Blood Sword Legacy 04 - A Knight to Remember Read Online Free Page A

closer. “It still rages.”
    Heat flashed across her skin as if he had caressed her. “Sir, ‘twas a last resort.”
    Regretfully, he released her and lay back against the furs. They had come down to rest just below his belly. Despite his illness and wounds, he fetched a most manly sight. Embarrassed by her thoughts, Mercia moved away. “You must eat if you are to regain your strength.”
    “I have a great hunger, Rowena, but ‘tis not for food.”
    She turned her back to him, flustered, and glad for the compliment. “If you cannot control that hunger, I will not return to see to your needs.”
    “I am a man of honor. I give you my word I will not press you.” He leaned up on one elbow and looked at her, his silver eyes brilliant in the low firelight. “But let it be said, I would give you every possession I own to have you naked and willing beneath these furs.”
    Mercia gasped in shock. “You are too bold, sir!”
    “Nay, I am but honest.”
    She handed him a chunk of salted meat and a piece of crusty bread. “Here. Eat while I tend your wounds.” He smiled and slowly took the food from her hands, his long fingers brushing her skin stoking her to hot. She shivered at the contact, wondering what was wrong with her. She had never felt such giddiness when Sir Bertram favored her with a smile or took her hand to assist her. Why this stranger? She slowly withdrew her hand.
    “Sir, last night when I asked you your name you could not remember. Do you now?”
    He scowled and bit off a chunk of bread and slowly chewed. “Nay.” He swallowed and looked directly at her. “Where am I?”
    “Wendover on the Wessex Coast. I found you upon the beach.” She touched a fingertip to the wound on his chest. “’Tis a sword wound.”
    He scowled deeper as he tried to recall who he was and why he had battled. “English is not your native tongue,” she said. “Are you perhaps Irish? Or Welsh?”
    He shook his head, but when he spoke, his words were foreign. Then he said in English, “I speak Welsh and Irish with equal ease.”
    A sudden terrible thought occurred to Mercia. What if he were one of the pirates who had attacked the prince’s flotilla? His wounds were recent, and admittedly, he spoke Irish with ease. His knowledge of Welsh would make sense as well. Many pirates spoke the language of those they preyed upon. She moved back from him, suddenly afraid.
    His eyes narrowed dangerously. He dropped his food and grabbed her by the wrists, jerking her to his chest. “Nay!” she cried out. In one swift move, he was upon her, pressing her back into the soft furs. His long naked body infused her skin with his heat. His head dipped to her lips. Softly he said, “You do me grave dishonor, Lady Rowena. I may be a pirate, but I will not harm the woman who drew me from the sea. I owe you my life.”
    Stark relief flooded her body. “Sir, I—”
    He shook his head, his warm breath caressing her cheeks. Wild images of their naked bodies tangled and glistening as they lustily mated flashed before her eyes. She gasped, and arched into him. He growled low, and lowered his face into her hair she had left unfettered. “I may be wounded, my sweet, but I am still a man with a lusty appetite for a woman. Especially one such as yourself. Do not tempt further or I may play pirate and ravish you.”
    “I have never been ravished,” she softly admitted.
    Her words shocked him, she could see. Not that she had not been ravished but that she said it as if it were a bad thing. He smiled, showing strong white teeth. His eyes sparkled mischievously. “I can remedy that, sweet Rowena.”
    Instead of demanding he release her, Mercia lay still and silent, allowing her imagination to run away like a startled stag that sensed hunters. She wanted to know how it felt. She wanted the experience, for when she returned to the Abbey and took her final vows, she would never, not even for her freedom break her oath to God.
    “I—I give you