Surrender To The Knight

Fragments, recollections fell into place—the ride through the Highlands, his arrival at Kilgarren, clashing swords with a woman. “Lady Brenna?” he croaked.

“Drink.” She knelt beside him and lifted a stone cup to his lips.

Still dazed from the deep, dreamless sleep, Olaf tipped his head back and took greedy gulps, the cool water easing his thirst. His eyes roamed over her—the subtle curve of her breasts, the fine arch of dark brows, the rosy mouth pursed in concentration as she held the drinking vessel steady for him. On her temple, a blue vein throbbed beneath the pale skin.

He swallowed the last drops. “Thank you.”

Lady Brenna moved away from him. She set the cup down on the table and bent to deal with some other objects that Olaf couldn’t see from the distance. He heard a clunk and a scraping sound. A moment later, Lady Brenna dragged a low pine stool to the bedside. She went to the table again and returned with a wooden board, a roll of parchment and a quill.

She held up the document. “The marriage contract.”

She’d chosen him over the competition.

A small corner of Olaf’s damaged pride repaired itself, but the rest of his thoughts whirled around in a confusing mix, almost like an army attacking from all directions on a battlefield. His brain felt dull. She must have drugged him. He should have realized he needed to be more cautious with the drink she’d offered him when he settled down to sleep.

He’d just drunk some more.

His stomach lurched. Perhaps he should purge its contents. Dismissing the idea, he gritted his teeth to fight the nausea. So far, she’d only given him a sleeping draft. It made no sense for her to poison him now. Better to wait until they were married and she could become his widow. Still, he would need to be on his guard.

Olaf pushed up to a sitting position on the bed and swung his legs over the edge. The icy floor chilled his feet through the woolen socks. He couldn’t recall if he’d removed his boots, or if someone else might have done it while he lay in a stupor. Despite the situation, the thought of his bride undressing him, even if it were just his heavy boots, made the knot of tension in his belly tighten another notch.

Lady Brenna settled on the low stool beside the bed. She balanced the board over her knees and poised the quill above the parchment. “Your name?”

Startled, Olaf searched her solemn expression. “You don’t know my name?”

“I forgot to ask when you arrived.”

“The king didn’t inform you of who your suitors would be?”

“Not the third.” Lady Brenna looked away. Her voice fell to a mutter. “The other two were known to me.”

“What happened to them?” Olaf pressed.

“I sent them away while you slept.” She returned her attention to the parchment on her knees, her brisk manner indicating that she preferred not to dwell on the topic of the dismissed suitors. “Your name?” she asked again.

“Olaf Stenholm.” He watched as she wrote it on the contract.

Her soft mouth puckered in concentration as she carefully drew each letter. The long lashes made dark crescents against the creamy skin. She turned the parchment around on the board and held the quill out to him. “Sign your name.”

His mind reeled back to the long ride across the frozen moors, the frostbite in his fingers, the discomfort and fatigue of the endless journey wearing plate armor because he had no other means of transporting it. During the journey, he’d thought that he’d lost everything but his honor. Now it dawned on him that he also had his life, and he valued his remaining days much more than he’d believed up to now.

He lifted one hand in a stalling gesture, not accepting the quill she was offering to him. Despite the lingering effects of the drug, his voice rang sharp. “You’ve had your chance to consider me as a suitor. In return, I want a chance to consider you and your lands. The king sent you three suitors to choose from. I want three days to decide.”