The Knight's Vow. Catherine March

The mere thought made goosebumps rise upon her flesh.

      She had raged furiously over William’s death and laid the blame at only one door—God’s. After a time she had been ashamed and guilt-ridden, taking as penance a pious devotion to God and the church that her parents had questioned and misliked, but had been unable to alter.

      Beatrice turned over onto her side, a dozen thoughts jostling for favour. With a low, frustrated moan she flung back the covers and sat up. If only she had thought to pack her Bible close to hand, instead of in her coffer, then she would be able to read, until her mind was soothed and she fell asleep.

      She left the bed and poured a goblet of wine, taking it and a wedge of plum cake to sit before the fire. She wondered what her father would be doing now; no doubt dining, as she was, and packing his gear for the venture to Wales. And tomorrow, tomorrow she would be at the convent.

      The fire warmed her and Beatrice glanced down at her feet, peeping out beneath the long hem of her nightshift. William had said she had pretty feet, on that one occasion by the river when he had found her paddling in the cool water, and had almost kissed her. Almost. Within a few days he had ridden off to war, and within a few weeks more he was dead.

      Beatrice wondered, as she munched on the sweet crumbly cake, what it would be like to be kissed by a man. Her mother had always complained that her father’s beard tickled and Beatrice thought she would prefer a face cleanshaven. Into her thoughts intruded the image of a handsome male face, with bright blue eyes and dark blond hair long at the neck. Remy St Leger. She could not recall how his mouth had been, but she was certain he had no beard.

      Eventually Beatrice went back to bed and, at last, fell asleep. But it was not for long. She woke again, and the night was dark and still. The logs had burned down to ruby embers. She lay for a long while, listening to the sigh of the wind rustling in the treetops, the creak of roof beams, an owl hooting. She snuggled down deeper into the warmth of the bed, meagre as it was, and then she thought it might be wise to pile on a few more logs to keep the fire going until morning.

      She padded silently across the floor, lit a candle and reached for a log, laying it carefully in the grate, and then another. She found a poker and stirred up the embers, and then jumped back with an exclamation as the topmost log rolled and scattered tiny burning coals upon the hearth. One hit her foot and she yelped with pain.

      At once the door flung open. A knight charged into the room, his sword half-drawn, looking about him with eyes narrowed in question.

      ‘Be at ease, sir,’ Beatrice called, and then gasped as she turned and faced Remy St Leger, her voice sinking to an uncertain whisper. ‘There is no one here who does me harm, except my own foolish self.’

      His glance took in the fallen log and the poker in her hand, but not before he noticed how the firelight silhouetted her slender body through the fine white linen of her nightshift. He noticed, too, that her hair fell unbound in a ripple of glorious honey to her hips. With a hiss his sword was rammed home in its scabbard and he strode across the room, knelt to retrieve the log smouldering on the hearth and to place it back in the grate. Looking up at her, he held out his hand until she relinquished the poker.

      Beatrice stepped to one side, watching his broad back, the taut line of muscular thigh and buttocks as he knelt to tend the fire. She felt a heat of colour sweep over her cheeks. Then he turned and, taking her elbow, indicated that she should sit down.

      A man of few words, thought Beatrice, complying, mystified at his intention. She flinched as his fingers touched her, and he lifted her foot into the palm of his hand. As he examined it carefully, his action caused her nightshift to slide up to her knees. Quickly Beatrice snatched at the hem and pulled it down to cover her legs. By the flick of his eyes she knew that he had noticed her reaction; then she was startled by the sound of his voice when he spoke, in clear English charmingly accented by his native French, the timbre of it finding a place deep within her soul.

      ‘I will fetch a little goose-grease and a bandage.’

      ‘There is no need!’ Beatrice leapt quickly from the chair. Too quickly. Her knee connected with his chin and a resounding crack echoed about the room, ‘Oh, I am sorry! Are you all right?’

      He regained his balance by grasping the chair, trapping Beatrice between his spread knees and arms. She looked down at his ash-blond head, breath tensely held, for she had never been so close to a man, and was acutely aware that she wore nothing but her nightshift. He rubbed his chin, and then rose slowly, his full height dwarfing Beatrice, who barely reached to his collarbone.

      ‘I have taken worse than a tap from a maiden’s knee,’ he said, hands on hips, smiling down at her in a way that was almost insolent.

      Beatrice had nowhere to retreat, standing so close to him and with the chair against the back of her knees. She sensed the impropriety of their position and would have been further outraged if she had known that from his vantage-point of greater height he could see down through the open neck of her shift, and his eyes fell upon the soft swell of her breasts.

      Beatrice found it hard to believe that this man was a full five years younger than she. It was she who felt the awkward youth. She glanced up at him, and in that moment saw for herself where his eyes lingered. Quickly, with a clumsy trip, she stepped over his boots and presented him with her back as she clutched at one ornately carved bedpost, suddenly feeling a little dizzy. In a voice cool as ice, she said, ‘You may go.’

      His footsteps thumped across the floor, and then she heard the snap of the door as it shut. Whirling round, Beatrice let out a gasp and stared at the dark planks of the solid oak door. How dared he! The insolent knave! Her father would most certainly hear of this!

      Then Beatrice remembered that she would not see her father come morning, that mayhap she would not see him for many months, and that she would soon be committing herself to life as a nun. Remy St Leger would be the last man ever to look upon her in such a way, as a man looks upon a woman.

      Did he like what he had seen? Her hands flew to both hot cheeks, horrified at the sinfulness of her thoughts. His mouth had been wellshaped and not too wide, his jaw cleanshaven…

      No! No! Beatrice ran to the bed and dived beneath the covers, pulling them over her head. In the muffling darkness her gasps for breath sounded like the panting of a wild animal. Her body felt different—her breasts ached, her legs felt weak. The male smell of him was still in her nose. He seemed to have invaded her every sense, every pore…One part of her sternly berated Beatrice for being a weak human being, another cajoled that she was only as God had made her—a woman.

      What would it feel like to lie in his arms? To feel his hard, muscular body moving against her softness? Heat flooded her and through all her thoughts pounded one drumbeat—tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

      Beatrice was certain that she would have only this one night to learn of things that would never be a part of her life. Why, she had never been kissed, let alone bedded! What harm would it do? She would still go to the nunnery a chaste virgin, except for one kiss. That was all she wanted. All she asked. And Remy St Leger would be the one to kiss her, Beatrice decided impulsively. No doubt the ‘hot young blood’ would not cavil, and even if he did she would remind him of his sworn duty to Lord Thurstan and his family to do as he was told!

      Throwing back the covers, Beatrice leapt out of bed and hurried to the door. Her hand reached out to open it, and then drew back, checked by her natural sense of caution. She turned away, chewing on her knuckles, pacing, darting many glances at the impervious door, a frown creasing her brows.

      Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow… Resolutely, she turned back and quickly jerked open the door, before she could change her mind again.

      He sat opposite upon a three-legged stool, leaning his back and broad shoulders against the wall. In one hand he held a dagger, in the other a whetstone. Looking up, pausing in his task, he eyed her with one brow raised in question, before bending once again to sharpen the dangerous blade.

      ‘I wish to speak with you.’

      He looked up. ‘My lady?’

      ‘Privately.