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Authors: Teresa Medeiros
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more forbidding.
Praying he hadn’t seen her rise, Holly sank back into her seat, fighting an involuntary thrill of excitement. “I don’t know why he troubles with a helm. It seems his head is hard enough to deflect any blow he might receive.”
As the destrier pranced down the list toward the gallery, its rippling drape mirroring the dusky greens and crimsons of its master’s surcoat, the agitated snatches of gossip from Holly’s aunts and cousins became impossible to ignore.
“Aye, Gavenmore ... so arrogant he brought only a single man-at-arms to the contest, but ‘tis rumored there are a thousand Welshmen crouched in the forest awaiting his signal to attack.”
Holly felt her papa stiffen.
“. . . little more than a savage . . .”
“. . . once incredibly wealthy . . .”
“. . . stripped of their earldom when his father murdered his own wife.”
“Murdered her? I heard he ate her!”
A muffled rejoinder, too low for even Holly’s ears to catch, provoked a round of naughty titters from the women.
An icy ball of dread hardened in Holly’s chest. Dear God, she thought, what manner of man had she provoked? She had precious little time to contemplate her recklessness, for horse and rider had reached the gallery.
Steadying the restless beast between his powerful thighs, Gavenmore raised a gauntleted fist, displaying the baleful length of his lance for her perusal.
Holly might have ducked had she not been paralyzed by trepidation. She gazed at the thick staff until her eyes crossed. She briefly considered throwing herself on it, but its deadly tip was blunted by a ceremonial coronal.
Her papa dug a less than paternal elbow into her ribs. “As your champion, he wishes a tribute. Have you no favor to offer him?”
“Um ... uh ... well . . .” Holly shot her costume a panicked look, knowing that if she tugged the wrong thing, her entire disguise was likely to unravel before their eyes.
The knight shifted impatiently in his stirrups. Perhaps ‘twas not too late to discourage this brash suitor, Holly thought. She reached beneath the skirts of her cotehardie to peel off one of the stockings she’d pilfered from Elspeth. Sensing the downward shift of the knight’s gaze beneath his slitted helm, she quickly dropped her skirt. There was little she could do to mask her slender ankles.
She tied the dingy, hole-pocked stocking around his lance in a pretty bow. Fluttering her pruned lashes at him, she lowered her voice to a provocative croak. “Fare thee well in the joust, sir. My heart rides with you.”
His answering mutter was blessedly muffled by the helm. As he wheeled the horse around, Holly fully expected him to go cantering off toward Wales, or perhaps Baghdad. Instead, he halted at the edge of the gallery and shoved back the faceplate of his helm. His narrowed gaze deliberately glanced off of her, but searched the faces of the women behind her with peculiar intensity. A chorus of nervous twitters greeted his perusal.
Holly swiveled around, stabbed by an unfamiliar pang. Surely his garden assignation hadn’t been with one of her sniveling Tewksbury cousins?
He slammed the faceplate shut with a clang of finality, leaving her to wonder if he had found what he sought.
As he trotted to the end of the sand- and straw-sprinkled list, the earl’s marshal took the field, bellowing, “Challengers, take your places!”
Amid much ribbing and jibes from his cohorts, a blushing Lord Fairfax took up lance and shield and drove his dappled mount to the opposite end of the list from Gavenmore. Holly noted that he’d rescued his scorched plume from his hat and affixed it to his helm.
The earl stood and lifted both arms. His familiar benediction lacked its usual heartiness. “Fight with honor, gentlemen, and show mercy to your opponent.”
Robust cheers and cries of excitement went up as the horses roared toward their inevitable confrontation. Gavenmore rode low over his mount’s back, at one with the
Praying he hadn’t seen her rise, Holly sank back into her seat, fighting an involuntary thrill of excitement. “I don’t know why he troubles with a helm. It seems his head is hard enough to deflect any blow he might receive.”
As the destrier pranced down the list toward the gallery, its rippling drape mirroring the dusky greens and crimsons of its master’s surcoat, the agitated snatches of gossip from Holly’s aunts and cousins became impossible to ignore.
“Aye, Gavenmore ... so arrogant he brought only a single man-at-arms to the contest, but ‘tis rumored there are a thousand Welshmen crouched in the forest awaiting his signal to attack.”
Holly felt her papa stiffen.
“. . . little more than a savage . . .”
“. . . once incredibly wealthy . . .”
“. . . stripped of their earldom when his father murdered his own wife.”
“Murdered her? I heard he ate her!”
A muffled rejoinder, too low for even Holly’s ears to catch, provoked a round of naughty titters from the women.
An icy ball of dread hardened in Holly’s chest. Dear God, she thought, what manner of man had she provoked? She had precious little time to contemplate her recklessness, for horse and rider had reached the gallery.
Steadying the restless beast between his powerful thighs, Gavenmore raised a gauntleted fist, displaying the baleful length of his lance for her perusal.
Holly might have ducked had she not been paralyzed by trepidation. She gazed at the thick staff until her eyes crossed. She briefly considered throwing herself on it, but its deadly tip was blunted by a ceremonial coronal.
Her papa dug a less than paternal elbow into her ribs. “As your champion, he wishes a tribute. Have you no favor to offer him?”
“Um ... uh ... well . . .” Holly shot her costume a panicked look, knowing that if she tugged the wrong thing, her entire disguise was likely to unravel before their eyes.
The knight shifted impatiently in his stirrups. Perhaps ‘twas not too late to discourage this brash suitor, Holly thought. She reached beneath the skirts of her cotehardie to peel off one of the stockings she’d pilfered from Elspeth. Sensing the downward shift of the knight’s gaze beneath his slitted helm, she quickly dropped her skirt. There was little she could do to mask her slender ankles.
She tied the dingy, hole-pocked stocking around his lance in a pretty bow. Fluttering her pruned lashes at him, she lowered her voice to a provocative croak. “Fare thee well in the joust, sir. My heart rides with you.”
His answering mutter was blessedly muffled by the helm. As he wheeled the horse around, Holly fully expected him to go cantering off toward Wales, or perhaps Baghdad. Instead, he halted at the edge of the gallery and shoved back the faceplate of his helm. His narrowed gaze deliberately glanced off of her, but searched the faces of the women behind her with peculiar intensity. A chorus of nervous twitters greeted his perusal.
Holly swiveled around, stabbed by an unfamiliar pang. Surely his garden assignation hadn’t been with one of her sniveling Tewksbury cousins?
He slammed the faceplate shut with a clang of finality, leaving her to wonder if he had found what he sought.
As he trotted to the end of the sand- and straw-sprinkled list, the earl’s marshal took the field, bellowing, “Challengers, take your places!”
Amid much ribbing and jibes from his cohorts, a blushing Lord Fairfax took up lance and shield and drove his dappled mount to the opposite end of the list from Gavenmore. Holly noted that he’d rescued his scorched plume from his hat and affixed it to his helm.
The earl stood and lifted both arms. His familiar benediction lacked its usual heartiness. “Fight with honor, gentlemen, and show mercy to your opponent.”
Robust cheers and cries of excitement went up as the horses roared toward their inevitable confrontation. Gavenmore rode low over his mount’s back, at one with the
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