Read Until the Knight Comes for Free Online

neck of her cloak. Norse in design, the exquisitely wrought piece was one of the few remembrances she had of her once-doting sire.
    Her privileged existence as Mariota of Dunach.
    Her life before Hugh Alesone.
    Taking strength from that past now, she straightened her shoulders and held the knight’s stare. “Do you not have a name?” she demanded, one hand on her hip as she eyed him, all verve and feminine spirit. “Or is it your style to seek shelter from the rain without the courtesy of an introduction?”
    “Och, I am well-used to the rain,” Kenneth evaded, his tone more arched than he would have liked. “Such a mischance is not why I am here.”
    She raised doubting brows. “Then why are you—if you will not reveal your style?”
    I do not have a style,
he almost blurted, so off-balanced by the proud toss of her head and her flashing-eyed stare he failed to recall that he now did bear a title, and one he’d sworn to carry with dignity and pride.
    He would have done, too.
    Could he not still see her silhouetted in the tower window, her full, rounded breasts bared and beckoning, their generous swells luminous in the candle glow. Even now, her nipples taunted him, jutting prominently beneath the soft folds of her cloak.
    A once-but-no-more-fine excuse for a mantle that clung to her womanliness, its threadbare wool revealing as much as it concealed, and, saints save him, carrying the scent of her recent ablutions.
    An enticing scent, dark and alluring, its musky warmth all too distracting.
    Frowning, he scooped his hands through his hair and stared at her, almost wishing her pock-faced and crooked of limb. “I am Sir Kenneth . . .” he began only to break off, near choking on the strangeness of putting
sir
before his name.
    Rightfully bestowed or no, he still felt out of place in the world of such niceties—all manners and good graces.
    The beauty before him exhibited no such discomfiture, every assured and vehement inch of her proclaiming her a lady. Indeed, he’d wager the morrow on her lineage.
    Truth be told, if blood counted for aught, this woman’s was rich—despite her intriguing state of dishabille and her unexpected presence at Cuidrach.
    In
his
hall.
    Irritation knifing through him, he folded his arms, drew a deep breath and tried again. “I am Sir Kenneth MacK—”
    “’Tis
her
name, I’d be keen to hear,” Jamie proclaimed then, striding forward, his beaming smile and shining-eyed exuberance making it impossible to be wroth at his thoughtless intrusion. “Hers, and her friend’s.”
    “I am Nessa,” the dark one said, a dimple deepening her cheek as she smiled at Jamie. “Tiring woman to my lady.”
    “No mere serving maid—that I vow!” Clearly drawn by their voluptuous sensuality, all damp-haired and musky-scented as they were, Kenneth’s youngest knight swept the two women a deep bow. “I am Jamie the Small,” he announced, straightening. “Of Clan Macpherson, but—”
    “Too young to ken when to hold his flapping tongue,” the stout-bellied man declared, joining them. Relieved of the strongbox, he clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Jamie’s nine older brothers ne’er gave him leave to say his mind. A slight the lad now addresses by filling
our
ears every blessed hour o’ the day and night.”
    To Kenneth’s surprise, a wistful look touched the beauty’s eyes and some of the reserve slipped from her face. “I know something of older brothers,” she said, holding out her hand to Jamie. “And younger ones.”
    “And those brothers have nary a concern that you dwell here alone?” Kenneth shot an annoyed look at Jamie as that one took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Brothers are known to be protective.”
    “Some of mine are dead,” she said, her tone flat. “And others who may have cared are no more.”
    Kenneth lifted a brow, more disturbed by the revelation than was good for him. “There is no one?”
    Mariota drew a deep breath. “Of