Free Master Of Surrender by Karin Tabke Page A

platters of roasted boar, fowl, and venison along with poached fish fresh from the river graced the table. Sweetmeats and late vegetables added to the feast. Yet Isabel’s hunger waned as her logical mind parried with her emotions. She struggled to come up with a viable means to deal with Rohan du Luc.
    If she continued to squabble over small things such as taking a seat next to this unwanted and temporary guest, she would lose precious ground and erode whatever small grip of sanity her people held. So, she would concede the smaller skirmishes. For on the morrow, she might need all of her might to fight a much larger battle.
    Isabel looked down at Rohan’s large hand holding the goblet of wine, nearly covering the gold and silver chalice. Her body warmed as she thought of his fingers touching her. Her gaze rose to find his tawny eyes steadily watching her.
    “Do you think of our time later this eve as I do?”
    Isabel’s cheeks warmed, and she looked away, not trusting her voice.
    “Here, damsel, drink. The wine, as you know, is exceptional. Mayhap it will settle you,” Rohan offered, sliding his full cup under her nose.
    The last thing she wanted to do was drink from the same cup as he. But she had no choice. It would be a battle she would lose, for if she pressed the point, she would go without drink, and at the moment, she had a strong desire for the rich burgundy wine.
    She turned the cup halfway around, making a point of sipping from the opposite side from his. The insult was subtle, but she knew she struck a chord when he stiffened beside her.
    “Your insult is well taken, and be sure, ’tis no matter to me, damsel. After you, there will be another, then another after her.”
    Isabel ignored his jibe and turned her attention to Rorick, who sat to her right. His deep blue eyes sparkled in mischievous humor. She noticed he had the same half-moon scar on his chin as did Rohan. Her eyes moved to Wulfson and the one called Ioan, then to several others. The eight knights sitting at the lord’s table all possessed the same scar and the same crimson sword plunging through the skull.
    “How came you all by the scars on your chins, and why do only those of you with the scars bear the blood sword on your surcoats, Sir Rorick?” Isabel softly asked.
    The fire in his eyes dimmed for a brief moment before it rekindled. He took her right hand and brought it to his lips. “’Tis an ugly story not fit for a lady’s ears.”
    “Isabel,” Rohan said from her other side, “the trencher is full, and I have cut your meat. Sup. You will need your strength for later.”
    Isabel turned from Rorick, who chuckled, and elbowed Rohan hard in the ribs. He let out a soft whuff. “You have the manners of a boar.”
    “Aye, and you have the temper of a shrew.”
    Isabel noticed that he had indeed cut the meat. And from the looks of it, the choice pieces he placed on her side. Though her stomach gnawed in emptiness, she felt no hunger. Instead, a deep fatigue took hold of her. Her coming days would test her character and try her patience more than at any other time in her life. She took another deep drink of the wine and set the goblet down. Rohan grinned and filled it, then turned the lip of the cup to where she had drunk and pressed his lips to it. He looked at her over the rim. When he set the cup down, he softly said, “I have no such reservation placing my lips to yours, damsel.” He smiled across the rim. “And if we have the time, you will learn to crave my touch.”
    Isabel set her hands in her lap, tightly clasping them together. The pain of her gesture made her wince. Rohan speared a large piece of venison with his table knife and bit into it. He chewed thoughtfully and pondered her. After he swallowed, he lowered his lips to her ear and whispered, “’Tis only a temporary meeting of flesh, damsel. There is no evidence left. If it pleases you to say you have not been breached, so be it. ’Twill be our little