The Heat of the Knight by Scottie Barrett Read Free Book Online Page B

Saxby ascended to the lord's seat, he insisted on having a female don the revealing costume. She supposed Beckett's wenching ways were an inheritance from that ancestor.
    Christiana gulped down another cup of mead as she waited for the performers to go through their well-worn repertoire. She spotted her victim, as always head and shoulders above the crowd. His arms crossed over his chest, he appeared more than bored; he looked as if he were asleep on his feet.
    Suddenly, it felt as if a starling had taken up residence in her stomach. She was quickly losing her nerve. True, his high-handed ways infuriated her, yet how could she put that ridiculous hat on his head? Another swallow of the honeyed drink for courage.
    She would simply walk over, plop the thing on his head, and then plant a chaste kiss—on whom? That part she hadn't considered.
    The opportunity for retaliation suddenly took on an interesting dimension. Colin was standing very near his cousin. His tousled blond hair gave him a boyish quality. Her gaze shifted to Beckett. There was nothing boyish about him. He was all hard masculinity.
    Christiana was so mesmerized by him, she twirled languidly around. Suddenly, she sensed the performers circling her. Theatrical throat clearing jolted her into action. She felt as though a million eyes were trained on her in her borrowed gown. The overlong skirt dragged through the dust, and the sleeve slipped off her shoulder. She tugged it back up. Though she took great care to keep her pace slow, her breasts jiggled. Beckett no longer seemed to be in a daze. He'd lifted his heavy lids and was now staring unblinking at her bouncing breasts.
    A mead induced notion occurred to her as she approached. Who would she really like to kiss? This was her chance to taste him while she was concealed.
    Of its own volition, her body moved through the crowd until she stood before Colin.
    Her whole body trembled. He quirked a quizzical brow, but he bent his neck so that she could set the humiliating crown atop his head. She could hear the jeers of the performers and the surprised muttering rolling through the crowd.
    Beckett laughed. “Suits you, cousin. Perfect fit,” he chided.
    The lute player's lyrics could barely be heard above the noise of the crowd. She picked out the few words that cued her to the second part of her act.
    Beckett's laughter stopped immediately when she curtsied deeply before him. Her arms were shaking as she stood on tiptoes and interlaced her fingers around his neck. His stiff, stubborn neck was as rigid as iron. His gaze skipped from her lips to her breasts and back again. She knew that lifting her arms had exposed slivers of her nipples to his eyes alone. He was refusing to kiss her, refusing to follow the ancient storyline.
    Feeling the heat of humiliation flood her cheeks, she started to loosen her grip.
    Startling her, he suddenly dipped his head at the same moment that his hands made a shelf beneath her bottom, lifting her so that her feet barely grazed the ground. The starling had flitted upward from her stomach and seemed to lodge in her heart, its wings beating furiously. His big hands molded her bottom, pulling her hard against him as his mouth covered hers with a fierceness that made her gasp. His tongue plunged into her mouth. Warm and thick, it felt alien yet completely delicious.
    The crowd began to cheer him on. She was caught fast in her own trickery and enjoying every exhilarating second. Unable to remain passive, she captured his tongue and began sucking gently on it. Her bold move seemed to shock him. He released her suddenly, and she wobbled a bit as she landed on her heels. His apparent bafflement did not prevent him from acting the protector as he pinched the sides of her bodice and yanked upward to cover the tops of her nipples.
    Quivering from head to toe, she ran and hid in the tent. Relieved to find it empty, she quickly shed the ancient costume. The canvas opening was pushed aside. Beckett