How to Train Your Knight: A Medieval Romance Novel by Stella Marie Alden Page A

when she reached the landing, “My Lord, I’d dine with you if you would have it.”
    It seemed as if the whole room held its breath. She wasn’t a witch and not a general. She was a goddess. Her sparkling, mischievous green eyes matched the shade of the dress. He stared, temporarily stunned by her beauty and grace. Up until now, he’d seen her only in boy’s tunics, in muslin, or covered in his blood and mud. Now, here she stood, a fine noble woman. His wife.
    Thomas, at his left, nudged him. “God’s blood, say something, man.”
    Ignoring his injury, he vaulted over the table and dashed up the stairs. “It would be fine, indeed, to have you at my side.”
    He took her hand and held it high. The townspeople and his men cheered and hooted while he led her around the master table and sat. His eyes stayed upon her, spellbound. She’d come to him, by all that was holy, and he was undone.
    Like a summer thunderstorm in the offing, noise rumbled back into the great room. Men pounded their knives on the table and the women clapped their hands. He nodded for the makeshift troubadour to start up again. If possible, the songs were even raunchier than before and the crowd rowdier. Mead flowed freely.
    He robbed Lady Anne’s plate from the serving girl, cut the meat into fine pieces, and placed a bit on the tip of his knife. She opened her mouth, allowing him to feed her. Grinning, she cleaned her own knife and slipped it back up her sleeve. He rolled his eyes but laughed.
    With cheer on her face and roses in her cheeks, she was beauty itself. Every time she moved, her hand slid against his, and his rod sprang to attention. He reached for a sweet fig covered in soft cheese and held it in front of her plump lips. She licked them and opened for a half bite. He brought the rest to his own mouth and her eyes followed. Moving in closer, he lightly brushed his lips against hers while his heart pounded louder than the tambourine.
    While they were so engaged, a raucous jig began to play in the background. One of the miller’s daft sons approached, bowed low, and requested her hand, missing Marcus’ perfected scowl. When the boy’s eyes raised for permission, what else could be done in front of all? He nodded and she joined in the dance. Her tiny slippers flew and strands of her hair fell out of her net. Her breasts heaved with the exertion. Before the boy could take her for another go, Marcus stood, frowned, and held forward his hand. The crowd hushed and parted like the red sea and she came to him.
    “Go on. Play. I wish to dance with my fine wife. A bit slower, if you would.”
    Pure tones of a flute blended with the tenor voice. The crowd circled them and watched. “It seems we’re to dance alone.”
    Twinkling like a star in the desert, she took his hand and placed it to her lips. “‘Tis customary for newlyweds.”
    “Ahh. Let us not disappoint.” He put his good hand to the small of her back and slid her to the space in the middle of the room, where the tables had been moved aside. “Is that what we are? Newlyweds?”
    She nodded, stepped back, and curtsied in time to the music.
    In the appropriate places, he bowed and led her around the hall. A few others joined at the second verse. “Are you ready? To be my wife?”
    “I thought my back . . .” Blushing brightly, she curtsied, and the alabaster skin above her ample bosom heaved. “I’ve not danced for a very long time. I may not remember all the steps.”
    He grinned. When they should’ve merely touched elbow to elbow, he feigned to slip, causing him to pull her close and steal a kiss.
    “You did that on purpose,” she said when the movements allowed them to approach each other again.
    “That’s enough. Come.”
    Some of his men hooted when he led her up the stairs, but he lifted a hand for silence. “Fare thee well. We’ll see you all on the morrow. Guard well my keep for me.”
    Giving the crowd a wicked wink, he bounded up the stairs and waited in