A Knight of Passion(4)

A corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “So it is to be a stare, then?”

His deep voice, rich with amusement, befuddled her. She opened her mouth to reply, but her voice failed her.

“Surely you can speak?” he said.

She nodded, then realised the absurdity of the response and stilled.

He propped himself up on an elbow. “Forgive me, Lady, but to what do I owe the honour of this…visit?”

Her mind froze. How should she answer? Fear rammed through her. What would the duchess do now that her plans had gone awry? Had she left her seat behind the painting? When Sir Bryant had entered, Riana had closed her eyes and so been unaware he was the wrong man. The duchess might already be back in the great hall, looking for the older knight.

Calm yourself, she mentally ordered. Anger or no anger, Her Grace would not so readily give up her anticipated night of debauchery, particularly if she had company with her behind the picture.

“Not that I’m a man to complain.” Sir Bryant brushed her cheek with a finger. “What man would not be pleased to find you in his bed?”

Something in his tone snagged her attention. Of course, he knew who—what—she was. Every man who entered Arundel knew.

“There is no need for you to sacrifice yourself to me,” he said.

Riana blinked. Was he refusing her? Mayhap he despised whores. Ridiculous. What man didn’t take a whore when the need arose? But a tavern wench was different than a Lady who allowed her body to be a tool. He shifted and she realised he was rising. Panic bubbled over. She seized his arm. He paused and looked at her. She shook her head.

His gaze sharpened. “Do not—”

She tugged the sheet from her breasts. He dropped his gaze, and her nipples puckered. He shifted his eyes back to her face and she stilled. There was no mistaking the desire that darkened his eyes, but why the anger that was just as obvious? Her heart beat faster. Whatever his mood, she must make him want her. Her plans were in a shambles. How long did Glen and Siusan have? Not all night as she’d planned, but at least the time she kept the knight in her bed. Riana cupped the back of his neck and drew him to her mouth. He stopped a hair’s breadth from her lips, eyes locked with hers. His eyes narrowed.

Did he not like women? No. The way he had sucked her breast told her he had no need for another man’s cock in his arse. What had changed? She lifted her face and brushed her lips against his. His full mouth covered hers without hesitation. Relief flooded her, and she arched so that her nipples tickled his muscled chest. The tips hardened and Riana undulated them in a circle against his smooth flesh.

She slid a hand beneath the sheet and relief intensified when her fingers made contact with his engorged cock. He jerked back, eyes blazing, and she couldn’t halt the recoil that pressed her into the mattress. What was wrong? No man whose cock grew to such a length didn’t want the woman lying beneath him.

“I have displeased you?” she whispered.

“I have never taken a woman who didn’t come to me of her own free will,” he replied.

Riana stared. No man turned away a naked woman in his bed. No man gave a damn whether the woman was there willingly or not.

But a little voice inside asked, Wouldn’t Stuart have cared?





Chapter Three

Bryant stared down at the woman in his bed. So the duchess was up to her old tricks. Every knight in the king’s service knew that the Duchess of Arundel began her bargaining with her whore. But what reason could she have for sending the wench to his bed? The small keep that Sir Andrew Murray had given him to the north was respectable, but certainly not enough to have captured the duchess’ notice. Bryant’s participation in the recent victory at Culblean had garnered him enough attention that Sir Dunbar had suggested Bryant accompany him to Arundel.

If the duchess was as canny as believed, she might recognise Bryant’s intention—and ability—to acquire more land, and was trying to secure his allegiance. She made no efforts to veil her tactics, and few men were stupid enough be swayed by a night between the legs of the vixen lying beside him—despite the fact that her beauty lived up to its reputation. But neither did a man turn away from such an enticing opening move. Bryant was no exception—until he had learnt that the woman the duchess was using was Lady Riana Ellis, the daughter of John Ellis, Baron of Burkes.

The Baron had perished at Dupplin Moore six years past, and Riana’s husband followed three years later, leaving her, her sister, and their mother with Castle Fyvie, and the four hundred hectares of unprotected land that butted up against the Duke of Arundel’s land. At the behest of the duke, the baroness remarried, and the two daughters had been given to him as wards, though all knew it was his lust for their land—and their bodies—that had granted the boon, and not a desire to see the two sisters well married.