The Christmas Knight (15 page)

She watched him look away and stare absentmindedly at the fire, but he refused to let go of her arm. She waited, enjoying the small pleasure of his touch, but after a moment, asked again. “Why what, my lord?”

Ranulf didn’t move, but in a low voice answered, “Pick one. Why did you return to Hunswick when you thought I was in danger? Why are you still here? Why did you stay with me last night? Why are you not frightened of my appearance when so many are?” Then his head swiveled around so his gaze could lock with hers. “But mostly I want to know why you kissed me.”

Bronwyn’s heart stumbled. They were the same questions she had been asking herself all afternoon and the answers she had come up with were not ones she intended to disclose to anyone.

Pride gripped her. If he had questions, so did she.

She slid her wrist out of his grasp, but refused to move away from his side as if she were running away. “So many questions, my lord. Their number rivals my own.”

Ranulf blinked. Had he actually posed every one of his thoughts aloud? Damn. Confidence was not something he typically lacked, but he needed to know it wasn’t pity that drove her to kiss him.

It hadn’t felt like pity. He had experienced charity kisses before and he would rather be gutted with a blade than receive sympathetic affection. So much so, that a few years ago, he had stopped all carnal relations, refusing to suffer another compassionate word or touch. It wasn’t worth it.

“Then answer just the last one. Why did you kiss me?” he asked in a low voice while leaning forward to study her reaction.

Her tongue nervously whipped across her bottom lip and hot memories of what it had been like to taste and explore its softness rippled through him, urging him to pull her into his arms and enjoy her lips once again. Only willpower and a lifetime of hiding his feelings kept him in control.

Unaware of how close she was to being ravaged, Bronwyn gathered her courage and decided to make Ranulf just as uncomfortable as she. Casting him a crooked smile, she said impishly, “No. I distinctly remember it was
you
who kissed
me
.”

She sauntered over to his other side, keeping her back toward him, and waited for his clever retort. When she received none, she glanced back and realized her folly. She was on his left side. Ranulf had shifted to what looked to be an uncomfortable angle, but he would have to swing his legs practically over the armchair in order to see her. It was pride that was keeping him silent, not acquiescence. Victory would not be as sweet if not earned on equal terms.

Meandering back toward the chair to his right, she sank down, curling her feet up underneath her. Immediately, Ranulf shifted to a more comfortable position, wincing just slightly when he used his left arm to pull his leg up to rest his ankle on his knee.

Bronwyn bobbed her chin. “Maybe you should go back to bed and rest.”

Ranulf grunted, hating that he appeared weak in front of her. A minute ago, she’d gone out of his vision, reminding him that he was only half a man. “I
am
resting,” he growled. “If I weren’t, I would be out there—working.”

“Working at what, my lord?” Bronwyn questioned, crossing her arms. “You may have lived in or near a great many grand homes and estates, but I doubt if you’ve ever been in charge of maintaining them.”

“Maybe, but it didn’t stop me from being pulled into at least a dozen discussions about when these people should hunt for quail, numbers of bonfires to be erected, menus for God knows how many feasts—”

“Twelve,” Bronwyn interrupted with a playful grin. “One for each day of Twelfthtide. You know. That merry part of the year that follows Advent or did your studies only focus on the wearisome holiday customs?”

Ranulf ignored her tease, but returned her smirk with one of his own. He stretched out his legs in front of him, feeling strangely better than he had a minute ago. “Twelve feasts? More like fifty. I think the people here like to do nothing but celebrate.”

“Happy people do. Have you never been content enough to just enjoy the season?”

Fact was, this odd little conversation was filling him with a deeper sense of peace than he could remember having since he was a child. Usually he ignored the proceedings involved with Twelfthtide, but not this year. “And then there was the question about you.”

“Me?”
Bronwyn squeaked in surprise.

“Aye, you seem to have my men in a stir about who should be assigned to Syndlear.”

The mention of Syndlear startled Bronwyn. “Oh,” she whispered. For a brief moment, she had felt like part of a couple that was at complete ease with the other, able to tease and banter without concern. But she
wasn’t
part of a couple, and pretending she was or even that she could be was becoming very dangerous to her emotional state. It was much safer if Ranulf didn’t know how much he affected her.

“I myself like…” She paused for a second straining to remember the young soldier’s name that was at the gate. “Tory. He’s…sweet. He could return to Syndlear with me tomorrow since you are on the mend.”

Ranulf’s body instantly stiffened. He had not intended for his comment to be interpreted in such a way. Just the opposite. Instead of being flattered, she produced a name and offered to leave. Well,
she
wasn’t going to leave in the morning, but Tory sure as hell was.

“What if my wound gets worse?” Ranulf posed gruffly.

“It is fine.”

“It may not be. Remember. I don’t get fevers. I’m not like other men.”

You sure aren’t
, Bronwyn murmured to herself. “All you need is rest,” she stammered. “I’ll…I’ll have Constance look at it tomorrow.”

Ranulf arched a brow. Bronwyn was nervous, proving he was not the only one sensing the sexual tension growing between them. Ranulf could not recall feeling this alive in his entire life. He was teetering on the dangerous edge between joy and agony, and more than anything, he needed another kiss. “Fine, angel. I’ll go rest, but you are coming with me to check my wound.”

Struggling to maintain the upper hand, Bronwyn stood up. “If you insist, then I will look at it now—and here.” She waved her finger for him to uncross his legs as she moved closer. “Lean back.”

Ranulf watched her small fingers as they signaled for him to push aside the opening of his shirt. Imagining how they would feel against his naked flesh, he rose, undid his belt, and pulled the tunic over his head before tossing both items onto a nearby empty chair. He knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn’t help it.

Bronwyn’s eyes grew large. It was as if Ranulf knew her emotional state and was daring her to maintain any self-control.

She glanced around the room. A couple of servants were standing near the kitchen passageway, deep in discussion—probably about her and Ranulf. Rumors would soon be spread everywhere. Any other time or circumstance that knowledge alone would have been enough to make her walk away, but in three days she would be gone. Rumors be damned.

Leaning over the chair, Bronwyn pulled back the shirt opening. She reminded herself that she had seen him in less, but her heart had not been in jeopardy then. Trying her best to ignore his masculinity and keep as much distance as possible between them, she loosened the bandage so that she could see underneath without removing it altogether. Completely closed, the wound was healing even faster than she had predicted.

“You’re fine,” she said as she pulled back. “The powder stings horrendously, but it works. If you promise to minimize your activity over the next couple of days and not exert yourself, you can probably remove the bandage.”

“Then remove it now,” Ranulf ordered, his tone soft but serious.

Bronwyn ground her jaw, suspecting that his reasons for keeping her near were duplicitous. Her mind screamed to leave right now and head for Syndlear first thing in the morning. It was the sensible thing to do and she had always been sensible. Truth was, until Ranulf, nothing and no one had ever tempted her
not
to be. Still, he didn’t need to know that.

Walking over to the hearth chair next to them, she pushed his discarded tunic aside, picked up his belt, and found the attached misericorde. The extremely sharp narrow dagger had been created to strike through the gaps between armor plates and therefore was perfect for what she intended. Pulling it out of its sheath, she spun the long, thin blade expertly in her hand, catching it in a dead stop. “Since I am removing the bandage, I might as well remove the stitches too,” she purred mischievously.

Ranulf stared incredulously at the feminine vision before him casually wielding his knife in her palm. Either she was very skilled with the slender blade or she wanted to make him think that she was. Coupled with the devious twinkle in her eye, it didn’t matter which was the truth. This was a bad idea. “Are you sure you know what you are doing with that thing?”

Bronwyn glanced at the dagger and then back at him, raising her eyebrows in an obvious mocked attempt at innocence. “Well, I could use
my
knife, but it is much bigger. I really think yours is better for the task.”

Ranulf, unconvinced, tried to rise, but she pushed him back down, this time situating herself between his legs, a position both ominous and alluring. Then one stitch at a time, she manipulated the tip of the cutting edge, slicing the string and pulling it free.

Ranulf could ignore the painful tugging sensation, but every time one of her breasts accidentally brushed against him, he had to hold his breath and grip the arms of the chair. Suspecting she might believe him weak and possessing a low tolerance for pain, Ranulf searched for something to distract him from what she was doing. Only one topic came to mind. Their kiss.

“About this morning. Your memory is faulty.”

Concentrating, Bronwyn was just about to sever the final stitch. “How so?” she murmured.

“I believe
you
kissed
me
.”

His nearness coupled with the unexpected reminder of their embrace caused her hand to quiver just as she sliced the last stitch, giving him a small scrape.

“Ow! You did that on purpose!”

Bronwyn jumped back. She was no longer nestled between his legs, but neither was she out of his reach. “I did no such thing. Besides, it is a small scratch, so stop disgracing yourself by acting so cowardly,” she scolded, waving the sharp blade around as if it was another appendage.

“Cowardly?”
Ranulf bellowed as he jerked the knife out of her hand. “You, angel, should be thanking me for being damn near to a
saint
! You have to be one of the most difficult women I have ever met.”

Bronwyn’s chin popped up angrily, her deep blue eyes flashing. “I’m not difficult.
You’re
the one yelling.” She turned, grabbed his tunic, and threw it at him. “I’m done. You can get dressed now.”

Ranulf stifled an oath and tugged the black-and-gold garment over his head in frustration, refusing to wince as he twisted his injured shoulder to slip his arm through the opening. Nothing about the last few minutes had gone as planned. She was supposed to succumb to her physical need for him, not drive him mad to the point of losing control. He had known her for less than three days, and yet she was making him think and act in ways that were just not him.

“What did you say?” Bronwyn asked.

Ranulf scowled, hating to be caught mumbling. Something else he never did. “I said that I don’t yell! I don’t shout! Ever!”

“I find that hard to believe, my lord, for I have heard you do quite a lot of both since your arrival,” Bronwyn said smugly, ignoring her inner voice to leave immediately. No longer could she pretend Ranulf was in need of assistance. He was virile, strong, and awakening an irresistible sense of awareness within her.

Ranulf opened his mouth to argue, when he realized she had done it again. She had changed the subject, putting him on the defensive. Plopping back down onto the chair he had been occupying, he casually crossed his ankle so that it rested on his knee. “The kiss, angel. You still haven’t answered my question.”

The gleam in his eye revealed that his confidence had returned and Bronwyn felt like stomping her foot. The man would not win this contest of wills, for that was exactly what it was. Her versus him. And she refused to be the one to cave in. So if he wanted to talk about their kiss, then they would. “But I did answer it, my lord.
You kissed me
.”

A disturbing knot grew inside him, wondering if she truly was offended, but then he spied the sparkle of raillery in her eyes. “Don’t feel embarrassed, angel. I enjoyed it. Immensely,” he added as he reached over to grab his mug of mead.

Mustering up the last bit of her self-respect, Bronwyn narrowed her gaze and smiled icily. “I may have been one of many women who felt a fleeting desire to kiss you, but you will never have to worry about me being one of them again.” She rose and moved to do what she should have done much earlier—leave.

Many women? Try none
, Ranulf thought. The honesty in the spark between them was rarely experienced by anyone and, for him, even rarer. So when she stepped around the chair to leave, he instinctively reached out and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her down onto his lap. Catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he turned her head so that he could read her eyes. And there, reflecting in the darkening cobalt depths, was the truth. She wanted him and her feelings were just as strange and startling to her as his were to him.

“I don’t believe you, angel. I think you wanted to kiss me and desire to do so again, almost as much I want to taste you.” Then his mouth came down on hers before she could even think of resisting.

Need and longing seeped through the featherlight kiss, penetrating every fiber of her body. Bronwyn could feel the urgency behind it, but also the tightly reined control as his lips tenderly, coaxingly persuaded her mouth to open. She succumbed to his will and that of her own and kissed him back hungrily, uncaring that she was admitting that he was right. She did want to kiss him and touch him in ways her mind had only fantasized about doing with a man. Her hands wound their way from his chest around his neck, pulling him closer to her. The world disappeared and all that remained was Ranulf and what he was making her feel. She was at last a woman, whole and desirable.