Surrender To The Knight. Tatiana March

two gauntleted hands.

      The blade cut through the air with a sharp whoosh. “Get down and fight!”

      Intrigued, Olaf studied his challenger. No armor, only an ancient shirt of chain mail, clearly made for someone much taller. Everything looked too big, the great helm resting like a bucket on the challenger’s shoulders, the hem of the hauberk flapping about her knees. On the downward swing, the tip of the sword almost sliced into the ground.

      With a sigh, Olaf dismounted. It seemed that his prospective bride was wasting no time in her campaign to kill him. Briefly, he wondered how his rivals had fared, assuming their welcome had taken the same form. Dismissing the thought, he pulled his sword from the scabbard by his side and faced his adversary.

      The lady raised her weapon with both hands and aimed a low blow. Olaf grinned inside his helm. Not bad. She was using her mind. His knees were a weak point, since he’d chosen not to wear full armor for the journey, only the larger pieces. Even those had caused him discomfort during the long ride, but without a packhorse the easiest means of transporting plate armor was wearing it.

      Easily, he deflected the attack. With light swings of his sword, he forced the female warrior into retreat, testing her skill and strength. She fought well for a woman. The long sword hampered her speed, and the huge boots weighed like anchors on her feet. As she twisted and turned, the hauberk clung to her contours, revealing a slender body with feminine curves beneath.

      Heat that had nothing to do with the physical exertion surged inside Olaf. Although he needed to carefully control each blow to make sure he didn’t hurt her, he couldn’t recall a fight that had given him a greater thrill. With each swing of the blade, his dark mood lifted.

      Picking a spot where a mound of earth would soften her fall, he drove his opponent into a backward flight, until she tripped over a clump of grass and landed on her backside with a resounding thud and the rattle of chain mail. He pressed the tip of his sword against her throat at the base of her helm. “Don’t move,” he warned her.

      Through the twin slits in her visor, he could see her eyes widen, but the light was too faint for him to see the color. Something dark. His own eyes were pale green, like the first leaves of spring. He resisted the urge to lean in for a closer look, brushing away the question that had crept unbidden into his mind. What did it matter to him what color her eyes were? His journey to the ends of the earth was not about finding a woman to stand by his side, or even just to lie next to him at night. It was about gaining lands and serving his king.

      “Stay down,” he ordered.

      Olaf withdrew his sword, replaced it in its scabbard and strode back to his horse. As he reached for the leather parcel tied behind Thor’s saddle, an image flooded his mind: a woman with serene beauty, golden hair and pale green eyes. He’d never known his mother—his memories came from a painting—but he clung to them nonetheless.

      For a second, Olaf hesitated. Then he gave in to the impulse. He pulled down the long parcel and unwrapped the sword hidden inside. For as long as he remembered, he’d cherished the finely crafted weapon. Holding it by the blade, he turned to face his prospective bride.

      The lady hadn’t stayed down.

      She was on her feet, charging up at him, getting ready to skewer his entrails. Olaf would have sidestepped the attack but he feared she might pierce the flank of his bay stallion, so he stood his ground, hoping that Lady Brenna lacked the mettle to slice up a man who hadn’t drawn his weapon.

      With a clang, her blade connected with his breastplate. The impact of his solid, unyielding stance made her bounce back and stumble on her feet. The sword slipped from her grasp and clattered to the frozen ground. Olaf stole a glance at his aching chest. The force of the blow had made a dent in his breastplate. Without the protection of the steel armor, his blood would be staining his boots right now. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the foolishness of setting himself up for slaughter and increasing the likelihood of being injured by giving the attacker a better weapon, just as he was about to do.

      He offered his treasured sword to her. “Try this.”

      The small figure in chain mail had crouched down to retrieve the fallen blade. When she heard him, she turned to look up at him, her movements awkward as she controlled the weight of the big helm on her shoulders. Slowly, she rose, leaving her weapon lying on the ground.

      Olaf held out the shiny length of steel. “It’s a single-handed arming sword for a lady,” he told her. “A female lacks the strength for two-handed combat and needs to rely on speed and agility instead.”

      “You knew?” Dark, shining eyes met his through the slits in her visor. Brown. Her eyes were dark brown, with golden glints in them.

      “Of course I knew.” Olaf threw the comment back at her, his voice full of scorn at the suggestion that she might have deceived him. “A woman moves differently. Fights differently.” Makes a man’s loins ache and his blood run hotter than the flames of hell, he could have added.

      In silence, he held her gaze. He could see only a thin sliver of skin around her eyes, and yet his gut tightened, adding to the restlessness that had seized him while they were parrying. She looked away first. Then she took the sword from him, stepped back a few paces and tested the weapon, slicing and stabbing at the empty air, lunging forward, attacking an invisible enemy and retreating again.

      In the Nordic lands, Olaf had seen women fighting beside their men. He’d always found female warriors in battle a glorious sight. Brenna Kilgarren moved with grace, her body slender beneath the chain mail that swamped her. Unlike the tall women of the north, Lady Brenna was small. The kind of woman who ought to be seeking a man’s protection instead of rejecting it, the thought flashed through Olaf’s mind.

      She ceased her prancing and turned to him. “Why did you bring me a sword?”

      “I didn’t,” Olaf replied. “I just let you try it out.” He wondered if the lady might be amenable to bribery. Such a sword was worth a fortune, certainly more than the other suitors’ tents, perhaps even their horses. “It used to belong to my mother,” he added.

      “Why did she give it to you instead of a daughter?”

      “She had no daughters.” Olaf paused. He disliked talking about himself, but despite his reluctance, the words tumbled out. “She died birthing me. My father thought it fitting that I should inherit her sword. It’s the only thing I have from my family. The rest went to my brother, who lost it all.” He gestured toward Thor. “This is all I possess.”

      “I see.” Before handing the sword back to Olaf with obvious regret, Lady Brenna glanced at the sacks hanging on the flanks of the bay destrier. “As you have no tent, where do you propose to sleep while I evaluate my suitors?”

      Taking his time over the task, Olaf wrapped the lady’s sword in the protective piece of sheepskin and stowed it behind Thor’s saddle. “When do you plan to make your choice?” he asked, returning his attention to the female warrior.

      “I don’t know.” Her brown eyes flashed in defiance. “Perhaps in a sennight.”

      Olaf gave in to the bitterness that brewed inside him. “I’ll give you until suppertime to make up your mind. Either I’ll sleep in your bed, or I’ll be on my way riding out.”

      Her surprised gasp made his mouth tighten with satisfaction. He was done with politeness, done with seeking to please. He wanted to settle down, or get back to some bloody battlefield where a swing from an enemy sword would give him eternal peace.

      “I’ll take orders from no man.” Lady Brenna’s voice rasped with anger.

      “You might defy a husband, but you’ll take orders from your king.” Olaf turned to stroke Thor’s sleek neck. “What about shelter for my horse?”

      For a long moment, Lady Brenna stood in silence. Then she lifted one mail-clad arm and pointed toward the simple stone tower. “Animals are on the ground floor, the servants on the next, and the top floor is for the laird and his family. You