Free A Knight In Her Bed by Evie North Page A

came roaring around the corner and comically slathered to a stop when they saw who was with her. “Sir, we didn’t know . . . she was stealing our food . . .”
    Their leader waved a dismissive hand. “I have her. Go to sleep. We ride out early in the morning.”
    Slowly they gathered themselves, staggering back the way they’d come, a few glances over their shoulders and a few muffled sniggers. And then she and her rescuer were alone again.
    “What is your name?” he said quietly.
    Juliet tried to pull away but his grip on her arms was too strong. Play along then, she thought. Pretend to be a willing victim. If he wants your body then say yes, but take the chance when it comes to run away. She’d done it before.
    “ Juliet, my lord. I was travelling to my sister but I got lost. And frightened. There is much destruction.”
    He said nothing for a moment. “You are hungry, I think, Juliet. I am hungry too. Come with me to my tent and we will eat.”
    She considered him, listening for any double entendre, but he seemed to mean exactly what he’d said, so she nodded, allowing him to lead her along in the darkness. He was a big broad shouldered man, and tall, but his steps were barely audible. She shot little glances at him, wondering what he wanted from her and whether she would be able to talk her way out of it. Ahead a torch blazed in front of an impressive tent and a couple of guards straightened up, watching her approach with narrowed eyes.
    “Bring food,” their lord told them. He brushed aside the canvas flap of the tent door and strode through, tugging her after him.
    Juliet took a moment to inspect her surroundings. There were furs piled on a mattress on the floor, to make a bed, and a colourful rug with armfuls of cushions for sitting upon. A table looked to be covered in rolled parchments as well as a silver goblet and a wine jug. A scuffed wooden trunk that had seen much travel had been flung open and she spied a richly embroidered tunic and breeches tossed carelessly into it.
    Here was a man , she thought, who was used to living on the march. A soldier. But all the same he demanded certain standards; he refused to live rough.
    She turned to him to say something amusing about his cushions, and instead found herself struck dumb.
    His face was handsome, or had been, but a savage blow with a sharp weapon had cut through the muscles on the left side. The wound had healed into an ugly scar and his expression seemed twisted, frozen. Until she met his eyes. They were bright and alive, and full of mockery at her reaction. It was as if he had expected nothing else, and she was irritated with herself that she could not have surprised him.
    “Are you King Stephen’s man, or do you fight for Matilda and her son Henry?” she asked blithely, sitting down on a cushion.
    He snorted a laugh. “Does it matter to you?”
    “Not really. They both rampage over the country without caring who they hurt.”
    He poured wine into the goblet and held it out to her where she sat. Cautiously she reached for it, making sure to smile sweetly into his eyes. The wine looked pleasant and a sip told her it was sweet, not the thin sour stuff she was used to. Great lords in their castles did not waste their best wine on the entertainment. She took another sip, watching him as he removed his sword, laying the belt and scabbard over the trunk.
    “You are an acrobat?” he questioned, turning to observe her.
    “Among other things. I am one of a band of travelling minstrels,” she explained. “I was, that is. My troupe was . . . well, lately I have been travelling alone.”
    “To your sister’s?” he remembered.
    She nodded, took another sip. The wine was good but she must not drink any more, without any food in her belly it was swiftly going to her head and she needed all her wits about her with this man.
    The tent door opened and one of the guards carried in food on a platter, cold meats with bread and more wine. Juliet’s mouth