If Not For The Knight, Debbie Boek [electronic reader TXT] 📗

once again staring down at the young woman. He was able to get her to swallow most of the broth the old woman brought, but she had not yet come back to full consciousness.

Something about her tugged at his heart and it surprised him to find that he still had one. Perhaps it was the innocence that he saw in her face as she slept, he mused, bringing to mind all the days he had spent amidst nothing but blood and death, dealing with treachery and deceit from all sides.

Even at Court, one could not let down their guard. All was intrigue and betrayal there, everyone looking to gain the King's favor in any way they could, men and women alike. He rarely, if ever, spent time with anyone other than Draco and his men, unless forced to do so.

Unable to tear his eyes away from her, he watched as the firelight cast a rosy glow to her cheeks and made the red highlights in her hair dance. Reaching down and touching her face, he gently caressed her cheek as she slept. She moaned, but did not awaken.

His brow creased in concern when she started to shiver, and his anxious gaze searched the room, looking for something, anything, he could use to help her. The Manor was a large, drafty building and even the brightly burning fire could not keep the room warm during such a damp, spring night. Calder decided that the best he could do was to give her the warmth of his own body. Removing his own wet clothing, he slid into the feather bed next to her.

Though he had not been with a woman for a long time, it was his warmth that he wanted to give her, not his body. He held her close, feeling the smoothness of her skin and smelling her sweet flowery scent, as the shivering quieted and she began to rest easier.

Regan drifted in and out of vivid dreams and nightmares due to the herbs contained in the broth she had been given. Deep in the night, she slowly began to rise to the surface of consciousness but found herself unable to get there completely. Her head was fuzzy and her thoughts disjointed.

At one point she felt a hard body pressed against hers and long, supple fingers stroking her. Still not completely coherent or awake, she believed she must be in the midst of yet another dream.

Enjoying the feel of the hands that caressed her, she turned into equally strong arms, eagerly responding as lips swept down onto her own. She pressed her lips tighter against the specter's, then gasped in surprise at the warmth and passion that coursed from one end of her body to the other.

Large hands traveled all over her skin, leaving a warm, shimmering trail behind. Lips were molded to hers and she hoped never to be released by them.

She found her own hands exploring a hard, firm body, playing across wide, smooth shoulders and a long back. She gripped a firm buttock and was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath.

With her eyes still tightly closed, she struggled to understand what was happening. It all felt so real, but there was no question that it was a dream. What else could it be?

The mouth ravaged hers again, harder and more demanding this time, a man's mouth. He rolled her over onto her back then. The fire was behind him when she finally managed to pry open her eyes. Her dream lover's face was hidden in shadow as he lowered his head to kiss her neck, then her breasts, and then lower still. Her body took over and responded to each kiss and caress. She felt like she was on fire, burning from the inside out. His lips and hands continued their gentle assault, seeming to touch every inch of her body as she writhed underneath him.

She was suddenly and rudely jolted into complete awareness when he nudged her legs apart and thrust deep inside her. She froze, every muscle taut, as the pain of his entry seared her to the core.

“Good God,” he whispered, in a low, hoarse voice, “you're a damn virgin.” She had turned to him, she had wrapped herself in his arms. Her response to his kiss was so passionate that he had no doubt she had experience. What the hell was this about? He would have stopped it before it ever started had he suspected she was a virgin, no matter how much his body yearned for her.

Regan began to struggle. She had no idea who he was. She had no idea where she was. In truth, she knew only one thing for sure at the moment, this was not a dream.

Calder grabbed her hands and held them tightly over her head. “Lay still,” he commanded. With the weight of his body on hers and her hands held in his strong grip above her head, there was little else she could do.

He spoke slowly and softly, his words interrupted by the light kisses that covered her face. “I did not know you were an innocent, but I cannot stop now. It has been too long a time and we've gone too far. I will try not to hurt you anymore.”

Capturing her lips again, he kissed her with such sweet and all-consuming passion that it took her breath away and made her body ache for whatever would come next.

He took her gently and thoroughly, showing even her virgin's body the heights of fulfillment. Afterward, he continued to hold her trembling frame tightly in his arms as their pounding hearts quieted and they slowly made their way back to reality.

Calder breathed in the scent of her, enjoying the feel of her satiny skin against his own. He was not able to see the tears of shame that slipped quietly down her cheeks, as she prayed for sleep to come and release her from the disgrace of what she had done on this night.

Regan woke the next morning to the pale, gray light of the early dawn. Her head was heavy, her brain muddled with dizziness, until the memory of the night before flooded her mind, filling her with embarrassment. Her entire body blushed a furious shade of pink.

She looked around the bedchamber and, thankfully, found it to be empty. Breathing a sigh of relief, she cautiously got up from the bed and found her undertunic and kirtle near the fire. She donned them quickly, carrying the hose over her arm rather than risking the time it would take to put them on. The fire had just recently been stoked, and she could not help but fear that whoever had been with her would soon return.

Her faced burned with shame as she recalled the events of the night before. How could she have let this happen? She remembered hearing the screams and realizing that the Normans were attacking the village, but she had no idea of how she came to be in this bedchamber, sleeping naked next to a stranger.

“God's Wounds,” she thought in horror, “have I given my body to a Norman?” She did not even know what the man looked like.

Well, that was not entirely true. Although she might not recognize his face, Regan was sure she would know him on sight. She blushed again at the memory of his hard, muscular limbs as he wrapped himself around her, and the feel of his smooth, wide shoulders and back under her hands. Yes, she was sure she would know him when she saw him again.

She crept stealthily down the staircase toward the front door. Norman soldiers slept on pallets on the floor throughout the Hall. She hoped that their noisy snores would keep them from hearing the soft creaks of the old steps as she descended, not knowing that they had heard her as soon as she reached the landing. Realizing immediately that she posed no threat, the men pretended to sleep rather than let on that they were aware of their Lord's dalliance of the night before.

Regan had heard the gruesome tales of what these Norman bastards did to York and some of the other areas they had overtaken. Men, women and children were murdered, burned out of their homes, left to die from starvation and disease. Fear replaced her embarrassment now, as she tiptoed nervously around the knights' sleeping bodies.

Panic rose when she realized that she had no idea what had become of her parents. Or of Edgar. Had he survived the battle? she wondered anxiously.

Her thoughts of Edgar were answered the moment she opened the front door. He stood in the courtyard beside two other men. All of them were wet, shivering and covered with mud, their exhaustion making them sway on their feet. A few other men lay in the mud nearby, dead or just sleeping, she could not be sure.

“Edgar,” she yelled as she ran down the stairs. He looked up her with dull, brown eyes, having difficulty focusing on her. His long brown hair was matted to his head and beads of water dripped from his beard and down the front of his mud stained tunic.

Before she could reach him, she was intercepted by one of the Norman guards who were standing watch. She stomped on his foot and, catching him by surprise, was able to wrench her arm free and release his grip. She slid in the mud, but still managed to reach Edgar before the knight could grab her again.

“Edgar, are you all right?” she asked, as she wiped the mud from his face.

Using what little strength he still possessed, he swatted her hand away. “Leave me be, you Norman whore.”

Regan stumbled backward as if she had been slapped in the face. Edgar's words stung far worse than the burning pain in her wrist, and the hatred and fury in his eyes as he stared at the hose draped over her arm chilled her to the bone.

She had only a second to recover before thundering hooves approached. Turning in that direction, she saw two mighty warriors riding toward them. Unlike the Saxon men, who preferred long hair and full beards, these men were clean shaven.

The larger man had short