A Crimson Frost (26 page)

Monet’s heart pounded with such brutal force within her bosom, she thought sure the Crimson Knight could hear it! She swallowed the excess moisture gathering in her mouth as she watched him tend to her wounds. After long moments, he held her hand out that he may study it.

“Better?” he asked, still holding her hand, his thumb still pressing her palm.

Monet could not speak, overcome with astonished awe—and desire.

She nodded, and he asked, “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” she managed to whisper. She thought sure she would faint into the blackness of unconsciousness when he nodded, drew her hand to his face, and moved his thumb aside to place a firm kiss in her palm.

She could not draw breath as his mouth then placed a moist kiss to the soft, sensitive flesh at her wrist. Slowly he raised her arm, resting it on his shoulder as his free hand took her other wrist. Yet Monet did not need his unspoken instruction, and she let her arms go around his neck as he gathered her against the strength of his body.

His face was so near to hers she could feel his breath on her lips, and she closed her eyes, blissful in the sense of it.

“My mother ever said…a kiss lessens the pain of any wound,” he said. His voice was of the warm, alluring tone Monet so loved. He light kissed the corner of her mouth. Monet’s hands found their way to caressing the back of his neck to weave his thick raven hair with her fingers.

“Then she was ever wise,” Monet whispered.

Monet gasped as Broderick’s lips pressed her own in one firm and driven kiss—but only one. Though he did not release her, he did draw his face from hers, an expression akin to anguish furrowing his handsome brow. Monet knew he was in conflict—his charge from her father treading heavy on his conscience. Still, she would not lose the chance of his kiss—she would not! Thus, she drew him to her, pressing his lips in tender, inviting kiss of her own application. Though he indeed returned her kiss—nay, he commanded it—yet she knew he was careful. His powerful hands fisted the cloth of her dress at her back. She could feel the strength in his arms as they bound, yet she sensed he held himself bridled. Though his mouth was warm and moist upon hers—though the kisses they mingled were flavored of desire—still she knew she did not full own his passion. She knew that his desire to remain honorable and obedient to her father was winning him—and she would not fault him for it.

“Enough,” he mumbled as he broke the seal of their lips. He placed strong hands at her shoulders, gently pushing her away from him. “I-I am sorry for the burns.”

Monet smiled at him. Oh, how desperately she wished to tenderly caress away the furrow at his brow. Still, she would not distress him further.

“It was no fault of yours, Broderick,” she said. “However, the scorched flavor of your stew will be mine.” He grinned, and she turned toward the hearth. Perhaps supping would ease the guilt she could see plain on his face.

Her body yet trembled with the lingering delight of his kiss—of being held so in his arms. Yet Monet served a plate to Broderick where he sat at the table. She set her own plate across from him and sat as well.

“What was it that so vexed your Tripp today?” she asked. She would ease his mind—converse lightly to distract him.

“It is well you know that horse,” he answered, “for he was vexed—sore vexed.”

“I thought he would near break down the fence before you rode him at last. Is it he is not used to being fenced as he is here?”

“He is not,” Broderick said. “He was calmed by the outing.”

Monet smiled. “You favor him…though I cannot understand why. He owns such a fiendish temperament.”

“It is long I have had him,” Broderick said. “I foaled him at my stables…and he is well trained.”

“He is your piece of Karvana,” Monet said. “In him you remember who you truly are…where you truly belong.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Broderick said. “I am sorry you do not have such a thing to bethink of Karvana.”

“But I do,” she said.

He frowned, inquisitive. “Yet you brought nothing,” he said. “It is sure I remember your alarm…as we were descending the steps to the mausoleum tunnel. It was then you realized you had nothing about you.”

“Oh…I have something of Karvana,” she said.

“What?”

His curiosity was full awakened; he was distracted from his guilt at having succumbed to kissing her.

“It is a secret…and I know you would not press me for a secret,” she said. He would not press her; she knew he would not. Furthermore, even if he did, she would not tell him that the thing she had was far better than Tripp—for she had him, the Crimson Knight.



No word had come—no message from Karvana or the king. Monet had not been over worrisome at the fact, not in the first weeks of their exile to Ballain. Still, as more weeks passed with no word, she did begin to suffer in worry for Karvana—for her father and her people.

Oh, certainly the villagers of Ballain gathered word from travelers. Karvana was at war. King Dacian held King James of Rothbain at bay to the north. There also abounded rumor that James endeavored to entice King Rudolph of Alvar to joining him in waging war against Dacian. Thus far no alliance had been struck between James and Rudolph, yet all knew Dacian and Karvana feared such an alliance. Karvana might endure—rise and defeat James and his soldiers. Yet could she defeat Rudolph and his legions as well? Most likely not.

Such conjecture pure discomfited the Crimson Knight—Monet could see it bold in his countenance. She knew it was full the worst torture for him to stand in silence—listen to the threats against his kingdom, unable to defend her. She feared it would vex him to madness. She feared it would worry her to joining him.

“The messengers will be minstrels only?” Bronson asked as he stood watching Broderick curry Tripp. Tripp whinnied, and Monet stroked his mane to calm him. The horse sensed his master’s deep unrest.

“Yes,” Broderick growled.

Monet glanced to Sarah, who arched eyebrows in concern of Broderick’s temperament.

“Then your course is sure,” Bronson offered. “There have been no minstrels to Ballain since you arrived. Therefore King Dacian desires you linger as you are…in damnable waiting.”

“Rudolph cannot join James,” Broderick said. “Karvana cannot hold against such numbers.”

“Rudolph is a coward,” Bronson growled. “He is far more fearful of vexing Dacian than James.”

“Unless he is convinced Dacian will fall.”

Monet continued to stroke Tripp’s mane.

“If Dacian falls, then you will be King of Karvana and would take up the spear against those who threaten her,” Bronson said.

“Dacian cannot fall…for I do not wish to be king,” Broderick said. Monet frowned—tried not to feel her own pain at his utterance. She did not wish to think on her father’s death, nor on Broderick’s not wishing to take her full to wife.

“And that is why you would be a good one,” Bronson said. “Those who strive for power and dominance are not the great rulers, Broderick. This you know well.”

“Come, Prissy,” Sarah said. “The sun is setting, and it is far too cold to linger.” Monet looked to Broderick—to his deep frown and angry countenance.

“Good night, Bronson,” Monet said as she followed Sarah toward the cottage.

“Good night, Prissy,” Bronson said.

Bronson watched the women amble toward the cottage. “She misunderstood your vehemence,” he said.

“What?” Broderick asked.

“The princess,” Bronson explained, “she thinks your opposition to being crowned is proof you do not truly want her.”

Broderick breathed a puff of disbelief. “What man would not want her?”

“She is perhaps not so hardy as you perceive her to be, boy,” Bronson said. “Women—all women—are creatures of the heart. We are creatures of body, you and I. Of the heart we are forged as well. Still, youthful women of little experience with men…do not believe it of us. They do not believe we own the ability to love the way they do. She believes you care for her because she is the king’s daughter, the heart of the kingdom. She believes you look upon her as a stone about your neck…one who tempts your virility perhaps. Yet still she thinks you care for her because she is your kingdom’s hope.”

“Surely not,” Broderick grumbled.

“It is time you were warming her, Broderick,” Bronson said, lowering his voice.

“Warming her?” Broderick asked. “It is not my charge to warm her. My charge is to protect and preserve her…and then give her up. What fool would taunt and torture himself with imagining this was not the truth of it? Beyond my charge, my passion for her would pure burn her to ashes if it were unleashed.” Broderick shook his head. “I cannot touch her. Thus she cannot be warmed…not now…not by me.”

Bronson’s eyes narrowed. “Dacian would not wed her to you if he truly did not intend you to have her in the end, Broderick. This know…for it is well I know Dacian.”

Broderick was silent—pensive. It was often his own knowledge of the good king Dacian had whispered the same to him as it had Bronson. Still, he knew Dacian did not hope to die in defending Karvana. Further he knew Dacian did not wish to see the enemy at Karvana’s gates. Thus, he had confirmed the charge Dacian had given was all that it seemed to be—a charge to protect the kingdom’s hope.

“You think Dacian would, with intention, endeavor to see a lowly knight sit as king on Karvana’s throne? You think he would wed his daughter to one owning no royal blood.” Broderick shook his head. “No. He is King of Karvana. He will think of Karvana’s future.”

“Exactly,” Bronson said.

Broderick ground his teeth—fell an angry fist into the fence before him. “Do not endeavor to play at giving hope of my having her, Bronson!” he growled. “It is slight I hold to my promise to the king. It is in near madness I keep from taking her to wife!”

“Warm her, Broderick!” Bronson growled, placing a strong hand at Broderick’s shoulder. “It is why I say to you, warm her! It will keep you from madness…and her! You keep too hard from her! I am not telling you take her to your bed and be traitor to the king. I only tell you, neither you nor she will endure this exile without a warming of some sort. In truth…did Dacian give you no respite in this charge?”

Broderick endeavored to calm his breath. “He allotted…as he spoke it, a small margin of pleasure.”

“Indeed?” Bronson chuckled. “And what margin did he grant?”

“Her kiss…when opportunity is ripe.”

Bronson laughed and slapped Broderick hard on the back. “That is well warming, lad! Well warming!”

“And more dangerous in threatening my honor than any sword I have faced in battle,” Broderick mumbled.

“Not for you…not for the Crimson Knight,” Bronson said. “For you love her and will not fail her in your charge.”

Broderick shook his head, exhaling a heavy sigh. “You are great one to tell another to warm what he cannot have, for you have Sarah—all of her—full and for many years.”

Bronson chuckled. “Oh, but I did not always have her full, Broderick Dougray. I did a measure of torture in warming her only…a measure even you could not deny proves me strong.”

Bronson laughed again, and Broderick cooled his heated temper. He was a good friend, this blacksmith of Ballain. A wise man, as well.

“Now,” Bronson began, “Stroud rode to Ballist today. He found what you asked of him.”

Broderick smiled. “Did he?”

Bronson nodded. “He did. He has it at the cottage. Let us fetch it that you may gift it tonight.”

Broderick nodded. Somehow he was strengthened. He wondered what trials Bronson had faced in winning his Sarah. It was Monet told him Sarah knew Bronson was banished before she wed him. Yet what had the great Exemplar endured before winning his Sarah? He felt again an odd kinship to the man.

“Yes. I will gift it tonight…for it looks to be bitter cold,” Broderick said.

“Bitter cold indeed,” Bronson chuckled.



“Do you know what day tomorrow is, Prissy?” Broderick asked as he removed his doublet and shirt.

Monet set two extra stones by the hearth. Already the night was cold, and she wondered would she ever find sleep in such discomfort of temperature.

“Of course,” she said, shivering a little. “The fifth day of the week…Thursday. Why do you ask?”

“Do you think I, First Knight of Karvana, would not remember Karvana’s greatest holidays?”

Monet smiled. Certainly she had not thought he would take notice of it. Still, if he meant to wish her good tidings on her birthday, she would welcome them with delight.

“What day do you think it is, pretty knight?” she asked.

He smiled, his eyes bright with mischief. “I think it is a great day for celebration in all the kingdom…for I think it is the Scarlet Princess’s birthday.”

Monet giggled and asked, “Did Father include that in the gathering of parchment that held your charge? Did he tell you never to forget to wish me good tidings of my birthday?”

Oh, how she hoped her father had not included the instructions! How desperately she hoped Broderick himself had remembered the occasion.