Soul Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)(24)

He squeezed her hand.

“I only told the truth, my dear.”

Claudine felt the words rock through her like a wave on the riverbank. My dear. He had called her “my dear”. Her heart floated and she felt her body lean against his.

His arm moved to rest on her shoulders. He leaned in, those sweet, marbled green eyes staring into hers, and kissed her.

Claudine melted in his arms and their bodies pressed together in the moonlight. She felt her heart thump with a sweet, rising urgency. She pressed against him, liking the feel of her bosom flattening against that broad chest.

“Claudine,” he whispered, his eyes shut, face crinkled with intensity. “I...we mustn't.”

Claudine breathed out sharply. She knew what he meant. Somehow, her body was prompting her to do things that she knew were sweetly forbidden. She sat back.

He smiled and reached to stroke her hair.

“You are so beautiful.”

Claudine closed her eyes.

“You are so handsome.”

He chuckled.

“You think so?” he asked. He sounded genuinely surprised and she laughed.

“I know so.”

They kissed again.

It was only when she heard the door to the terrace open and someone slip through that Claudine forced herself to stand and walk, slowly, heart thudding, inside; Francis following an instant later.

What a wonderful, wonderful moment.

Throughout that evening she could not stop smiling.





CHAPTER EIGHT





MEETING AT THE PRACTICE GROUND





MEETING AT THE PRACTICE GROUND





The sound of swords rang out in the courtyard, bright, bold, and harsh.

“Watch it!” Gaspard, son of the Duke of Monteleon, shouted loudly as he took a swing at Francis. He stepped nimbly back, blocking the blow with his own sword.

“That's a good down-stroke,” Francis commented, grinning. “But how will you answer this?” He raised his sword and swung from the side.

The blades shivered together and Francis felt his arms ache as the strike rang through to his bones.

“Ha.” Gaspard grinned, though it was not an entirely pleasant smile.

Francis felt a spark of enjoyment. Here on the practice ground was one of the places where he truly shone. His father had employed a knight from Frankia as his tutor and he was schooled in all the latest methods.

He had the rare pleasure of seeing the Frenchman getting frustrated. Ruffling your opponent was the best way to win, he knew. He stepped back, keeping his cool, and delivered a gentle tap of the blade, countering a side-stroke with apparent ease.

“Good job, Annecy,” his opponent said hotly.

Francis grinned, seeing the start of rage building in the man's dark eyes. It would only be a short while now before he managed to do something foolish. Then Francis would win.

And up...and out...and back... he talked himself through the dance of sword on sword. His arms burned, his heart raced and perspiration shone on his hawkish, handsome profile. However, he was almost smiling.

“Francis! Look out!”

The voice shattered his calm just as the enraged Frenchman delivered a blow that, were they real swords, not blunted blades, would have cleaved his head open. He parried it with a shuddering clash and then sent his own counter-swing through the Frenchman's defense, leveling a blade at his throat.

He looked up, wiping a lock of red hair out of his eyes.

“Thanks,” he said ruefully.

Claudine looked down at him from the rail overlooking the grounds. Her blue eyes shone, damp with shock and fright.

“Francis,” she murmured. “Thank Heavens.”

Gaspard grunted and saluted Francis with a grudging admiration.

“Well done, friend,” he said. “Enough for today, eh?” he called. “More tomorrow.”

Francis grinned. “I'd like that. You're a good swordsman, Gaspard.”

“That's easy for you to say,” Gaspard shouted back. “When you just beat me. You rascal.”

The insult was well-meant and Francis laughed. Then, heart melting, he turned back up to the balcony. He shaded his eyes from the glare of sunlight and stared up at her in wonderment.

With her flossy blonde hair outlined by the sunshine and a smile on those pink lips, she looked like an angel sent to safeguard him. She was wearing a white dress with a wide neck, her cleavage a satiny glow in the afternoon sun.

“My lady,” he called up. “You have sharp eyes.”

Claudine looked down at him, pink lips parted in an expression of shock. “You could have been hurt, my lord.”

Francis smiled up at her. She was adorable! “It would have knocked me cold, certainly. And probably cut into my scalp, too. Those blades can still give a nasty cut when wielded that hard.”

Claudine looked horrified. “Poor Lord Francis!”

He smiled. “May I join you up there?”

“Please,” she said shyly.

Francis rolled his shoulders and walked in to the hallway, blinking at the sharp contrast – it seemed so dark in here after the reflected bright of the courtyard.

I hope I don't smell too sweaty. Francis breathed in experimentally. It seemed he was still not too pungent. He headed up the staircase at a run.