My Noble Knight (5 page)

Griffin pointed to cloth and a water basin near the foot of the mat.

She dragged them over to the side of the bed and dropped to her knees. She shoved a cloth into the water and wrung it out. Her gaze moved over his torso to his shoulder where the wound was. For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to touch him. She mentally shook herself. What was she thinking? She leaned over him and carefully dabbed at the cut. The wound was an ugly gash in his tanned skin. Blood still dripped freshly from the very center of the cut. But it was slowing. It was not fatal, and for this Layne was grateful.

He relaxed back.

Layne rinsed the cloth in the water and carefully cleaned the area. It looked like the lance had gotten under his armor, scraping his skin. Guilt assailed her. She had done this to him. It had not been her intention. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“For the wound?” he wondered.

She didn’t respond, but continued to clean his injury, carefully tending the open cut.

“I’ve had worse. ‘Tis nothing,” he insisted.

She ran her fingertips over the skin around the cut to check for warmth. That could be a sign of infection. A soft breath rustled a lock of hair that had fallen forward to brush his shoulder. She glanced up. He was close. So very close. The absolute blue of his eyes seemed to take up her entire vision.

“This could have happened to you,” he whispered.

She hadn’t thought of that. She had only wanted to face someone on the field of honor, to see what it was like to joust. Her gaze dipped to his lips.

“You could have been hurt just as badly. Or worse.”

His lips moved, forming each word. What had he said? She could have been hurt. Yes. For the second time, she had to pull herself from her musings. She sat back, separating herself from him, breaking the spell. She glanced around and found the clean cotton cloth at the foot of the mat. She carefully pressed it to the wound.

“If I had hurt you like this, I would never have been able to forgive myself.”

Startled, Layne shifted her gaze to his. Sincerity shone in his blue orbs. Layne’s heart fluttered like a baby bird waking up to a ray of sunshine. She didn’t like the warm feeling washing over her.

“You must never joust again.” His commanding tone returned. “And I will see to it that you do not.”

G
riffin didn’t know what to
make of the woman. He was shocked that she seemed sincere in her apology. What had she expected of a joust? Men were stronger and able to withstand the injuries that came with a tournament. Women were fragile, delicate even. God’s blood! If he had struck her with the lance, she could easily have been killed! His gaze moved over her. She was only a slip of a woman, from what he could see. To don a man’s armor and to take up a lance against him was folly.

She ran her tongue over her lips as she picked up the corner of the cloth to check on the wound.

For a moment, he was stunned, captivated by her presence. Perhaps it was the unexpected glistening of her moist lips. Perhaps it was the brush of her hair across his nipple. Whatever it was, he had a sudden and unanticipated picture of her lying beneath him with her lips parted. He shifted his position and turned his gaze to her hand on his wound. Her fingers were so small. Another image flashed into his head. Of those small hands wrapped around…

He cleared his throat, drawing her gaze. “Did your brothers allow you to joust?”

She shook her head, looking back at the wound. “No.” A smile slowly curved her lips. Then, she froze and looked at him. Her chin lifted a notch. “Frances hit his head and I took it upon myself to take his place.”

“Took it upon yourself?” he echoed in disbelief. He shook his head as she pressed the cloth against his wound again. “Then you must have jousted elsewhere, in other tournaments?”

Again, she shook her head. “I’ve watched my brothers in practice and on the field.” She looked at him and a lock of her dark hair hung over her cheek. “I’ve tried the quintain...”

He scowled. The quintain? But his concentration was held by that stray lock of her hair out of place against her rounded cheek. He found it difficult to concentrate. He wanted to brush that hair from her face, run his fingers along her skin.

She sat back, brushing the lock from her cheek, and lifted the cloth from his shoulder. “I’m skilled with a horse. I’ve often trained with my brothers sparring with swords.”

“Swords?” The word seemed to come from her effortlessly. It should have been foreign on her lips. He sat up, his brows furrowing. She should have been speaking of French fashion or embroidery. “Your brothers allowed you to use a sword?” he asked in disbelief.

She shrugged. “They needed the practice. Michael is too young, although he is learning quickly. And there were occasions where either Colin or Frances could not practice when the other wished. Frances was more likely to spar with me than Colin.”

Griffin looked at her hands. He imagined them…wrapped around the handle of a sword. “Where is your mother?”

“She died when I was young.”

He lifted his gaze to her eyes. “And your father?”

“Why do you ask me so many questions?”

Griffin cocked his head. “If you are to be with me, in my care, I must know your character.”

She straightened. “I should find that insulting. You mean because I am a woman who likes to joust and sword fight there is a flaw in my character?”

“Hmm.” He shook his head. “Because you disobeyed your brothers and jousted anyway, there is a flaw in your character.”

She sighed softly and dropped her chin to her chest. “Yes. I suppose that could be true.” She looked up at him and there was something in her deep blue eyes that held more mystery. “If you truly think that, why did you stop them from throwing me in the dungeon?”

“Women should be protected and cherished. The dungeon is no place for a woman.”

“Even a woman with a flaw in her character?”

His gaze swept her face, from her long lashes to her full lips. “Any woman.”

She nodded and began to collect the cloth. “I thought you saved me from the dungeon because you wanted to know how I could have possibly unhorsed you.”

He reached out, grabbing her arm and preventing her from moving away from him. “I do want to know how you beat me.” No real training, never jousting in a tournament before. It irked his pride beyond all measure.

Her lips curved up in a grin. “With a lance.”

He stared at her curved lips. Those insolent, mocking lips. He remembered his father teaching a servant woman her place. He had used his fist. Griffin released her and leaned back. He glanced at his shoulder. “Finish,” he commanded.

Her gaze dipped to the juncture of his thighs. Or was that his imagination?

She put down the cloth and picked up a fresh one. She moved closer to him and placed the cloth on his wound. He lifted his arm as she began to wrap a thin strip around the clean cloth to hold it in place.

Griffin’s gaze slid from her hands to her lips. She was very close. He could just lean in and sample her lips. He grit his teeth. What was he thinking? That would dishonor her and her brothers. He was trying to teach her a woman’s place and all he could think about was her naked body and her lips. God’s blood!

Finally she sat back with a nod.

He inspected her work and found it satisfactory. He rose, towering above her. She knelt before him, her hands folded in her lap. His gaze moved over her. This was going to take a lot more will power than he had thought. He brushed past her, toward the exit.

“I found a flaw in your style.”

He froze. Impossible. There was no fault with his style. It was perfect. It was… He turned to her. She was just a woman. What did she know about jousting style? She was only trying to punish him for insulting her. Still… she had unhorsed him. He clenched his teeth, leaving his biting retort unspoken. He spun and strode from the tent.

Layne sat in the middle of Griffin’s tent. How many times had Colin told her she was not to joust? How many times had her father chastised her for picking up a sword? Again and again she had been warned. But none of them had told her that her disobedience was a flaw in her character. A flaw in her character. A flaw. She had accepted long ago that she would never be the perfect woman like her aunt. She didn't like embroidery or playing an instrument. She didn’t care at all about fashion.

Her father would often punish her by banning her from the fields or from the stables. It had never worked. She had simply waited out the punishment, endured it without bemoaning the injustice of it all. As she did now. Be a good little girl. Follow the rules until all is forgotten and forgiven. Or until Colin saved enough coin to pay Griffin back.

She looked around the tent. The weapons gleamed invitingly on the floor, the reflection of the setting sun flashing off the polished metal. Every instinct demanded she touch them in reverence, pick them up, swing one of them. But Griffin had forbid it. She clasped her hands in her lap tightly. Not one touch.

But she could look. She forced herself to stay where she was and just look at the weapons. These were either winnings from recent melees, or Griffin was wealthy and these were his personal collection. They were not like the swords her brothers had. These were beautiful with finely etched details in the hilt. They were works of art. Perfect. Much like their owner. She brushed that last thought away lest it start to really take hold of her senses. The man was far from perfect. His body, though, was truly a work of art. Stop it, Laynie.

She glanced around the tent, forcing her thoughts elsewhere. It was so different from the Fletcher tent. Here, everything had a place. There was no clutter. In her family’s tent, her brothers were not so…meticulous. They threw blankets and bags everywhere. Clothing was scattered over the inside of the tent. Here, the blankets were folded neatly on the bed. Granted, the tent was larger than hers, but that made it seem all the more organized.

She stood and slowly moved about the tent, familiarizing herself with the layout. The area closest to the door was where Griffin’s armor was laid out. Layne bent down and inspected the small dent in Griffin’s breast plate. This was where her lance struck him, giving him the wound she had just tended. She reached out and ran her fingers over the indent. She had not meant to hurt him. She had never really thought she would unhorse him.

She continued on. Next was a pile of clothing that Layne was sure was the clothing Griffin wore beneath his armor. It would have to be cleaned. That was her duty. She would get back to it. She continued to survey the tent.

Next came cleaning supplies, candles, kindling for a fire, as well as Adonis’s comb. Then Carlton’s bed, then Griffin’s. She wondered briefly where she would sleep, but that didn’t concern her as much as starting her duties. At least it would give her something to do!

Layne picked up the pile of clothing and the soap she found near the supplies, and left the tent.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Layne whirled to find Carlton sitting on the ground, running a stone against the edge of a sword.

“To the stream. To wash clothes. My chores.” She turned to head toward the stream. Carlton stood and followed her. She stopped and turned to him. “I am more than capable of washing clothes.”

“I’m sure you are. My orders are to make sure you are safe.”

Layne looked back at the tent. “Where is Sir Griffin?”

“Practicing.”

Layne turned and walked toward the stream. “Does he always practice this late?”

“No. But he’s never been unhorsed before.”