My Noble Knight Page 10

  “I don’t want you to be hurt.”

  As if she could protect him. She was making herself more and more irresistible. He wanted to take her into his arms. He wanted to sample her lips. But she was under his protection. He was trying to show her how a woman acted. He could come up with a million reasons not to kiss her and just one to kiss her.

  Because he wanted to.

  He nodded and took a step away from her. “You must promise me, Layne. You are not to become involved in this.”

  “But –”

  “No,” he said firmly, his hand tightening around the stirrup leather. “If there is someone trying to sabotage me, he would not hesitate to harm you if you interfered.”

  Her scowl grew fierce and he was reminded of a lioness he had once seen at court.

  “I won't stand by and watch you get hurt.”

  How he loved her combative nature, how she would fight for those she cared about. Cared about. Did that include him? She cared for him? God’s blood! He grabbed her arm and pulled her against him. “Why must you throw yourself into danger?”

  Her gaze moved over his face like a heated caress. Her soft, pliable body pressed against his. “For you.”

  With a growl, he gave in, unable to resist her. He pressed his lips to hers, hungry for her touch, ravenous for her mouth. She parted her lips for his exploration. His desperate kiss gave way to a gentle longing. He pulled her closer to him, not able to get enough of her. For him. She did it for him. He ran his hands up into her hair.

  She winced and a groan escaped her lips as his fingers brushed too close to the cloth about her head.

  Immediately, he pulled back. He was about to apologize for being such an oaf and putting his needs before hers.

  “I'm sorry,” she whispered, refusing to relinquish him from her embrace.

  A slow smile spread over his lips. Must she always beat him? He kissed her lips quickly and stepped back. “You need to rest.”

  A groan of disappointment escaped her lips. That was a groan he could tolerate, better then hearing her in pain. He placed an arm about her shoulders to guide her back into the pavilion.

  “As do I,” he added. He knew she would relent and put his needs first. She didn't resist then, but allowed him to lead her into the tent. “I battle Osmont on the morrow.”

  The sun hid behind large white clouds as if afraid to witness the spectacle below.

  Griffin stared down the field of honor at Osmont. His visor was up and he watched with an unsettling calm while Osmont lifted his hands to get the crowd to cheer for him. Griffin heard the cheers and the chants of Osmont’s name, but he paid them no heed.

  The commander at arms had just finished announcing the start of the joust and he was walking out of the field.

  Griffin waited patiently. A strange calm settled over him.

  Osmont turned a sneer to Griffin and pointed down the field at him.

  The only image Griffin could see was Osmont hitting Layne in the head with his sword. He quickly pushed the thought from his mind and replaced it with a flash of Osmont flying from his horse as his lance struck him hard in the stomach.

  Carlton handed the lance to Griffin. Griffin lowered his visor and took the lance, holding it raised for a long moment. He glared down the list at Osmont. There would be no doubt of the consequences of his actions. He would not win this joust. He spurred Adonis. Adonis needed little encouragement. His horse seemed almost as hungry for this joust as he was. Griffin lowered the lance. He would need only one pass. He planned to take Osmont out so quickly there was no doubt.

  Adonis thundered down the field of honor. Griffin’s body moved with his steed, one with the animal. His grip tightened in preparation for the impact. One pass. One pass.

  He leaned forward slightly, concentrating.

  He felt the glancing blow. Osmont was not going to make this easy.

  It all happened in slow motion. Griffin instinctively corrected for the blow he was taking and lunged forward with his own lance, throwing Osmont’s aim off.

  Griffin’s lance struck perfectly. Osmont’s shoulder jerked back. He spun around with so much force, he was launched from the saddle. A perfect strike.

  Griffin released the lance. As he rode by, Osmont seemed to be suspended, twisted in mid-air for a moment. Adonis raced to the end of the field. Griffin turned in his saddle. Osmont lay on the dusty ground as Griffin rode back to his side of the field.

  Osmont flopped in the dirt like a turtle before he gained enough momentum to sit up.

  Griffin lifted his face visor. It wasn’t enough. Not enough of a punishment. He slid from Adonis, watching Osmont, silently willing the fallen knight to call for his weapon. His pride would be wounded. He had lost in one pass. The arrogant, pompous knight who had promised victory and swift retribution would call for his sword, Griffin was sure.

  Osmont climbed to one knee. His squire appeared at his side, trying to help him to his feet. Osmont pushed the young man away and shouted, “Sword, boy!” The young man sprinted away to his side of the field.

  Satisfaction filled Griffin. Carlton was at his side, handing him his weapon with a resigned sigh. Griffin’s hand tightened around the pommel of his sword.

  Osmont whipped his sword from his squire’s hand and held it pointed at Griffin.

  Griffin didn’t approach. He stood with the tip of his sword pointed down, waiting.

  With a howl of rage, Osmont lifted his sword and charged at Griffin.

  Griffin swung, deflecting his strike. The clanging of the swords rang through the silent field. He lifted his sword to meet the next swing of Osmont’s weapon. A sharp shearing noise sounded as the swords slid against each other.

  Osmont growled and arced another blow. Griffin easily averted it. Let him tire himself, Griffin thought. It was the best way to defeat him. As Osmont’s sword lifted, it caught the sunlight and reflected the light of its silver blade.

  Griffin wondered for a brief moment if this was the sword that hit Layne. Layne. Her image flashed to his mind. Blood dripping from her wound, disoriented but standing bravely before her brother. He grit his teeth. His sword came alive in his hands, crashing against Osmont’s blade with stunning force. He swung again, clashing the blades together.

  Osmont stumbled back under the barrage.

  Griffin lunged, hitting him in the side. As his sword bounced off Osmont’s armor, Osmont tumbled to the ground. Griffin stomped his booted foot on Osmont’s sword arm, pinning it to the ground. With a cry, Griffin raised his sword above his head.

  Osmont lifted his free arm to protect himself.

  Time stopped. Griffin with his sword raised above his head for the final blow. Osmont cowering and trying to protect himself with a raised arm, fear glimmering in his dark eyes.

  Griffin bent and grabbed Osmont’s breast plate, pulling him slightly off the ground. He pushed his face close to Osmont’s. “Yield.”

  Osmont’s upper lip trembled in hatred.

  “There is nothing I would like more than to run my blade across your neck,” Griffin warned. “Yield or you are a dead man.”

  “I yield,” Osmont snapped in contempt.

  “Louder. They didn’t hear you.”

  “I yield!” Osmont shouted.

  Griffin straightened. He stared down at Osmont for a long moment. He wanted with every fiber to run him through. But the rules of the joust were clear. Griffin had not only won, he had defeated him soundly.

  He removed his foot from Osmont’s arm and turned to walk away.

  The crowd exploded in a cacophony of wild applause and cheers.

  Carlton met him halfway across the field, leading Adonis to him.

  Griffin took the reins. His blood pounded through his veins, his teeth clenched tight. He had never known such anger.

  Carlton grinned proudly at him.

  Even his squire’s happiness could not ease his fury. He still wanted to run Osmont through. It wasn't enough. He headed toward the exit. Sweat drippe
d down his forehead. He removed his helmet, tucking it beneath his arm. He instantly spotted her at the gate.

  Layne stood at the fence, Colin and Frances behind her. She smiled with joy and delight. Radiance lit her face. And just like that, his anger was gone, evaporated like the morning dew beneath the hot sun.

  Just like that, it was done. One pass. Layne glanced at her brothers. Colin was staring open mouthed. Frances was scowling in disbelief.

  She looked back at Griffin as he exited the field of honor. He stared back at her. Tingles raced all the way through her body like a delightful summer breeze. She could barely contain the pride she felt. Griffin was magnificent. One mighty pass. And he had defeated Osmont soundly in hand-to-hand combat. She looked again at her brothers. Colin shook his head. Frances closed his eyes. Slowly, Layne’s smile faded as the implications swept through her. How could her brothers possibly beat someone like that?

  Frances looked at her. “You have to find some way for us to beat him.”

  At many levels, this upset her. It was dishonorable. They should be able to defeat him based on their own skills, not through trickery or some hidden secret. But there was also something else. Layne couldn’t betray Griffin like that, not even if she knew a trick that would help her brothers win.

  “No,” Colin said before she could answer. “You can’t ask that of her. It’s our duty to find some way to defeat him.”

  “Did you see that?” Frances asked, sweeping his hand out to the field toward Osmont who stormed off of the field. The defeated knight was followed by his squire who hurried to keep up with him. “How can we hope to defeat him?”

  “We’ll find a way,” Colin said. “We’ll practice more.”

  Layne nodded in agreement, but she wasn’t sure if all the practice in the world would be enough to defeat Griffin Wolfe.

  Layne walked back to Griffin’s tent with her brothers. It was a somber mood. And she knew she should feel the same. But inside, she was overjoyed at the competent, strong way Griffin had unhorsed Osmont. She felt a personal victory. In one pass, her mind continued to repeat.

  Carlton sat near the front of the tent, polishing Griffin’s armor. He looked up. Layne stopped before him as her brothers moved to their own tent. Colin was jousting later and they had to prepare.

  Layne stared Carlton in the eye. Slowly, Carlton’s lips turned up in a grin and his eyes danced with exhilaration.

  Layne knelt before him, grabbing his arms in elation, unable to keep the unabashed joy from her smile. “One pass!” she whispered in excitement.

  Carlton nodded. He shrugged, trying to suppress the excitement in his voice. “He thought Osmont deserved no less for what he did to you.”

  Pride and warmth blossomed in her heart. Layne leaned forward. “It wasn’t anything less.” She smiled. “Is he inside?”

  Carlton nodded and looked back down at his work. She patted his shoulder and rose, entering the tent.

  Griffin whirled. He wore no shirt, only breeches that hugged his legs and hips.

  For a moment, Layne could not move. Her mouth went dry and she could only stare. His torso was chiseled perfection. Gleaming with a light sheen of perspiration, his muscles shone in the sun shining in from the open flap. He put his hands on his hips. “You should have been resting.”

  She tried to form the words, but nothing came to mind. She nodded. Lord, how she wanted to touch him, to run her hands over the smooth expanse of his chest.

  “You have nothing to say?”

  She swallowed hard. Magnificent. Spectacular. Wonderful. All of these words came to her mind, but they had nothing to do with the joust.

  “Speechless?” he asked, dropping his hands. “Yes, I suppose I would be, too.” He shook his head. “I made squire errors.”

  Her mouth dropped in shock and she stepped forward, shaking her head. “No!” she protested.

  He looked up, meeting her eyes.

  The blue of his orbs left her reeling. “No,” she whispered. “You were wonderful. There were no mistakes. You were perfect.”

  His brows lowered in disagreement. His gaze swept her face. “There is no such thing as perfect.”

  “You gave Osmont a thorough thrashing, but I suspect you know that.” She stepped into the tent and the flap swooshed closed behind her.

  “It wasn’t enough,” he whispered. “It took all of my training to keep my anger at bay. Osmont wasn’t so fortunate. He doesn’t have the will I do.”

  She stepped closer. “Or the strength.” Her gaze moved over his torso and then back up to his eyes. “You are perfect.” A heated blush flushed through her body and she looked down. “You did wonderfully in the joust. I couldn’t be more proud.”

  “You couldn’t?”

  It was the way he said it that intrigued her. With shocked innocence. She glanced up at him. “Well…” She smiled in embarrassment. It wasn't her place to be proud of him. “What I meant to say… Is that I don’t think you made any mistakes.”

  “Then you are not as observant as you say you are.” He crossed his arms. “What did your brothers think?”

  Seriousness returned, erasing the joy. Layne glanced back over her shoulder at the tent flap. “I don’t think they felt the same way.”

  “I should hope not. There’s a good chance I will joust against one of them on the morrow. That is, if they win their jousts today.”

  How could they hope to beat him? And who would she root for?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Layne sat beside Michael as he lay on his mat. His morning meal of apples and bread lay untouched on the floor where she placed it. “You should eat, Michael. To get your strength up.”

  “For what?”

  “For what? Frances and Colin still need their squire. The weapons need to be sharpened and cleaned –”

  “How am I to do that?” He waved his bandaged hand in the air.

  Layne sat back. “It will heal.”

  “Am I to re-grow my fingers? Is that what will happen?” He turned away from her, facing the side of the tent.

  A wave of sympathy crested over her. This was her fault. He had been defending her. She touched the side of her head where a welt had formed around the gash. She hated the bandage and removed it, letting the air heal it. She looked at Michael’s slumped back. She could have easily fallen into the same sorrow as Michael. He had lost his fingers. But she needed to be strong, to set an example, for Michael. She couldn’t let him feel sorry for himself. That was a dangerous path. She needed him to have purpose, to be strong. “You still have three fingers.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “You're looking at this all wrong. Who else could boast of such an injury and lived? Not even Frances and Colin. You fought off a knight’s sword with naught but a dagger.”

  Michael crossed his arms and refused to turn to her.

  “Think of the stories you could tell. How you came to my rescue. How you faced a knight on horseback with only a dagger.” She tickled him, but he jerked away. Layne sat back with a sigh. “So that’s it? You’re going to give up? I suppose I can't blame you. Losing two fingers is almost like losing an arm. Losing two fingers is almost like losing a leg. I suppose those people who lose those are as good as dead.”

  Michael whirled on her, his eyes brimming with tears, anger in his voice. “You don’t know what it’s like!”

  “No, I don’t. But I tell you I wouldn't let that foul Osmont get away with this. I'd be up practicing until I could thrash him. I wouldn’t be laying around and letting others feel sorry for me.”

  He clenched his teeth and glared at her. “I wish I had never saved you!”

  His words stung, but she ignored them to curl her fingers into a tight fist. “You're a Fletcher. You’re a fighter, damn it. Fight!”

  “I’m going to tell Colin you said an unlady-like word.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. “You’ll have to get out of bed to do that.”

  “I hate you
, Layne!”

  “Here, now,” Griffin said, ducking beneath the tent flap. “Knights of the realm do not speak thus to any lady.”

  “She’s no lady,” Michael snapped. “She’s a pain in my arse.”

  Layne knew he was angry and she was glad. Better for him to be angry than sad and pitiable.

  “Michael!” Griffin reprimanded. “How do you expect her to treat you as a knight if you don’t act like one?”

  Michael glowered at her.

  At least he is sitting up, Layne thought, answering his fierce stare with one of her own.

  Griffin picked up a dagger at the side of the bed. He inspected it, running a finger over the blade. “When I was a lad, my father insisted I treat even the servant women with decorum and respect. He always said that if I didn’t act like a knight, I could never truly become one.”

  “Obviously, you ain’t got a sister like her!”

  “Oh, on the contrary. I do,” Griffin said. He held the dagger to his eye, looking down the blade. “Although, she is not as adept with a weapon as Layne, she uses many of the same tactics to achieve her goals.” Griffin glanced at Layne.

  “Tactics?” Michael echoed in confusion.

  “Gwen is proficient at fake tears and pouty expressions.”

  “Hey!” Layne objected. “I can’t fake cry.”

  Griffin chuckled and picked up a whetstone. He shrugged casually. “Perhaps not, but there are other tactics you use. Innocent looks. Arguing.”

  “You argue, too!” Layne protested.

  Griffin ran the stone across the side of the blade. “How many times do you think Layne will have to ask you to eat?”

  Michael glanced at the food. He pushed it away with his booted foot. “Many,” he said stubbornly and defiantly.

  “Ah, good lad,” Griffin said. “Resist until the end.” He ran the stone along the other side of the blade. “But now, man to man, how many times would I have to ask?”

  Michael looked at him. “Only once. But you are a knight. She is a –”

  “Lady,” Griffin corrected.