Read Online Fairest Of Them All by Teresa Medeiros - Free Book Online
Authors: Teresa Medeiros
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stood on end in a manner almost identical to Holly’s and muttered, “I suppose even Gavenmore would be better than no husband at all.”
Holly could not fully convey the violent depths of her disagreement so she simply smoothed her father’s disheveled locks beneath her fingertips. “You needn’t fret, Papa. The arrogant knave is probably halfway back to Wales by now. Twas but a momentary twinge of madness that prompted him to declare himself for me.”
He batted her hand away, pinning her with an icy glare that chilled her to the marrow. “You’d best pray that you’re right, girl, because Gavenmore has taken every purse in every joust he’s entered in the past five years. If you’re wrong, you may very well be his most extravagant prize.”
The queen of Love and Beauty reigned over the tournament from her throne atop the wooden gallery, the irony of her title not wasted on her.
Holly wiggled on the hard seat to avoid the rolls of cloth Elspeth had crafted to pad her skirt. Her breasts were beginning to ache from being bound so tightly and the urge to claw at her freshly cropped head was becoming impossible to resist. The midday sun beat down on her tender skin. She licked the sweat from her upper lip only to get a mouthful of the soot she had used to darken the imperceptible hairs there to the shadow of a mustache.
Half of the challengers had already fled. Remaining were those lords and knights who had pledged fealty to her father and a stubborn handful reluctant to forfeit their honor to rumors of cowardice. They clustered at each end of the list, making half-hearted gestures toward donning their armor and outfitting their mounts for a joust they knew would never take place.
A parade of curious gawkers had also joined the crowd: peasants from the village, scampering children, castle servants, slatterns who’d emerged from the hillside encampment with tangled hair and eyes slitted from too little sleep and a dizzying variety of masculine attentions.
Their shrill laughter was echoed by the more subtle, but no less malicious, giggles of the ladies seated with Holly on the gallery. Her aunts and cousins huddled on benches at her back, giving her a broad berth lest her affliction be contagious and they should awake in the morn to discover their own eyelashes and hair lying in clumps upon their pillows.
She stole a glance at her papa’s stony profile. He perched on the throne next to hers, his feet dangling a good six inches from the floor of the gallery. He had snubbed all of her feeble attempts at conversation since their earlier confrontation. Given no choice but to sit slumped miserably in her chair, Holly was beginning to wish this grim farce over and done with.
As the heralds took the field, gleaming trumpets in hand, she suspected she was about to get her wish. When not a single challenger accepted their brassy invitation to battle, she would be free to retire to her chamber and face her father’s well-deserved wrath. She shifted in a vain attempt to relieve an unpleasant tingle in her bottom.
The heralds lifted the golden bells of their trumpets. A flourish of notes trilled through the hazy air.
Holly yawned and scratched her head, anticipating a lazy afternoon nap.
A lone rider materialized at the far end of the list. Before she even realized it, Holly was on her feet, gripping the gallery rail in her damp palms.
As the Welsh knight muscled his broad-flanked bay destrier through the scattering mob, her father muttered, “Can’t say much for his taste in verse or women, but the lad has a hell of a head for horseflesh.”
If Holly could have choked a word past her shuttered throat, she might have agreed. There was no question that Gavenmore cut a majestic figure on a horse. He sat the saddle as if he’d been born to it. The armor beneath his quilted surcoat was modest, simple chain mail enhanced by steel plates at his elbows and shins. A silver helm obscured his features, making him look even
Holly could not fully convey the violent depths of her disagreement so she simply smoothed her father’s disheveled locks beneath her fingertips. “You needn’t fret, Papa. The arrogant knave is probably halfway back to Wales by now. Twas but a momentary twinge of madness that prompted him to declare himself for me.”
He batted her hand away, pinning her with an icy glare that chilled her to the marrow. “You’d best pray that you’re right, girl, because Gavenmore has taken every purse in every joust he’s entered in the past five years. If you’re wrong, you may very well be his most extravagant prize.”
The queen of Love and Beauty reigned over the tournament from her throne atop the wooden gallery, the irony of her title not wasted on her.
Holly wiggled on the hard seat to avoid the rolls of cloth Elspeth had crafted to pad her skirt. Her breasts were beginning to ache from being bound so tightly and the urge to claw at her freshly cropped head was becoming impossible to resist. The midday sun beat down on her tender skin. She licked the sweat from her upper lip only to get a mouthful of the soot she had used to darken the imperceptible hairs there to the shadow of a mustache.
Half of the challengers had already fled. Remaining were those lords and knights who had pledged fealty to her father and a stubborn handful reluctant to forfeit their honor to rumors of cowardice. They clustered at each end of the list, making half-hearted gestures toward donning their armor and outfitting their mounts for a joust they knew would never take place.
A parade of curious gawkers had also joined the crowd: peasants from the village, scampering children, castle servants, slatterns who’d emerged from the hillside encampment with tangled hair and eyes slitted from too little sleep and a dizzying variety of masculine attentions.
Their shrill laughter was echoed by the more subtle, but no less malicious, giggles of the ladies seated with Holly on the gallery. Her aunts and cousins huddled on benches at her back, giving her a broad berth lest her affliction be contagious and they should awake in the morn to discover their own eyelashes and hair lying in clumps upon their pillows.
She stole a glance at her papa’s stony profile. He perched on the throne next to hers, his feet dangling a good six inches from the floor of the gallery. He had snubbed all of her feeble attempts at conversation since their earlier confrontation. Given no choice but to sit slumped miserably in her chair, Holly was beginning to wish this grim farce over and done with.
As the heralds took the field, gleaming trumpets in hand, she suspected she was about to get her wish. When not a single challenger accepted their brassy invitation to battle, she would be free to retire to her chamber and face her father’s well-deserved wrath. She shifted in a vain attempt to relieve an unpleasant tingle in her bottom.
The heralds lifted the golden bells of their trumpets. A flourish of notes trilled through the hazy air.
Holly yawned and scratched her head, anticipating a lazy afternoon nap.
A lone rider materialized at the far end of the list. Before she even realized it, Holly was on her feet, gripping the gallery rail in her damp palms.
As the Welsh knight muscled his broad-flanked bay destrier through the scattering mob, her father muttered, “Can’t say much for his taste in verse or women, but the lad has a hell of a head for horseflesh.”
If Holly could have choked a word past her shuttered throat, she might have agreed. There was no question that Gavenmore cut a majestic figure on a horse. He sat the saddle as if he’d been born to it. The armor beneath his quilted surcoat was modest, simple chain mail enhanced by steel plates at his elbows and shins. A silver helm obscured his features, making him look even
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