Surrender To The Knight. Tatiana March

he would leave.

      Those not born on the remote edges of the land could never tolerate the loneliness, the shrill winds that blew in from the sea and the lack of daylight during the winter months, or the monotony of the meager meals the harsh climate could produce.

      Behind her, the knight led his big stallion inside and slammed the door, shutting out the remains of the dull winter daylight. She turned to study him in the glow of the fire from the massive central chimney. He was broad-shouldered and lean at the hip, and no more than medium height. From the way the armor fit his body, she could tell it had been made for him.

      She’d already seen that his eyes were pale green. Now, he pulled off the heavy gauntlets and raised his hands to lift away the steel helm that covered his head. Tingles raced along Brenna’s skin at the sight that met her. Straight nose, square jaw, smooth, pale skin. The firm set of his finely curved mouth hinted at a determined nature. She could not have imagined such features. Elegant yet masculine, strikingly male despite their beauty.

      The horse butted at the knight’s side, and he turned to soothe the animal. When he bent his head, the golden locks that skimmed his shoulders fell forward. The light from the chimney set the strands alive with fiery glints. As a child, Brenna had once traveled to Edinburgh, where she’d seen paintings of saints, some of them with a halo just like that.

      Don’t be a fool, she told herself. He’s not a saint, just a man greedy for lands.

      “Where do you keep the oats and hay?” the knight asked, his hands busy on the flanks of the bay destrier, stripping the load from the animal’s back.

      “This is all we have.” She pointed at the dwindling stores in the corner. The knight followed her direction, his expression searching, until he accepted that there was nothing more than a single barrel of grain and a half dozen bundles of hay.

      Brenna hurried past the central stone chimney, enjoying the wave of heat from the flames. She scooped oats from the barrel into a wooden bowl and returned to give it to the knight.

      “Thank you.” He took the bowl from her and said nothing more.

      A fence made of birch saplings penned the animals into one end of the room. Ramsey, the workhorse, stood like an emperor in the middle, flanked by the pair of milk cows, Trudy and Sally. The dozen sheep had no names. Brenna didn’t like naming creatures she might have to eat.

      The knight had opened the gate to the enclosure and guided his horse inside. The sounds of the animals filled the silence. The horse drank with blustery slurps from the bucket on the floor. The others tried to push in for a share of the oats, erupting into a noisy protest when the knight ushered them back.

      Unsettled by his quiet presence, Brenna edged toward the ladder that rose in the corner of the shadowed room. She ought to change out of her father’s old armor, put on a gown and kirtle to honor the occasion of her betrothal. Hesitating, she lifted the foot she’d already set on the bottom rung of the ladder back down to the floor and stole another glance at the knight attending to his horse.

      Why bother wearing a gown? Why not start the way she meant to go on, without feminine trappings, without any pretense that she was entering their union with anything but reluctance? She’d dressed like a boy most of her life and didn’t plan to change her ways just because a husband was forced upon her—even if the husband might look like the golden prince of a fairy tale.

      Bending forward at the waist, Brenna pulled off the helm that sat like an upturned bucket on her shoulders. She lowered it to the earth floor, straightened and wriggled out of the chain mail hauberk. Beneath the armor, she wore a pair of thick woolen hose and a doublet long enough to protect her modesty.

      She brushed off a streak of mud from her bodice, then loosened her hair and arched her back, raking her fingers through the curls to untangle them. She possessed no mirror, but those who remembered her mother had told her she’d inherited her mother’s Norman looks—hair as black as midnight, brown eyes that could shine with merriment or glisten with tears, and a slender body that despite its air of fragility could outlast many men on a ride across the moors.

      An inarticulate, rough sound startled her. Brenna whipped around. In the flickering firelight, she could see the knight staring at her. His gaze roamed her body, gliding up the length of her legs, past her waist, settling on the swell of her breasts.

      An odd sensation curled in her belly, a bit like when she crept up to the bottomless gulley near the sea and looked down into its depths. Her nipples tightened, the way they sometimes did when the cloth of her chemise chafed against them.

      The knight continued his scrutiny, now studying her face. Heat swamped her skin beneath the wool and linen. Her breathing grew shallow, her heartbeat rapid and uneven. Instinct seized her to flee, to seek solitude, so that she could regain her mental balance.

      “Come,” Brenna said, turning away. “I’ll show you to the guest chamber upstairs.”

      She climbed up the ladder, moving fast and not looking back at him.

      Chapter Two

      Olaf surveyed the small stone chamber that housed nothing but a pallet of straw, a large oak chest, and a bundle of blankets so worn that his horse would have complained. The narrow window let in the last glimmer of fading daylight.

      “I’ll get you some candles.” Lady Brenna retreated through the door.

      The pair of sacks containing his possessions weighed on Olaf’s shoulders, and he bent to lower them to the floor with a clunk. Before he had a chance to make a closer inspection of his surroundings, Lady Brenna returned with a burning candle. She was walking slowly, her hand protecting the flame. She set the candle in a wall sconce, then used the flame to light a second candle and placed it in another sconce farther along the rough stone wall.

      “Could I have something to drink?” Olaf asked. “Ale or whisky?”

      She thought a moment, her head tilted to one side. “I’ll get you mead.”

      He nodded. “Mead will do.”

      Olaf sank down on the pallet. His tired hands barely mastered the straps and buckles as he removed his plate armor and stacked the pieces beside the pallet. Then he waited. If he planned to stay the night, he ought to unpack and change. Sweat from the endless riding stained the linen shirt and braies he wore beneath his travel-worn hose and doublet. He doubted he could tolerate the soiled garments much longer, but quenching his thirst came before everything else.

      Minutes later, the timber door creaked open on its iron hinges and Lady Brenna returned, carrying a pewter mug by its handle. A sense of wonder filled Olaf anew. Down in the stables, when he’d watched her shed the bulky helm and the chain mail tunic, her beauty had stunned him into an uneasy silence.

      He’d seen her emerge, like a butterfly emerges from its drab cocoon, and an impulse had swelled inside him to stride across the room and tangle his hands in her ebony curls. He was one of three suitors, he reminded himself. The right to touch her might never be his.

      Lady Brenna moved forward and came to a halt a few paces from him, leaning down to hold the tankard out to him. Glossy dark curls tumbled past her shoulders, glinting in the candlelight. As she bent toward him, her breasts strained against the thick wool of her doublet. Olaf shifted on the pallet, pretending to settle more comfortably against the wall, when in truth the discomfort throbbed beneath his leather codpiece.

      “I’ve heated the mead and put some spices in it,” she told him. “It will help you rest.”

      In silence, Olaf watched her. Her features held not only beauty but strength. Bold, straight nose, dark arch of eyebrows, high crest of cheekbones. The full mouth and the sweep of long lashes added a hint of softness, making her appearance an alluring mix of a female warrior dressed in a man’s clothing and a woman with her feminine curves on display. He doubted Lady Brenna was aware of the subtle invitation her figure-hugging attire sent to any man old enough to lust after a woman and young enough to do something about it.