Free To Touch The Knight by Lindsay Townsend

knew she looked well in it, and the copper matched the gleams in Ranulf’s hair— No! In my own hair.
    â€œIt is a sign of harvest in my land,” she replied, breaking off a head of wheat and offering it to him. “For maids to dress so brings good luck to the crops. As you see.” She stretched out her other arm and pointed to the tall hay and mingled purple corncockle, poppies, ox-eyed daisies, and cornflowers.
    â€œAnd there is my task.”
    â€œAnd so you may begin it, Sir Ranulf.” He was indeed very quick, and she wished he was more confounded. Did he not like her costume?
    â€œArmloads of flowers, Princess? You do not fear bee stings, then?”
    â€œYou may place them by my feet,” she said, acknowledging that with a nod. “A seat of flowers.”
    â€œAnd if I do this, and win the archery, I will keep your favors, Princess, and demand a forfeit.”
    â€œAs you wish,” she said easily, for she did not think he would achieve it. “Pray, Sir Ranulf”—she wanted him to be clear on this final instruction: this was a contest between them, but she would not have others affected by them—“be pleased not to disturb the other haymakers. They have only begun today”—at a quiet suggestion from herself—“and my Lady Blanche would not be happy if you did.”
    â€œI will keep to the southeast side of the field, where none are working. It is poor grass there, anyway.”
    â€œThank you.” Surprising her by such close knowledge of crops, he startled her afresh by dropping his shield in the same languid way that she had cast aside her cloak and by striding up the field to the hay reeve. Handing the man a tall flask, he returned by the same path and, before she could remonstrate, said, “I do not trouble them, Princess, but the haymakers will take a rest now, and one has loaned me his scythe.”
    The best and sharpest scythe, she noticed, and he carried it as deftly as he handled a sword.
    â€œExcuse me.”
    He confounded her anew. Leaning the handle of the scythe against himself, he stripped to his linen leggings, appearing as lightly clad as one of the haymakers—or her.
    He thinks he has beaten me at my own game, but I will not stare at him , Edith determined. Behind her, the damsels trudging up the field on their heeled shoes and dragging their long trails and sleeves after them now clapped and shouted, instantly excited and energized.
    â€œLook at his scars!”
    â€œLook at those muscles!”
    â€œHe is magnificent!”
    â€œHe shall have my favor!”
    â€œMine, too!”
    The exclamations were tossed at him like flowers and he grinned, sucking in his stomach, making the slabs of muscles across his back and chest “dance” as he struck several poses.
    â€œMore!” The damsels were clapping and stamping their feet. In the corner of the great field, under the shade of a lime tree, the true haymakers passed round the ale flask and watched the whole play with an intent interest. Edith guessed they had already laid bets.
    â€œYou have outstripped me, sir,” she said, wishing her wits were as cool as her voice. She ached to touch him herself, to trace the hairs on his long, bronzed arms and his barrel chest and back, to plant soft kisses into the creases of his elbows, and along his collarbones and ribs. Fearing the desire would be naked in her eyes, she held out a hand. “Should I keep your mantle?”
    Ranulf shook his head. “My thanks, Princess, but I prefer to do this.” He wound his tunic round his shaggy fair head, to act as a sun shade, then lifted the scythe and tapped it softly three times on the ground: a little luck charm, she guessed.
    â€œI loved haymaking when I was a boy,” he said, and he reached out and softly tugged at the garland round her waist, making the soft grasses tickle her middle. “On days like this in the north, I would be