mother of his children.
    His wife.  The phrase filled her with horror.
    Without a word, she turned and walked sedately across the courtyard, and up the stairs, to her chamber.
    Berenice slammed the door, and leaned against the solid oak.  Sweat trickled down her body beneath her shift, and her headdress itched and chafed.
    Esme had left a pitcher of cool water so she could bathe her face and hands before the evening meal.  She couldn’t wait that long.  Hurriedly, she stripped to her shift.  Dampening a cloth, she sponged the sweat and dust from her body.
    However she tried, she couldn’t wash away the memory of the troubadour’s brief caress.  His simple touch had awakened something deep inside her; something she hadn’t even known was sleeping.
    With a wordless cry, she sank to her knees on the cold, stone floor.  She knew she longed for him, even after she’d sworn to ignore him.  If she was going to be honest with herself, she longed for far more than just a brief