The Maiden and Her Knight by Margaret Moore Page B

betrothal to Allis of Montclair reaches our sovereign’s ears, Richardmight even wonder if he misjudged you when he did not select you to be in his retinue.”
    Rennick didn’t answer as Oswald set down his goblet. “Now I bid you good night, Rennick. It grows late, and my journey here has wearied me.”
    Rennick watched Oswald stroll from the solar. Then he slowly surveyed the luxuriously appointed chamber. One day soon, all this would be his. He would be rich, he would be powerful, and he would have the woman he had desired for so long.
    He would be respected.
    And Richard would be dead.

Chapter 7
    C onnor moaned. His mouth was as dry as the dust of the desert and his head ached like a punishment for his sins. As he opened his eyes, a pain like the devil’s pitchfork pierced his left shoulder.
    Drawing in a quivering breath, he surveyed his surroundings. Although it was dark, he could make out his bossed wooden chest that normally contained his armor and few personal possessions. His three-legged camp stool was near the small basket of apples he kept for Demetrius. His hauberk, gambeson and surcoat were neatly folded and placed upon the stool, with his helmet, sword and belt on top of the pile.
    He had no memory of being brought to his tent and put on his cot. Somebody must have carried him here. Those two soldiers who had questioned him about Richard, perhaps.
    He looked around, trying to gauge the time of day. The east side of his tent was brighter, which told him it was dawn, or shortly after. He had slept through the afternoon and the night, so he had not eaten since yesterday morning.
    Closing his eyes, he heard again the bone-jarring crunch as his lance shattered and relived the instant anguish of the collision. His eyes still shut as if fearing what he might see, he raised his right hand to gingerly feel the bandages and sling around his left shoulder.
    He remembered the flare of recognition in Lady Allis’s brilliant brown eyes when he had entered the tent, and his relief that she seemed more concerned for him than angry. He recalled the way she had undressed him. He could scarce draw breath as she started to undo his sword belt, and it was not just because of his physical pain.
    Later, the agony overwhelmed every other sensation, until the draft she gave him took effect. After that, his memories became disjointed…vague…like the Welsh mountains in the mist.
    Her gentle, graceful hands. The little wrinkle of concentration between her shapely brows. Her soft lips pressed together, then parting, as if opening for him in anticipation of his kiss. Then the dreams. Incredible, exciting, tantalizingly vivid dreams.
    He had told Lady Allis how much he admired her hair, and how he had wanted to make her smile. Her response had been a slow, seductive smile of pleasure and wonder, as if she had been waiting years for a man to say such a thing.
    Half afraid of her rebuke, yet inspired by that smile, he had dared to lean close to her and brush his lips over hers. Softly, gently he kissed her, tasting the merest hint of wine and honey on her mouth. Miraculously, she did not protest, but slid her arms about his neck and drew him closer.
    Warmth had turned quickly to heat as their kiss deepened. He could not say at whose insistence it began to change, nor did he care. All he knew was that now they were kissing with unbridled, fervent passion. Mouth upon mouth, tongues entwining, he had never known such intoxicating kisses.
    He held her so close, her breasts, her hips, all of her seemed pressed against him as if they were as good as naked.
    Then, suddenly, they were. His whole body trembled as her desire-hardened nipples touched his bare chest, and his arousal met the tousled hair between her thighs. With a sigh, she arched back, and he wound his hand in the glorious mane of her blond hair before trailing a row of heated kisses down the curve of her chin, her neck, her collarbone. Cupping one