Free Master Of Surrender by Karin Tabke

jewels sewn into the sleeves. A rich girdle of gold filigree accentuated the full flare of her hips. Her jewel-encrusted dagger hung from it. But what startled him most was her face. Her creamy skin flushed pink, her big violet-colored eyes sparkled even from a distance, and her full lips—Rohan swallowed hard—her full red lips parted as if she waited to be kissed. Her thick golden hair, like fine gossamer, had been brushed to shimmering brightness. It hung long about her shoulders but for two delicate braids entwined with amethyst-colored ribbon framing her face. The edges of the ribbon swirled about her bosom, accentuating the full swell of it. Instead of a veil cloth on her head, she wore a slender woven gold and silver circlet, the form of a hawk crowning it.
    When Rohan made no move toward her, Rorick pushed him aside and moved to meet Isabel halfway up the stairway. He bowed deeply, taking her hand. “Damsel, you gift my sight with such loveliness I know not if my mortal self can bear the beauty of such a goddess.”
    Rohan rolled his eyes and took another long draught of his wine, all while keeping a watchful eye on his man as he prattled on like an ass to the lady he planned to bed.
    Isabel smiled, her eyes only for the Scot. “Thank you, sir?”
    He bowed again. “Forgive me my manners, Lady Isabel. I am but a battle-weary soldier who has spent little time in court.” He brought both of her hands to his lips and looked up to her. “I am Sir Rorick of Moray but more recently knight of Duke William. I am your servant.”
    “’Tis my pleasure to meet you, Sir Rorick. I pray your chivalry remains intact. ’Tis such a welcome respite to your brethren’s loutish manners.”
    Rorick placed her arm in the crook of his and led her down the stairway with great care. He looked up at Rohan and grinned. Rohan scowled. When Stefan and Warner made a great show of placing the lord’s chair at their table for the lady to be seated in, Rohan had the urge to stick his booted foot up their arses.
    “Nay, kind sirs, ’tis my father’s chair. Set it aside for his return.”
    Rohan slammed his goblet down on the table and turned to Isabel. Rorick continued to smile and to pat the lady’s hand still resting on his forearm. “Your sire, should he return, will find himself seated with the lesser nobles.” Rohan picked up the great chair and shoved it back against the hearth, nearly missing Manhku. He pointed to the spot beside where he stood and ground out, “Now, see thyself perched thus. I tire of this prattle. Call for the food!”
    Rorick’s good mood fled with Rohan’s words. He set the Lady Isabel down and gave his friend a sharp glare. “I must apologize for Sir Rohan’s poor manners. He was raised in a stable.”
    Rohan grumbled and poured more wine. He would not allow his man’s flirting with a woman he had no intention of keeping to sour his victorious campaign. He caught Isabel’s harsh stare and smiled. He raised his cup and turned to his men. “To the conquering of Rossmoor.” The rafters shook from the boom of cheers. Rohan turned to look expectantly at Isabel. “And to breaching the shrew’s thighs!” While the cheers had been loud before, they nearly split the timbers from the percussion the second time around.
    Rohan drank heartily and watched Isabel’s cheeks redden. Aye, the maid could play him false in public. But she would see each night who held the power. His blood warmed, and he rubbed his chest where the wound ached. Aye, taming the Lady Isabel would be a welcome repast for the long winter nights ahead.

Five

    I sabel stared pensively into her wine. She wanted to tell the arrogant knight he could not command her like some common house servant, but she caught the eyes of several villagers attending to chores. Winston stacked more logs by the hearth, Lyn lit candles along the lower tables, Garth leashed the hounds, and several others carried out heavy trays laden with food.
    Steaming