Read Online Blood Sword Legacy 04 - A Knight to Remember by Karin Tabke - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Karin Tabke
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fortunes be restored with such a wealthy son-in-law, but the melding of Saxon and Welsh would fortify them against the encroaching Normans.
Throwing in his lot with Earl Edric had been disastrous for her father. But he had made inroads with the Welsh, and had just this past autumn ridden to Dinefwr and offered his prized possession, his daughter Rowena, as wife to the prince’s only son, Rhodri. His train had been due to arrive several days ago. But with the storm they were detained.
As she reached the cold damp sands of the beach, Mercia continued her frustrated stride, oblivious to everything around her. She wrestled nightly with her destiny to become a bride of God, and not live the life she had dreamed of. One of sunshine, and children, and a husband who cherished her. A fool’s dream, to be sure. She wanted to scream, to run as far and as fast from her life as she could. She should just march right into the sea and swim to the wild shores of Ireland. Father would not dare come for her, so scourged was the sea with pirates.
But she could not. Mercia was as wild and untamed as the sea, but she had given her oath to England, to the Abbess and to God, and she would do all in her power to honor it. So intent was she on her march to the churning waters that she did not see the large piece of driftwood. She stumbled over it and landed with a resounding thud in the damp sand. She gasped and spit out gritty pebbles and wiped the stinging salt from her eyes. The wind blew sharply against her, bringing harsh tears to her eyes. As she rolled over and stood to brush herself clean, she stopped and screamed.
‘Twas not wood she stumbled over but a turned skiff dug into the sand, and a man, half-naked inside it. She turned to run, but curiosity got the better of her. She halted her flight and stared. He posed no threat. His body lay still, as the elements assaulted him. Intrigued by his long muscled body and angled face, she moved closer. A deep gash marked his chest, another smaller one slashed his shoulder.
She swallowed hard. Only braises and chauses covered his lower body and long legs. Closer still, she stepped, until she could see the fine dark hair on his chest. She followed it down to where it tapered to his…she blushed hotly. His long black hair was wet and sand filled, obscuring most of his beard-stubbled face. She bent down and gently pushed it away, and gasped a second time. Despite the new beard growth, he was most handsome. Dark brows slashed above eyes she envisioned to be as deep and penetrating as the sea. High cheekbones framed full lips. She could not help but wonder how warm and soft they might feel upon hers. She blushed hotly again. She had never been kissed, but since she was a young girl and had her heart set on her father’s young vassal, Sir Bertram, she had wondered how it would feel to be held by a man, and kissed by one. Rarely did she allow the thought freedom; she was, after all, promised to God.
Tentatively, she pressed a hand to his chest and recoiled at the heat that emanated from him. Fever. His chest rose in slow, shallow heaves. He moaned when she pressed her palm more firmly to him. Aye, his skin, despite the chill of the air, was hot to the touch.
Mercia looked up to the path she had just traversed, then to the cliffs. He would die if left exposed. And if there was one thing that could be said of Lady Mercia of Wendover, it was that she could not bear to see even a sparrow in pain. She looked closer for an indication of who he was. His hair was long in the Saxon mode, but his face, though a dark stubble haunted it, was clean-shaven, like a Norman‘s. He bore no sword, no other weapon, no signet ring. Save for his undergarments, he was bare. And yet, despite his disheveledness, instinctively, Mercia knew he was a noble.
Tension nagged at her brow. She chewed her bottom lip, unsure what to do. She could not take him to her father. He would complain of another mouth to feed, and he would
Throwing in his lot with Earl Edric had been disastrous for her father. But he had made inroads with the Welsh, and had just this past autumn ridden to Dinefwr and offered his prized possession, his daughter Rowena, as wife to the prince’s only son, Rhodri. His train had been due to arrive several days ago. But with the storm they were detained.
As she reached the cold damp sands of the beach, Mercia continued her frustrated stride, oblivious to everything around her. She wrestled nightly with her destiny to become a bride of God, and not live the life she had dreamed of. One of sunshine, and children, and a husband who cherished her. A fool’s dream, to be sure. She wanted to scream, to run as far and as fast from her life as she could. She should just march right into the sea and swim to the wild shores of Ireland. Father would not dare come for her, so scourged was the sea with pirates.
But she could not. Mercia was as wild and untamed as the sea, but she had given her oath to England, to the Abbess and to God, and she would do all in her power to honor it. So intent was she on her march to the churning waters that she did not see the large piece of driftwood. She stumbled over it and landed with a resounding thud in the damp sand. She gasped and spit out gritty pebbles and wiped the stinging salt from her eyes. The wind blew sharply against her, bringing harsh tears to her eyes. As she rolled over and stood to brush herself clean, she stopped and screamed.
‘Twas not wood she stumbled over but a turned skiff dug into the sand, and a man, half-naked inside it. She turned to run, but curiosity got the better of her. She halted her flight and stared. He posed no threat. His body lay still, as the elements assaulted him. Intrigued by his long muscled body and angled face, she moved closer. A deep gash marked his chest, another smaller one slashed his shoulder.
She swallowed hard. Only braises and chauses covered his lower body and long legs. Closer still, she stepped, until she could see the fine dark hair on his chest. She followed it down to where it tapered to his…she blushed hotly. His long black hair was wet and sand filled, obscuring most of his beard-stubbled face. She bent down and gently pushed it away, and gasped a second time. Despite the new beard growth, he was most handsome. Dark brows slashed above eyes she envisioned to be as deep and penetrating as the sea. High cheekbones framed full lips. She could not help but wonder how warm and soft they might feel upon hers. She blushed hotly again. She had never been kissed, but since she was a young girl and had her heart set on her father’s young vassal, Sir Bertram, she had wondered how it would feel to be held by a man, and kissed by one. Rarely did she allow the thought freedom; she was, after all, promised to God.
Tentatively, she pressed a hand to his chest and recoiled at the heat that emanated from him. Fever. His chest rose in slow, shallow heaves. He moaned when she pressed her palm more firmly to him. Aye, his skin, despite the chill of the air, was hot to the touch.
Mercia looked up to the path she had just traversed, then to the cliffs. He would die if left exposed. And if there was one thing that could be said of Lady Mercia of Wendover, it was that she could not bear to see even a sparrow in pain. She looked closer for an indication of who he was. His hair was long in the Saxon mode, but his face, though a dark stubble haunted it, was clean-shaven, like a Norman‘s. He bore no sword, no other weapon, no signet ring. Save for his undergarments, he was bare. And yet, despite his disheveledness, instinctively, Mercia knew he was a noble.
Tension nagged at her brow. She chewed her bottom lip, unsure what to do. She could not take him to her father. He would complain of another mouth to feed, and he would
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