A True and Perfect Knight by Rue Allyn Read Free Book Online Page A

widow, Haven lay down. He prayed to God for guidance and forgiveness. Then, pushing guilt and regret aside, he forced himself to sleep.
     
     
    He woke to a morning filled with fog. He could barely see his hand when he lifted it at arm’s length from his face. He called out to the guard and received an answer. Seeking Soames or Watley, Haven moved carefully around the camp, shaking bodies awake as he encountered them. By the time all his men were roused, the fog began to clear. The clang of pots sounded from the direction of the cook’s fire.
    Haven could make out the glow and several figures moving near it. Good; the widow’s party was awake. Now he would set down the law with her. This was the only morning they would dawdle over a meal.
    He passed Marie and Therese carrying bread and cheese to where his men sat. With one hand, Haven snagged a piece of bread from Marie. He shoved it into his mouth, chewed and strode toward the tent.
    He tucked his gloves into his belt and moved through the opening.
    Behind him the tent flap muffled Marie’s, “No, no, Sir Haven, you must not.”
    But it was the widow who made him halt.

Chapter Five
    A worn white sleeping robe draped the widow’s body. A subtle scent, like lavender and cream, tangled in his head, and he stopped, chained in place by the sight before him.
    She stood at a right angle to him, her head turned away as she lit a branch of candles. Could this be the same woman? Certainly the form outlined against the translucent cloth was tall and slim, but this woman had curves. Rounded hips swayed beneath a tiny waist. Above that, as she raised her arms, a gentle swell hinted at delicate breasts. Haven’s whole body tightened. And that hair. No dark sodden mass this, but a wild tumble of curls that cascaded like stabled fire over the fine, pale column of her neck—a neck that swans would envy. He should leave, but he knew he would not.
    “ Une moment , Marie…”
    At the sound of her sultry, sloe-eyed voice, lust jolted through him, hard and hot. Visions of twined bodies, limned in fire glow, hazed his head. He felt dizzy, as if a thousand feathers had stroked his skin from top to toe and lingered on the straining flesh between his… This is Roger’s wife , his conscience screamed at him. A thought which prompted him to offer up a prayer, for God help him, he seemed unable to stop the need she inspired in him.
    “…I am almost ready for the salve.”
    She dropped the robe from her shoulders, and fury choked the words that would have announced his presence.
    Her shape was everything her silhouette had promised. But the skin that should have glowed with good health bore ugly purple-green splotches. The injuries looked so painful that he almost failed to notice that her ribs stood out against her skin, bespeaking long-endured hunger.
    He grasped her shoulder with the anger-hard fingers of one hand and spun her round to face him. “How did this happen?”
    She screamed once, and then stared at him, her body rigid, her eyes wide with some emotion—surprise, fear, anger or pride. He could not say which. She uttered a small gasp and moved to cover herself with her hands.
    He looked into her eyes. He had seen too much of her already. More than enough to know that bruises like those on her back covered her front and legs too, just as they covered her face. Yesterday, rain, mist and bias—yes, bias, he admitted to himself—had obscured his vision. Then he had thought her face, beaten though it was, her only claim to beauty. Now he knew better. Did she feel so much guilt over what she had done to Roger that she hurt herself in penance?
    “How did this happen?” He repeated through teeth clenched against anger.
    From behind him came the sharp whisper of steel. He shot out his free arm from the shoulder in a backward motion. At the same moment that a blade’s tip stung his neck, he grasped the wrist of his attacker with an iron hand. Cold fury threatened his reason. His