Knight of Pleasure – Margaret Mallory

Whish! Whish! Whish! A peculiar sound interrupted Sir Stephen Carleton. Drawing his sword, he eased the door of the storeroom open to take a look.

“Lady Hume!” She looked as surprised as he was to catch her alone in a storeroom attacking a sack of grain with a sword.

“Close the door!” she hissed. “I cannot be seen here.”

And what a sight she was, with her cheeks flushed and strands of dark hair sticking to her face and neck. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

“That sack cannot provide much of a challenge,” he said, trying to put her at ease.

“You make fun of me.” There was resentment in her tone, but he was pleased to see her shoulders relax.

“I believe I would serve as a better partner, though I must warn you”— he paused to glance meaningfully at the sack of grain— “I will not hold still while you poke at me.”

He sparred with her as he did with the younger squires—hard enough to challenge, but not so hard as to discourage. When she pulled her skirt out of the way with her free hand, though, he missed his footing and nearly dropped his sword. “Showing your ankles was a clever move,” he said.

“It was not my intention to rely on anything other than my skill.” Her tone was as stiff as her spine. “I would not be so dishonorable as to stoop to tricks.”

“If your opponent is stronger than you are,” he said, keeping his voice even, “then you must use what advantages you have.”

She narrowed her eyes at him but did not speak.

“Now, do you want to continue playing at sword fighting?” he asked, deliberately baiting her. “Or do you want to learn how to protect yourself from someone who intends you harm?”

Green eyes sparking with fire, she raised her sword and said, “Teach me.”

“You should carry a short blade, as well,” he instructed as he fended off her attack.

“Why? You think you can knock my sword from my hand?”

“I can but I will not have to. You will drop it.”

He forced her to step back, and back, and back again. Once more, and her heel caught on a sack. She threw her hands up, sending the sword clattering against the wall as she tumbled backward.

“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me,” she said, her eyes dancing.

He sank to his knees beside her. “Not true, Isobel,” he said in a harsh whisper. “ ’Tis I who am at your mercy.”

His eyes fixed on her lips, full and parted, and he gave in to the inexorable pull toward them. The moment their lips touched, fire seared through him. But he froze the instant he felt the prick of cold steel against his neck.

“You are right,” she said so close to his ear that he could feel her breath, “ ’tis wise to carry a short blade.”

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