The Knight's Bride

For safety’s sake, Honor allowed Tate to complete the knight’s disrobing and get him settled in the tub of steaming water. Meanwhile, she retired behind her dressing screen to ready herself for bed. When the splashing stopped, she reappeared wearing her long woolen robe. He was asleep in the tub, his knees drawn up to his chin and his wet head lolling forward.

She ventured a soft prod to one heavily muscled shoulder. “Sir? Sir Alan? Wake up. You cannot sleep in the bath. The water cools. Come now!” She poked again, this time harder.

“Hmmph,” he grunted, sitting bolt upright and sloshing water over the edge. “Och, sorry, lass! Stand away.” Hefting himself to his feet, he stepped out and fumbled for the toweling draped over the stool.

Her breath caught in her throat. She tried to force her eyes away from the massive body that looked twice as large unclothed. Smooth sun-browned skin reached to just below his waist. Resuming downward at knee level to include his huge, well-shaped feet. His nether cheeks gleamed almost white, as did the muscled thighs, which were dusted with golden hair.

Honor thanked God he was turned away from her. If he proved anywhere near as generously proportioned in front, she was not ready for a glimpse of that! A shiver of apprehension rippled through her middle.

With an industry to make any housewife proud, Honor busied herself turning back the coverlet and shaping the pillows. Anything to keep her eyes from straying near the bath.

“I’ll take th’ floor,” he said, so near her shoulder, she jumped with fright.

“No, do not!” she shrieked before she could stop herself. The words were meant to stop his advance, but he obviously misconstrued.

“All right, then,” he said. “If ye insist. I only thought ’twould make ye a mite shivery to sleep beside me.”

Still not daring to look at him, Honor heard the rustle of the mattress stuffing as he climbed into bed. She finally ventured a peek and saw about a third of the wide bed vacant and waiting. His strong back glistened with droplets of bathwater.

What should she do? Take to the floor herself? Were she more spritely and not heavy with child, she might. But there was nothing to sleep upon unless she rolled up in her robe and lay on the hard wooden boards. The cold window seat boasted only a few thin cushions. Where would she rest?

Soft, intermittent snores drifted up from the pillow, drawing her attention to the man in her bed. Honor quirked a brow. He appeared harmless enough for now. All she had to do was lie down and then wake before he did. He would never even know she was there, fatigued as he was. Gingerly, Honor stretched out beside him, carefully not touching.

After a few tense moments, she relaxed. What an exhausting day. But sleep eluded her as she reviewed the happenings. First Ian Gray had ridden up to her walls and offered—insisted, rather—on giving her his protection. His unruly gaggle of reivers frightened half the occupants of the keep into hiding and the rest to gathering makeshift weapons.

Honor had paid no mind when Gray loudly expressed his desire to wed her. She had called down that she already had a husband. Her men issued a shower of arrows over the visitors and cut short his next exchange. No marksmen, her small troop of defenders, but their hail of missiles pricked some few. Thusly treated, and probably given the lateness of the afternoon, Gray rode off, laughing and shouting promises to return anon. His keep, Dunniegray, lay nearby. She knew that from questioning her men.

Honor had to wonder now whether Ian Gray came because he had known she was already a widow. It stood to reason he did know it, else why would he have come here offering marriage?

Honor had barely seen the last of his men disappear into the wood when this rackety knight rode in with the shocking orders from Tavish and the king.

As wedding days went, this one left a lot to be desired. But it could have been worse, she admitted. Much worse. Ian Gray probably would not have been so kind as Alan of Strode in announcing her loss of Tavish. Or in waiting on a consummation.

She balked at the very thought of a marriage to the deranged Ian Gray. The man laughed and thumbed his nose at everything, even the threat of death! Sir Alan might not be the deepest of thinkers, given his rather amusing confession tonight. But at the very least, he did seem capable of an occasional serious thought.

Honor stole a glance at the broad back not half an arm’s length from her face. Light from the single bedside candle threw dancing shadows across the tanned expanse left uncovered by the sheet. The muscles, even in repose, appeared formidable. His skin, still damp, gleamed bronze like a statue after a soft rain.

An absurd longing to touch it proved almost irresistible. She closed her eyes against the impulse. What a foolish thought, prodding a sleeping giant. Still, against her will, her hand stole out and the pads of her fingertips pressed lightly against his shoulder blade.

Warmth suffused her as she allowed her palm to rest flat against the indentation of his spine. How different he was from Tavish, the only other man whose body she had ever willingly touched. The skin felt smoother, more finely grained, not downed and lightly freckled as Tavish’s had been. The padding over these bones felt solid, dense, in no way soft. Honor flexed her hand.

Huge muscles quivered, tensed, and then moved like flash lightning.

Chapter Four

Honor shrieked and snatched her hand away as the huge knight turned, almost rolling on her as he shifted to his back. Dark green eyes, heavy-lidded with fatigue, regarded her with a sleepy, unspoken question.

“Pardon,” she muttered, nearly nose to nose. “I did not mean to wake you. You are wet. I worry for your health.”

He gave a little grunt of a chuckle. “Lady, I’ve slept wet on th’ ground for nigh on a year now. This be my first night in a real bed since I turned seven years. Should I sicken, ’twould be from too much comfort, not lack of it.”

“You jest!” she exclaimed, subtly inching away from him to the very edge of the bed.

“Aye, betimes, but not about this. Dinna look afeared. I recall my promise and the bairn ye carry. ’Tis grateful I am ye let me share this much.”

He arched his back and sighed, wriggling out a comfortable niche in the soft, feather mattress. “Sheets,” he crooned. “I forgot how sleek they be.”

Honor inhaled sharply, her trepidation increasing with every shift of his overly large frame. His chest fairly commanded her attention. She could not seem to pull her gaze away from it. Mounds of muscle, crowned by small, flat nipples, heaved with every sensuous breath he took. An intriguing mat of springy curls lay in between, beckoning her hand. Tavish’s chest had been pale, flat and almost hairless. She clenched her curious hands into fists.

He moved again. Then Honor saw that what she had first thought a large patch of dirt he missed washing was a huge bruise surrounding an ugly, poorly stitched cut on his shoulder. “Sir! You’ve taken a wound! Why said you naught of it? Let me see!” She scrambled to her knees and leaned over him, touching the skin near the injury to see whether it felt feverish.

Sir Alan glanced down at it and winced. “I tended to it again today. Mayhaps my sewing’s not so dainty as yer own would be, but ‘twill hold this time. ’Tis on the mend.”

“I have herbs to aid that,” she offered, gently probing the area around the awkward stitching. How could a man sew his own flesh together? It did not bear thought. “It looks reddened.”

He cocked a brow, grinned, and looked straight at her nipples, which were beaded and quite visible through her bedgown. “So will yer face if ye don’t get off me.”

Honor flung herself back to her side of the bed and groaned with embarrassment.

“Are ye ill, lass?” he asked with what sounded like real concern. He rose up on one elbow and peered down at her. “Ye look a bit fashed. Does the child make ye sick?”

“No,” she replied quickly, forcing a smile. “I am past the time for that.”

“Ah well, I know naught of such things,” he admitted in a conversational tone, turning to his side and resting his head on his left hand. “But I should learn now, should I not?”

Honor shot him a wary glance and tried to scoot farther away. The very idea of his touching her made her shake with need. He would surely misunderstand her if she allowed his nearness. A plea dammed in her throat, but she feared what she might plead for if she let it out. She badly needed holding this night, but simply for comfort.

He looked quite willing to do that, but Honor knew he might insist on more. Saints, but she felt ridiculous! Looked ridiculous, as well, she supposed, this far gone with child.

“Will the babe come soon?” he asked as though he read her thoughts.

Honor let out the breath she was holding. “Next month.”

“Ye seem verra small to be so far gone,” he remarked, frowning at her mounded middle, which the covers hardly concealed.

In truth, she was. Nan had told her the babe would be a mite of a thing, given Honor’s own tiny size and Tavish’s slender build and lack of height. “I am fortunate there. Some women become quite unwieldy and have trouble getting about the last few months of confinement. Everything goes well, however. He is quite active, you see.”

“He? Who?” Strode asked, his brow wrinkling as though he had missed some part of their conversation.

“The child,” Honor said, laughing in spite of herself. The man must never have known a pregnant female. “The babe turns and kicks in the womb. Did you not know this?”

The look of surprised wonder on his face almost undid her. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth and his eyes widened in delight. Then he laughed. “Truly? Do you tweak me?”

“No, it is true!” Honor declared, feeling quite superior and not at all afraid of him now. A gentle giant, she thought, smug in her newly confirmed assessment of him. Harmless.

He laughed again, softly this time. “I wonder what that must feel like to ye. Passing strange, I’d think.”

Without aforethought, Honor reached for his right hand, recalling its comfortable strength from the wedding ceremony and even earlier when he had delivered the awful news about Tavish. “Would you like to know?”