Medieval 02 - Forbidden by authors_sort

recalling—the instant he had felt an enemy’s knife bladeslide cold between his thighs, threatening to castrate him if he so much as twitched.
    Duncan’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the fourth knight. The man had eyes as black as midnight in hell.
    Was he once my enemy ?
    Is he my enemy still ?
    Wary, motionless, Duncan strained to hear whatever message the shadows would grudgingly yield. Nothing came to him but two conflicting certainties.
    He is not my enemy .
    He is dangerous to me .
    Slowly Duncan straightened in his saddle, forcing himself to look away from the unknown knight. As Duncan moved, he realized that he was holding on to Amber’s hand as though to a sword on the brink of battle.
    “I’m sorry,” he said in a voice that went no farther than her ears. “I’ve crushed your fingers.”
    “I’m not hurt,” she whispered unsteadily.
    “You’re pale.”
    Amber didn’t know how to tell Duncan that it was the stirring of his memories rather than his harsh grip on her hand that was causing her pain. Her thoughts beat as frantically as birds caught in a hunter’s net.
    Not now !
    Not with so many knights nearby. If Duncan is the enemy I fear, he will be killed before my very eyes .
    And then I shall go mad .
    Just before Duncan released Amber, he lifted her hand to his mouth. When his breath and mustache brushed over her sensitive fingers, it gave her a pleasure so great that she trembled.
    Amber didn’t know that color returned to her face in a rush and that her eyes suddenly burned like candle flames caught within transparent golden gems. Nor did she realize that she leaned towardDuncan with unconscious longing as soon as his touch left her skin.
    The fourth knight noticed everything and felt as though someone had slid a knife blade between his legs. Never would he have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.
    Long, powerful fingers flexed around the pommel of his sword while black eyes measured Duncan for a shroud.
    “I’ve found two warriors for you, lord,” Alfred said. “He and his squire are on a quest, but he is willing to stay and fight outlaws for a time.”
    Erik looked at the fourth knight.
    “Two?” Erik said. “I see only one, though God knows he’s big enough for two. How are you called?”
    “Simon.”
    “Simon…I have two men-at-arms with that name.”
    Simon nodded. It was hardly an uncommon name.
    “Who was your last lord?” Erik asked.
    “Robert.”
    “There are many Roberts.”
    “Aye.”
    Erik turned to Alfred. The knight’s features were as blunt as a fist, but he was a fine man in a fight.
    “Not much for talk, is he?” Erik asked Alfred dryly. “Has he taken a vow?”
    “He is talkative enough with that black sword he wears,” Alfred said. “He had Donald and Malcolm on their backs before they knew what happened.”
    Erik turned back to Simon.
    “Impressive,” Erik said. “Have you been blooded?”
    “Aye.”
    “Where?”
    “In the Holy War.”
    Erik nodded, unsurprised. “There is a Saracen look to your blade.”
    “It drinks outlaw blood as readily as Turkish,” Simon said calmly.
    Erik smiled. “And Norse?”
    “The blade cares not.”
    “Well, we have outlaws in plenty.”
    “You have three less than formerly.”
    Tawny eyebrows lifted in a combination of amusement and surprise.
    “When?” Erik asked.
    “Two days past.”
    “Where?”
    “Near a lightning-struck tree and a stream coming from a cleft in the mountainside,” Simon said.
    “’Tis the boundary of Lord Robert’s lands,” Erik said.
    Simon shrugged. “It looked like no man’s land to me.”
    “That will change.”
    In silence, Erik measured the knight for a long moment, taking in the well-used, well-made clothes and weapons, and the excellent lines of the horse Simon rode.
    “Have you armor?” he asked.
    “Aye. It is in your keep’s armory.” Simon smiled oddly. “It was that which made me stay.”
    “The armory? How so?”
    “I wanted to know