A Crimson Frost by Marcia Lynn McClure Page A

distance, she said, “I was certain I would faint, consumed by bliss and ecstasy!”
    Portia and Lenore sighed and smiled, delighted with her answer.
    “Tell us all of it, Monet! Do tell!” Lenore giggled.
    “What was it like?” Portia asked.
    Monet smiled. “Moist and warm…intoxicating as to weaken the whole of my body!”
    Monet smiled as Portia and Lenore sighed in perfect unison.
    “To press lips with the Crimson Knight!” Portia whispered. “What ever else can measure it?”
    Monet expired her own sigh. “I think…nothing,” she said.
    
    Near an hour had waned since the tournament had ended. Near three hours remained before King Ivan’s celebratory banquet would begin. It seemed to Monet enough time following and an adequate time before—and he must be told. She must ease her conscience; he must understand the depth of her gratitude.
    The knight encampment was quiet. No doubt all the knights and squires were well steeped in much-deserved and needed respite. Still, Monet was wary as she made for the pavilion of the Crimson Knight of Karvana.
    Quickly, the thought of her father—his perpetual warnings of taking care—tickled her mind. Yet Monet did not enjoy constant escort. Further, what true harm could befall her there? Thus, she hurried on, her black cloak clutched tightly about her, its black hood concealing her features of face.
    The sight of the white pavilion of the Crimson Knight—crimson flag with black rearing dragon unfurled atop—caused Monet’s heart to leap. He must be thanked. She would not rest until he knew her profound gratefulness. Yet the thought of facing him—the memory of his kiss still lingering on her lips—gave her pause.
    Monet closed her eyes—struggled to muster courage. Inhaling deeply, she reminded herself she was Princess Monet of Karvana, whose father and kingdom and self owed a great debt to their Crimson Knight.
    Quickly, before her courage could fail her again, Monet pulled back one flap of the Crimson Knight’s pavilion and stepped within. Instantly, she bit her lip, stifling an astonished gasp, for the Crimson Knight stood before her—bare from the waist up—binding the ties of a pair of trousers at his waist.
    The astonishment and discomfiture of having intruded to find him so inappropriately attired vanished as Monet’s attention was drawn to the deep purple bruising across his chest, at his stomach, and over his arms. Blood still trickled from a large lesion at his upper right arm. Monet felt tears welling in her eyes at such a vision of brutality and pain.
    “Your highness!” Eann exclaimed as Monet brushed the hood back to reveal her face.
    “What means this?” Monet demanded. The Crimson Knight frowned as she advanced upon him. Eann handed him a length of leather attached to a small leather pouch, and he drew it over his head as a necklace, the pouch resting just above his navel.
    “It means I am only just finished bathing and have not yet fully clothed myself once again,” Sir Broderick grumbled.
    “I meant this,” she said. Monet pressed her fingers near the wound at his arm to see that, although well-cleaned, it still had not been stitched. “You’re bleeding, Sir Broderick!”
    “Usually…yes,” he mumbled.
    “Why has a physician not attended you?”
    “There are others in the encampment with far worse wounds than mine, Princess,” Sir Broderick said. He was scowling at her, yet she cared not—for the wound was far more serious than she had imagined.
    “You bore this wound yesterday, and it has been bleeding all of today! Infection will settle here,” Monet said.
    “Eann has well cared for me, Princess,” the Crimson Knight said. “He will acquire the necessaries to stitch it himself, and it will be of no consequence.”
    “Stitch it himself?” Monet gasped.
    “It is many times I have stitched him, your highness,” Eann said. “He is strong as a horse and vastly more resilient when wounded than most men.”
    “Even