A Crimson Frost by Marcia Lynn McClure Page B

so—” Monet began.
    “Eann will stitch it, Princess,” Sir Broderick interrupted. She looked up to find his steel gaze boring through her.
    “Then I pray you send him for the necessaries, Sir Broderick…before your arm rots off.”
    The Crimson Knight’s brows arched in astonishment. A slight grin softened his lips, and he said, “Pray fetch the necessaries, Eann…before her highness has at me with the surgeon’s dismembering saw.”
    “At once, Sir Broderick,” Eann said. Monet blushed at the expression of amusement plain on the squire’s face.
    “You mock my concern for your well-being,” Monet said as Eann left the pavilion. She was angry, humiliated, and yet entirely frightened that the Crimson Knight might yet suffer pain and infection.
    “No, your highness,” he said. He placed a hand at his chest and bowed his head. “I am touched and honored by your distress on my account.” He was in earnest—it was obvious—and Monet settled her indignation.
    Sir Broderick straightened, glanced beyond her a moment, and frowned. “Are you again unaccompanied, Princess?” he asked.
    “Yes,” she admitted.
    The Crimson Knight’s brow furrowed once more. “It is not wise…not safe for you to wander about—”
    “I loathe being in constant escort,” Monet interrupted. “And I wanted to offer my thanks to you…in private…where I may say what I mean to say without unwanted ears to intrude.”
    “Very well,” he said.
    Monet turned from him, wringing her hands as her mind struggled to recall what she had meant to tell him. His appearance, his lack of attire, and his yet-bleeding wound had sent all organized thought scattering to the wind.
    “There is no manner in which to repay you, Sir Broderick,” she began, “no thing of value that will offer recompense for what you have achieved today…for the honor and strength you lend to Karvana, its king…and me.”
    “I have received recompense aplenty, Princess,” he said, “a far better prize than many a knight has received for besting more men than I in tournament.”
    Monet blushed. Though she knew his flattery was but obligatory, it caused her body to bathe in honeyed warmth all the same.
    “I am in earnest, Sir Broderick!” she said, at last turning to look at him. “Pray do not condescend.” His eyes narrowed as she continued. “I suppose…I suppose that I did hope to realize the value of your triumph when I came to you, begging you not carry Anais’s favour…yet I wonder that I did not comprehend its full worth, in truth.”
    “Your highness?” he asked.
    “Your triumph, shared with my father and Karvana, has strengthened the kingdom and the power of the monarchy,” she explained. “King James did not attend King Ivan’s tournament. In his arrogance…in his desire to prove himself above the other kings of the five kingdoms…as ever, he lingers in Rothbain. Tales of your triumph will resound in his court, and it may lend doubt to his ambitions. I know you are formidably aware of this, yet I wish you to know that I am also conscious of these things. I do not wish you to think I am ignorant or light-minded in this. Further, I wish to comfort myself that you are in reassurance of my gratitude.” She looked up into the lucent indigo of his eyes—let her gaze linger on the whole of his countenance and striking appearance. She wondered for a moment what marvelous sensation his soft, raven hair woven between her fingers would awaken.
    “You, and only you, have fought the harsh battle of this tournament. You and none other…not my father…nor any citizen of our kingdom…and undoubtedly not I. I wish you to know that, in my mind and heart, the glory of this victory belongs to none but you…and I am in your debt that you should so willingly share your triumph with king and kingdom.”
    He was silent for a moment. Monet frowned as a slight smile curved his lips.
    “Are you thinking I am not sincere in my gratitude?” she asked.
    “I