Immortal Champion by Lisa Hendrix Read Free Book Online Page B

he was quick.
    Gunnar threw himself up the wall.
    He barely caught the fellow at the base of the pavilion itself, and only because the knight, his mind clearly fixed on the women, paused just long enough to run his fingers through his hair.
    It was enough. In a flash, Gunnar yanked the cord from his hood and, as the fellow lifted his foot for the final step, looped the sturdy braiding around his ankle.
    “Eh?”
    Before the stunned knight could stop him, Gunnar lashed the man’s foot to the nearest crossbar and pulled the knot tight. As the fellow struggled, Gunnar clambered up and plunged a hand into his rival’s shirt in search of the favor.
    “No!” The fellow twisted away and swung. His fist connected with Gunnar’s cheek, but fettered so, he had no purchase, and the blow barely registered . Gunnar shoved to throw him off balance, and as the man flailed wildly in midair, Gunnar easily relieved him of . . .
    The gray glove. Now that was good fortune.
    “Dastard!” The knight lunged but came up short, like a puppy on a string.
    Laughing, Gunnar clamped the little glove between his teeth, and reached for the window.
    A wave of perfume, rich as a summer meadow, washed over the sill as he pulled himself up. A heartbeat later he was over and in, surrounded by excited squeals and giggles. And women. Tall and short, fair and dark, slim as reeds and plump as partridges . . . But young, every one of them.
    A few men stood amongst them; he wasn’t the first man up, by half, but it made no difference. He was here, and one of these toothsome creatures was his to kiss. He took the glove from his mouth and stood, scanning them all as though he could have his pick when, in truth, the choice had already been made. Which one . . . ?
    A heavy hand clapped him on the back. Gunnar whirled, ready to fight off another challenger.
    But it was only one of the other victors, a honey-haired beauty already on his other arm, and he was grinning. “Cleverly fought, sir. ’Tis clear you’ve taken a few towers in your life.”
    “One or two.” Gunnar glanced at the scrap of wine-colored silk dangling from the man’s belt. “Ah. You’re the one that hit me. You have a good arm.”
    “You bear no ill will, I hope.”
    Gunnar gingerly touched the knot on his head. “’Twas part of the sport. And I wasn’t after the veil to begin with.”
    “Indeed!” The lady of the veil pursed her lips as though she’d bitten into a worm. “Then I am glad you lost it, sir.”
    “I didn’t mean . . .” Face hot, Gunnar stumbled to a stop, took a deep breath, and started again. “I would be pleased to have your kiss, my lady, had I earned it. But I fell on your favor by chance alone, so when it was taken, it seemed . . . just.”
    She sighed, a sound that was half vexation, half mollification, and her eyes flickered to the glove in his hand. “Well. So now you are left with that. ”
    “So I am,” Gunnar agreed. He held up his prize, fingering the doeskin. If he had any luck at all, its owner would be equally soft, not prickly like this wench. He backed away a pace, half turning. “Where is the lady who holds its mate? I would claim my kiss.”
    “ Là-bas. Over there.” The lady of the veil started to gesture, but there was a stir and the women separated, leaving Gunnar facing a black-haired maid with flashing eyes that matched the gray glove she held in her hand.
    Ah, good, not ugly at all. A bit dark to his taste—he preferred the gold and cream of home over the look the French had brought to England—but pleasant enough. Quite pleasant, in fact. Pleased with his luck, Gunnar stepped forward. “My lady.”
    “Sir Gunnar.” The slightest smile curved her mouth, as if she was privy to some jest. “Are you always so very late?”

CHAPTER 4

    “YOUR PARDON, MY lady. Do I know you?”
    Do I know you? Eleanor stared at the man she had watched for, waited for during all those long months of quashed hope. After four years, this is what