Surrender To The Knight. Tatiana March
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spoke in a nervous prattle. “We had the chimney in the center of the tower built five years ago. Before then, we had to suffer the smoke rising from the fire pit in the middle of the floor downstairs.”
Fire pit? Olaf shook his head in disbelief. It might be 1541, but it appeared that in this remote corner of Scotland time had stood still for centuries.
“It’s too early for bed,” he pointed out. “And I don’t plan to sleep here.”
A flash of rebellion skimmed across Lady Brenna’s features. Olaf knew that she’d caught his meaning, understood he was reminding her of his threat to ride out if she hadn’t made her choice of husband by nightfall.
She held the tankard out to him. “Drink and sleep now,” she told him. Her mouth puckered, as if she disliked the flavor of the words on her tongue. “You might not have the chance later,” she added, and Olaf couldn’t decide if she was warning him that he might have to depart soon or hinting at the wedding night to come.
“Drink,” she said again. “It’ll do you good.”
He caught it then—a flicker of cunning that drifted across her features as she proffered the tankard at him. She lowered her eyes, refusing to meet his searching gaze. A frown of guilty conscience pleated her brow, alerting him to danger as clearly as a painted warning sign might have done.
He expelled a tired sigh. It didn’t matter. Death by poisoning, death on a battlefield. If Lady Brenna chose him, at least he wouldn’t have to ride back through those godforsaken moors and, in any case, he didn’t need to start worrying about every mouthful he ate until they were husband and wife, united by law. It wouldn’t make sense for her to kill him unless she could become his widow.
Olaf took the pewter vessel from her and lifted it to his lips. As he downed the first mouthful of the sweet mead, a wave of exhaustion swept over him. He tilted his head back and swallowed, time and again, the liquid burning a hot path down his throat.
When he was finished, he passed the empty tankard back to Lady Brenna. She didn’t leave the room, merely moved a few paces away from him and remained standing there, swaying gently, shifting from foot to foot. One slender hand rose, tangling in her hair, the nervous fingers toying with the ebony curls as she waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Olaf ceased fighting the fatigue that washed over him. His limbs grew heavy, his thoughts hazy. Drowsy warmth enveloped him, pulling him into its peaceful embrace. Just before the darkness of sleep claimed him, his thoughts sprang loose, his control crumbling away.
“I want you to be mine...mine to kiss, mine to wed, mine to bed...” He heard his slurred words but couldn’t stop their flow. “Lands...I want lands...forget lands...I want to taste you...put my hands on you...uncover your naked beauty...”
With the last grain of his awareness, Olaf registered Lady Brenna’s shocked gasp. She took a hasty backward step, retreating deeper into the shadows, but not before he saw a crimson flush surge up to her face.
“I want to be inside you and feel you tighten around me...until my seed spurts out and fills you with my babe....” His voice fell to a raspy whisper. “I want to curl asleep beside you...night after night after night....”
Overcoming her initial reaction, Lady Brenna moved closer, hovering in front of him, straining to hear his words. Olaf tried to reach out for her. An urge soared inside him to haul her against him and press his mouth against her rosy lips, and yet his body refused to move. With a groan of frustration, he slumped down on the straw pallet. Then a black void claimed him, and with it the images of his hopes and dreams.
* * *
Lady Brenna fled the guest solar, her trembling legs barely carrying her. The room opened to a corridor outside the laird’s chamber, and as soon as she’d crossed the threshold, she halted and barred the door. Then she turned around and propped her back against the smooth timber surface, her chest rising and falling with urgent breaths.
Her third suitor had a warm, rich voice, and now echoes of it filled her ears. She tried to forget his lustful ramblings, but her body throbbed and tingled with the sensations his daring comments had stirred inside her. Images of the arrogant, masculine beauty of the golden knight filled her mind, refusing to fade.
What would it be like, to be in love?
What would it be like, to dream of a man’s touch?
What would it be like, to eagerly wait for the night to fall?
A shiver of warning ran through Brenna, shaking her like a winter chill. Romantic love ruined lives. She’d enjoyed the best of it, the safe and undemanding love of her family, and she wouldn’t tempt the Fates by opening her heart to a stranger. Painful memories whispered through her mind. Her mother’s tears when the isolation at Kilgarren got too much for her and she chose to return to France. Her father’s grief, how he’d stormed out to the moors, roaring out his longing for her into the winds after she was gone and his loneliness grew too deep to bear, eventually fracturing his sanity.
Such a fate would not ruin her future.
She refused to let herself fall in love and then have her heart shrivel and die, the way her father’s heart had died when her mother found it impossible to stay. She would do her duty, seal the marriage and then count the months until her husband grew tired of the primitive existence in the north and left.
* * *
Dull, steady thuds pounded like drumbeats against his temples. Olaf cracked his eyes open, coming awake in stages, trying to figure out where he was. Darkness surrounded him, but vertical streaks of golden light broke through the veil of black. When he reached out, his fumbling hands met a heavy layer of fabric, a flimsy wall that swayed as he groped. Rolling over, he pushed the rustling velvet aside and found himself looking into a large room.
Privacy curtains.
He was stretched out on a canopied bed. On a small table a few feet away, a pair of tallow candles burned with a steady flame. A fire roared in a massive stone chimney. As his senses sharpened, he felt the texture of his woolen hose and quilted doublet against his skin—whoever had hauled him from the straw pallet into his room had left his clothing undisturbed.
Softly spoken words drifted at him from the shadows. “I asked Ian and Alistair to carry you into the laird’s chamber.”
His parched throat only managed a rasp in reply.
“You need to drink,” the voice told him.
He fought the ache in his head and focused his gaze in the direction of the sound. Out of the darkness, a woman stepped forward. She was slender, clad in pair of tight-fitting hose and a green velvet doublet that covered her hips. Glossy black curls cascaded down to her waist. When she offered him a taut smile, a pair of dimples decorated her cheeks.
Fragments, recollections fell into place—the ride through the Highlands, his arrival at Kilgarren, clashing swords with a woman. “Lady Brenna?” he croaked.
“Drink.” She knelt beside him and lifted a stone cup to his lips.
Still dazed from the deep, dreamless sleep, Olaf tipped his head back and took greedy gulps, the cool water easing his thirst. His eyes roamed over her—the subtle curve of her breasts, the fine arch of dark brows, the rosy mouth pursed in concentration as she held the drinking vessel steady for him. On her temple, a blue vein throbbed beneath the pale skin.
He swallowed the last drops. “Thank you.”
Lady Brenna moved away from him. She set the cup down on the table and bent to deal with some other objects that Olaf couldn’t see from the distance. He heard a clunk and a scraping sound. A moment later, Lady Brenna dragged a low pine stool to the bedside. She went to the table again and returned with a wooden board, a roll of parchment and a quill.
She held up the document. “The marriage contract.”
She’d chosen him over the competition.