Angel of the Knight (20 page)

“Falke!”

The voice ripped into her passion-induced trance.

Falke tore his mouth from hers. Dazed, she leaned against him and turned to see the outraged faces of Ozbern and Sir Clement.

“Cravenmoor has surrendered,” Ozbern informed them with a disgusted look. “But we cannot find
your wife.
”

“’I fear Lady Wren is not here.” Sir Clement crossed his arms, an angry snarl on his handsome face. “Already you have forgotten her tender ways and gentle guidance. An angel of mercy.”

“Nay, my friends, I have not forgotten Lady Wren, though I fear you have.” Falke gave Gwendolyn a roguish smile and said, “I don’t recall your showing Sir Clement much mercy.”

Gazing up at her husband, letting her love and adoration shine in her eyes, Gwendolyn answered, “I was much too lenient on him in the village. I should have had him doing the laundry instead of you.” She gave her husband a tight squeeze.

“Ah.” Falke bit his lower lip and place one hand at his side.

“Your wound!” Gwendolyn motioned for the stunned knights to aid her husband. Lifting her skirt to ankle height, she skipped down the stairs, issuing orders to the Mistedge soldiers.

“Fetch me hot water from the kitchen. Have a servant retrieve the cache of healing herbs from the pantry. There’s needle and thread in Darianne’s old room.”

Darianne! She raced back to her husband, supported by two very confused knights. “I forgot all about Darianne. Titus hit her so hard—”

“Cyrus is with her at Mistedge. She’s f-fine,” Ozbern stammered. “Lady Wren?”

Relief lasted only a moment before being replaced with urgency. “I am glad to hear my foster parents are well, and I’ll wish to hear of them later. But there
is work to be done. Ozbern, place my husband on the table so I may see to his wounds. Sir Clement, bring all the injured, be they Mistedge or Cravenmoor, here to the great hall to be tended. I’ll need five or six women to clean cuts with a mixture of thyme and lady’s mantle. Another group of the same number to tear bandages.” She paused, then stretched her hand toward their heads. “What are you waiting for? Must I box some ears?”

Bewildered, Ozbern and Sir Clement dropped Falke on the table. “Nay, Lady Wren.”

“I’ll explain later.” ’Twas all the clarification he could offer his friends before his wife pointed them in the direction of their tasks.

Seated on the trestle table, he waited patiently as Gwendolyn had a bowl of clean, warm water and a cloth brought to her. As she separated his wool tunic from the wound, she issued commands to the confused soldiers and peasants. By the time she was ready to sew his cut closed, Cravenmoor had regained a sense of order. The injured were being tended. Serfs busied themselves raking out the foul, blood-soaked rushes. And amazingly, Falke could detect the aroma of broth simmering in the kitchen.

“This will hurt.” Gwendolyn showed him the threaded needle in her hand. Concern darkened her eyes as she leaned over him. “A kiss for luck?”

Holding her hand in his, he pulled her close. “Nay, Wife. A kiss for luck is a fickle thing—I never know whether ’tis good or bad fortune I will gain. ’Tis a kiss of love I seek. For love is ever true.”

And so she kissed him. A kiss full of love and devotion. A kiss that promised a fortune of passion-filled nights and a life of joy.

The kiss of an angel.

F
alke paced along the mossy ground near the pond. Restless, he tossed a flat stone into the calm water and watched the ripples rack the red and orange leaves on its surface. Where was she? She had promised to be here.

“Falke?”

The rose bushes, now naked of blooms, shook as she walked down the narrow path to the clearing. She had her hair unbound, free to sway at her hips as she moved. Just as he liked, though when other men were about, he preferred it covered by a wimple.

Midday sunlight spattered her plain wool dress with light and he longed to caress each spot. To savor the taste of her. The smell of her. It had been too long since he had held her in his arms. “What took you so long?” he growled as he reached for her.

“I have work to do, my lord,” she informed him regally, then dropped the blanket and basket she carried
to return his embrace. “You are most fortunate that your wife allows you these rendezvous.”

He gave her his most charming, devastatingly handsome smile. “My wife understands my needs.” He ran his fingers along her spine, traced her shoulder blades and then gently cupped her heavy breasts. Passion flared, and he allowed her feel how hard his need already was.

“Your wife is extremely understanding.” Pulling away from him, she spread out the blanket. As she leaned over, the loose drawstring at her shoulders allowed him a generous display of milky flesh. “I brought a basket to break our midday fast.”

Joining her on the blanket, Falke guided her down on the soft wool. He kissed the pulsating hollow of her neck. “Food will not satisfy the fast I seek to break.” He kissed the grotto between her breasts, his hunger growing at her sounds of pleasure. “I have not made love to you since this morning.”

Laughing, Gwendolyn reminded him, “We cannot do this every day. Already there is talk of the lord and lady’s disappearance each day.”

“Let them talk.” Falke smiled, his hands already beneath her gown, his fingers massaging her inner thighs, making her burn for him. “I have plans for you.”

“Plans?” She sighed, not really interested in the answer. Falke had her in a euphoria of sensual delights. His hands slipped her gown off, exposing her sensitive skin to his every touch. The warmth of his
chest against the stiff peaks of her breasts. The feel of his lips trailing kisses down her hip. The hot tip of his manhood at the apex of her womb.

Slowly he entered, groaning with pleasure as she wrapped herself around him. Delicious heat coursed through her, and she begged for more. He rocked his hips, sending shivers of desire darting through her body. Rotating his hips, he pushed deeper, harder, faster.

Ecstasy controlled her. Desire swept away her inhibitions. She arched her back, wanting more of him. Needing more of him. Falke did not leave her hungry. Hot pulses of his seed filled her, consumed her and drove her to the precipice of fulfillment. Then drove her over the edge.

She exploded, her body shuddering from fulfillment. Her heart filled with the enormity of her love for him. Falke had been her salvation from Titus, and she his salvation from self-doubt. Together, they had repaired Cravenmoor, both physically and mentally. With the stores from Cravenmoor to support them this lean season, Mistedge would also survive.

Languid with satisfaction and contentment Gwendolyn cuddled close to Falke. She wiggled her toes and said, “Mistedge and Cravenmoor are set to rights. You are well healed from your injuries. What more could you want?”

“I want a chorus,” Falke whispered, sprinkling a line of kisses down her neck.

“A chorus?” she gasped, her body already reacting to Falke’s caresses. “A chorus of what?”

Turning to her, his eyes dark with want, his body hard with desire, he laughed. “Of angels, of course-just like their mother.”

ISBN: 978-1-4603-5949-5

ANGEL OF THE KNIGHT

Copyright © 2000 by Diane H. Holloway

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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