Read Online Jennifer August by Knight of the Mist - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Knight of the Mist
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tenderly, rimming the delicate fullness of her lips until she trembled and a gasp only he could hear escaped her. He drew back and smiled, then turned to the assembled crowd, who cheered loudly. “I give you your Lady!” He raised their still-joined hands and kissed her white knuckles. “Be at ease, lady-wife, ‘tis almost over.”
She raised her brows, condescending merriment chasing away her bemused look. “Nay, Sir Norman, ‘tis only begun.”
# # #
‘ Twas done and could not be undone. Stirling nibbled her fingernail, then stared at the exotic ring Quinn gave her only hours earlier. The rectangle shape of the gem was unusual and the gold holding it looked like the fine lace the gypsies sometimes brought from the northern climes. The delicate and fragile appearance of the band hid a strength not readily visible and she did not fear breaking it. She wondered where he traveled to purchase such a trinket. And why.
“Your people, our people , have outdone themselves, lady-wife. The feast you swore impossible is quite delicious.” Quinn offered a morsel of roasted pheasant from the tip of his knife. She shook her head, reaching instead for her goblet of mead. Mayhap she could consume enough of the sweet drink to blur the remainder of the evening.
“Eat, my lady,” he murmured in her ear, easing the goblet from her hand. “I promise you, ‘tis well worth the effort.” Carefully he slid the meat from the knife blade, then held the succulent tidbit to her lips. Reluctantly she accepted the offering and bit into the pheasant. He smiled broadly.
“Well done, lady wife. ‘Tis wise you eat, you shall need your strength this evening.”
Puzzled she tilted her head, trying to deduce his meaning. She must have imbibed more of the mead than she thought, because she could figure no sense to his words. “Married but a few hours and already you fun me, sirrah. ‘Tis very ignoble, you know.”
He laughed and leaned closer, his breath, warm and moist, sweeping along her ear. She shivered. “I shall do much more than fun you, wife. As soon as ‘tis proper, you and I shall retreat to our chambers for the wedding night.”
Her eyes opened wide and she gasped. Their noses bumped when she turned her head and he stole a laughing kiss, then pulled away, reaching for his own drink. Licking her lips, she tasted the heady potent red wine he enjoyed and a dart of excitement pricked her. Irritated at her own response, she glared at him, but could think of no rebuke with which to scold him. Bedding her was his right, given freely by her acceptance of his ring. She looked again at the band and sighed. ‘Twas all happening so fast, her head spun. And her feet hurt. Nearly every man in the room, Saxon and Norman alike, begged a dance from her. She did not refuse any of them, enjoying the brief respite from her new husband’s searing eyes and knowing smile. She wondered why he did not escort her around the dance floor, not even once, but swiftly rejected the urge to ask. The less time she spent in his company, the better.
The strum of a lyre broke through the chatter of the assembled knights and villagers. Conversation halted and all eyes turned to the doorway, where a man dressed in an outlandish yellow and green tunic, green leggings and yellow, bell-tipped shoes stood. He stroked his fingers across the strings again and leaped forward, landing in the middle of the room. Stirling choked on her mead when she recognized the peculiar troubadour to be her dear friend Langeth, a knight in service to Falcon Fire. Quinn thumped her on the back until she was sure she would have bruises for a fortnight. “Enough!” She gasped. “Cease, prithee.”
He stopped whacking her, but his hand remained nestled in the cradle of her neck and shoulder, a warm innuendo of what was to come. With effort, she focused on Langeth, trying not to laugh. Or cry.
“Denizens of Falcon Fire,” he began, “‘Tis my honor this evening to entertain and
She raised her brows, condescending merriment chasing away her bemused look. “Nay, Sir Norman, ‘tis only begun.”
# # #
‘ Twas done and could not be undone. Stirling nibbled her fingernail, then stared at the exotic ring Quinn gave her only hours earlier. The rectangle shape of the gem was unusual and the gold holding it looked like the fine lace the gypsies sometimes brought from the northern climes. The delicate and fragile appearance of the band hid a strength not readily visible and she did not fear breaking it. She wondered where he traveled to purchase such a trinket. And why.
“Your people, our people , have outdone themselves, lady-wife. The feast you swore impossible is quite delicious.” Quinn offered a morsel of roasted pheasant from the tip of his knife. She shook her head, reaching instead for her goblet of mead. Mayhap she could consume enough of the sweet drink to blur the remainder of the evening.
“Eat, my lady,” he murmured in her ear, easing the goblet from her hand. “I promise you, ‘tis well worth the effort.” Carefully he slid the meat from the knife blade, then held the succulent tidbit to her lips. Reluctantly she accepted the offering and bit into the pheasant. He smiled broadly.
“Well done, lady wife. ‘Tis wise you eat, you shall need your strength this evening.”
Puzzled she tilted her head, trying to deduce his meaning. She must have imbibed more of the mead than she thought, because she could figure no sense to his words. “Married but a few hours and already you fun me, sirrah. ‘Tis very ignoble, you know.”
He laughed and leaned closer, his breath, warm and moist, sweeping along her ear. She shivered. “I shall do much more than fun you, wife. As soon as ‘tis proper, you and I shall retreat to our chambers for the wedding night.”
Her eyes opened wide and she gasped. Their noses bumped when she turned her head and he stole a laughing kiss, then pulled away, reaching for his own drink. Licking her lips, she tasted the heady potent red wine he enjoyed and a dart of excitement pricked her. Irritated at her own response, she glared at him, but could think of no rebuke with which to scold him. Bedding her was his right, given freely by her acceptance of his ring. She looked again at the band and sighed. ‘Twas all happening so fast, her head spun. And her feet hurt. Nearly every man in the room, Saxon and Norman alike, begged a dance from her. She did not refuse any of them, enjoying the brief respite from her new husband’s searing eyes and knowing smile. She wondered why he did not escort her around the dance floor, not even once, but swiftly rejected the urge to ask. The less time she spent in his company, the better.
The strum of a lyre broke through the chatter of the assembled knights and villagers. Conversation halted and all eyes turned to the doorway, where a man dressed in an outlandish yellow and green tunic, green leggings and yellow, bell-tipped shoes stood. He stroked his fingers across the strings again and leaped forward, landing in the middle of the room. Stirling choked on her mead when she recognized the peculiar troubadour to be her dear friend Langeth, a knight in service to Falcon Fire. Quinn thumped her on the back until she was sure she would have bruises for a fortnight. “Enough!” She gasped. “Cease, prithee.”
He stopped whacking her, but his hand remained nestled in the cradle of her neck and shoulder, a warm innuendo of what was to come. With effort, she focused on Langeth, trying not to laugh. Or cry.
“Denizens of Falcon Fire,” he began, “‘Tis my honor this evening to entertain and
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