A Knight In Her Arms (Knights of Passion) (2 page)

“If you wish your knee to heal you must find time. Otherwise you may well be lame for life.”

Now he said nothing, and she wondered whether he had not heard her or was simply ignoring her. But his silence was disconcerting and she felt colour rising in her cheeks. Was she blushing? She had not blushed since she was a young untouched girl. She was the Ice Queen and the Ice Queen did not blush. Ever.

“Lady,
have you met me before?”

Isabella shook her head.

He sighed, rubbed a hand over his unshaven jaw. “Never mind. There is something more important I must tell you. I have a purpose in being here at Godestone.”

The seriousness of his voice made her forget
anything else. She stayed at his feet, watching his face intently. “What purpose? You spoke before about an urgent matter, sir. Please tell me what you meant.”

Alric reached
down to rub his knee, and she saw that the back of his hand had a wound in it, a cut that looked deep and not very clean. With a click of her tongue, she reached for her bowl of water and cloth, and began to clean it.

He stared at her as if he could hardly believe what he was seeing. “Lady, this is important.”

“So is this, Alric. Talk to me while I work.”

He shrugged, then gave a huff of laughter. “You have not changed,” he murmured.

Startled, she met those blue eyes again. It was as if they were looking beyond her Ice Queen beauty, beyond the years, to . . . but the memory eluded her again.

“Lady,
” he said, and his face was serious now, “there is a band of men on their way here. They come from Matilda, the king’s cousin, and their leader is Lord Freemantle.”

A tremor went through her and
she dropped the cloth into the water, sloshing it onto her skirt. Isabella knew her face was white when she met his eyes again. “Freemantle is my husband Hamon’s cousin.”

Alric nodded and his mouth was tight and grim. “
Matilda has agreed to him marrying you, lady, and ruling Godestone in his own right.”

Her first thought was that this was a lie.
Hamon had left her everything, probably because he’d believed himself invincible and not thought to leave it elsewhere. But before now there had never been an issue with her rule, and Matilda had seemed happy enough. Why the change of heart? And why inflict such a man as Freemantle on her? If her memory was correct he was as cruel as Hamon.

“No,” she said furiously. “I will not let him through my gates. I will not let him in my bed
!”

“You may have no choice, he comes with quite a
n army and Matilda’s blessing. If you do not let him in then he will take Godestone by force.”

Isabella’s green eyes blazed. “We will fight him!”

Something about her seemed to rivet his attention. “You will need help, lady. My men are here to stand by your side.”

His offer was surprising and she hesitated,
suspicious. Perhaps he was Freemantle’s man; perhaps this was all an elaborate trick? Slowly she opened the carved box that had belonged to her mother and now to her, its little drawers and crevices full of healing lotions and potions, and found the ointment she had always found helpful for cuts and scrapes among her garrison. She held out her hand for his, and after a momentary hesitation he gave it to her.

His hand was warm
and heavy in hers, the calluses on his palm and fingers rough against her softer skin. Normally such contact meant little to her. She wished her men to remain healthy because their health was important to the safety of her castle, that was her reasoning, but she had never gazed upon a man’s hand with such intensity, nor longed to feel it caressing her skin.

Hastily she began to apply the ointment.

“I will not refuse your offer, Alric, but it puzzles me why you have come here to warn me. In fact why you are here at all? You are from Wenton, you say? Where is that? I would guess it is a long way from Godestone.”

“I am here because I heard word of what Matilda was planning and went to King Stephen. He told me to ride to you to help you, but in return he wants you to bring Godestone to him, lady. He believes you will prefer his rule to Matilda’s, especially when hers comes with the face of Freemantle.”

Isabella
looked at him with a frown. “You heard word?” she repeated. “So you are here at Stephen’s behest, Alric?”

He hesitated then shrugged and admitted, “I would have come anyway, lady.”

But why?
she wanted to ask.
What am I to you?

He
was speaking again. “You would be wise to agree to support Stephen. He is sending some of his army to you, although they will probably not reach us before Freemantle. Godestone is rich and you are a good ruler, and Stephen needs such people on his side. And he would not ask you to marry anyone you do not wish to marry.” 

“
While Matilda would have me wed Freemantle,” she added grimly.

She could not help but feel betrayed by Matilda, a woman she had
been loyal to all these years, and one she had thought would understand her predicament, would support her. But to Isabella sides were not as important as saving Godestone. And herself.

“We have time to prepare,”
Alric said, and suddenly his fingers closed around hers, holding her hand in a firm grip.

Surprised she looked up into his face
. His smile gave her courage. Her immediate thought was that Alric would stand by her and together they would see Freemantle off.

Freemantle, sitting at the table at her wedding to
Hamon, his face full of lust and greed. The idea of marrying another man like that . . . she shuddered, suddenly awash with memories of those days, the misery and pain, the sense of despair when she saw her life stretching on and on. When Hamon died it had been the hardest thing she had ever done, pretending to mourn when she wanted to dance and clap with joy.

Abruptly she stood up.

“When will Freemantle and his men reach us?”

“Tomorrow or the following day. We rode fast to outpace them.”

Alric tried to stand up too, but his knee made him stagger and almost fall. She caught his arm to steady him, but he was big and heavy, and for a moment they were both in danger of falling over. Breathlessly, she heaved her shoulder under his arm, aware of his bulk and weight against her own slenderness.

She was i
ntensely aware of his body touching hers
as if her skin had become super sensitive. A tingle of excitement shimmered across her breasts, tightening the tips, and suddenly the soft skin between her legs began to moisten and swell. Isabella was shocked that such feelings should be upon her now, when she least needed the distraction. She was the Ice Queen; she did not feel lust or desire. She needed no man.

“Lady,” he murmured, his warm breath brushing her skin, stirring
the strands of hair that had come loose from her braid.

“My lady?” It was the
squire, his voice high and nervous, as if he thought he was interrupting something. “The water for Lord Alric’s bath is here.”

“Help your master to sit down,” she said coldly. That was better.
She was back in control.

As Alric was seated upon his stool, the servants carried in the round wooden bath tub and the buckets of hot water that had been heating in the kitchen. Soon the tub was half full of steaming water, and there was soap and towels.

Isabella turned to the boy, opening her mouth to order him to bathe his lord, when her emerald gaze clashed with that sapphire blue one.

“Are you running away, lady?”

He was daring her. He was testing her. If she was really the Ice Queen, he was thinking, then she would have no trouble doing as the lady of the castle was required to do, and help her guest to bathe.

Isabella hesitated. There was a sense of danger, a feeling of balancing on a knife edge. But she could not allow hi
m to think her attracted to him; she must put him in his place before Freemantle came.

“You may leave us,” she said firmly to the boy
.

Alric glanced down, but she did not miss his smile. His smirk, she corrected hersel
f. He thought he had bested her; he thought she would fall willingly into his arms, but he would soon discover how wrong he was.

***

The steam from the water was making her perspire and she wiped a hand over her brow. It was also making her hair curl, and a trickle of perspiration ran down between her breasts, beneath her tan coloured dress.

Alric had
stripped off his tunic, standing huge and naked, before climbing into the tub. Isabella had busied herself with moving towels and soap, pretending not to notice him, but a sideways glance had shown a magnificent warrior, muscled and sleek, his back straight and his buttocks tight. And, as he turned, there between his thighs . . . She closed her eyes tightly.

Once
she heard the splash of him entering the water she breathed a sigh of relief and opened her eyes again. She told herself she would bathe him as quickly as possible and as impersonally as possible, and then she’d walk away leaving him in no doubt who was the Ice Queen.

She knelt down, reaching for the soap and washcloth, and stared uneasily at the broad expanse of his back. Isabella bit her lip.
Despite her promise to herself there was a tremble in her, a shaking that was threatening to tear her apart and send the Ice Queen shattering.

She stiffened her spine and
set to washing him.

His skin was warm
and she could feel the hard muscle beneath it, the ripple of movement as he shifted under her hands like a cat enjoying her stroking. She gritted her teeth and began to rub the cloth over his shoulders, then across the nape of his neck.

He winced. “
Are you trying to rub my skin off, lady?” he growled.

“I’m sorry,” she said stiffly.
Taking more care she began to wash his hair, running her soapy fingers through his blond locks. They were like rays of sunshine. A memory popped into her head of a boy standing on a wall against the sky, laughing down at her. A moment later it was gone.

“The soap is in my eyes, lady,” he said in a long suffering voice.

Isabella took up the bowl and began to rinse his hair while he bowed his head. He was still squinting and rubbing at his eyes, and she clicked her tongue.

“Let me,” she ordered, and shuffling around the tub so that she was at his side now
, she used the cloth to wipe his face, taking care to remove every last sud of soap. She was so intent on what she was doing that she didn’t realise how close she was to him, how she was leaning over the tub, her dress damp and clinging to her, her red hair loosening about her shoulders.

Until h
e reached out and tucked a strand behind her ear.

“Freemantle does not deserve you,
Isabella.”

Her eyes widened, and then narrowed suspiciously. “He will not have me. Will he, Alric?”

Alric’s own expression darkened. “Not while I have breath in my body.” Something in her chest gave a pang, became an ache, and her own breath lodged in her throat. She swayed, then reached to steady herself, resting her hand flat against his chest. The contact was intense. They both went still, and then with a soft groan he leaned forward and captured her mouth with his.

It was as if she caught fire.

Nothing with Hamon had prepared her for this explosion of desire. His mouth was caressing hers with a confidence, and yet a gentleness, that Hamon had never shown, and when his tongue dripped between her lips and stroked hers, she moaned softly in her throat.

Her
dress was sodden from the bath water, and when he drew back his gaze went to her nipples, poking against the thin cloth, as if begging for his touch. He reached to brush one with his fingertip and then the other, those blue eyes lifting to hers, reading her confusion and desire.

“You are more beautiful than I remembered, lady,” he rasped, and bent his head to taste her through the
cloth. His hot mouth on her wet flesh sent a shiver through her, an aching tangle of feelings and emotions that left her gasping.

“I don’t . . .”

He nipped at one hard bud, making her moan again, a breathy sound in her throat, and her arms slipped around his neck, clinging to the wet strands of his blond hair, hanging on as if she really was about to fall into some unknown place.

His mouth was back on hers, and
the kissing was so pleasurable it was a moment before she felt the heat of his hand on her thigh. Stroking, and then slowly, slowly drawing up the fabric of her skirt. His mouth moved down over her throat to her breasts, entirely visible now through the wet silk. Gradually his hand was hiking her skirt up her leg and she knew where he was headed.

There was an ache between her legs, a terrible urgency, to be touched and licked and taken. She squirmed at the images in her head, and as his hand slowly, slowly came closer, she felt as if she would
scream. It was a kind of delicious torture and when at last she felt his warm hand on the flesh of her thigh she breathed a soft sigh of relief.