Free The Dark Knight by Elizabeth Elliott

flesh, skin so luminescent that the color reminded him of pearls. She looked too warm and vibrant to be an Englishman’s ideal of beauty, but even the barbaric English must recognize perfection when they saw it. He couldn’t stop staring at her. Likely all men reacted in the same besotted fashion. This was what Mordecai had tried to warn him about.
    “Sir Percival?” She reached out to lay her hand on his chest. Although he could not feel the pressure of her hand through the chain mail and padding, he was sure he felt the warmth of her touch. His chest began to burn. “You were not hurt?”
    Hurt? He shook his head. He was not hurt. He was devastated. How else could he describe the force that rendered him both powerless and invincible at the same time? She stirred emotions that were little more than vague memories, so far removed from mere physical need and so long forgotten that he scarce recognized the feelings. Warmth seeped through him like a heady draught of mulled wine. Her lips parted again and his blood caught fire.
    “Sir Percival?” A shadow of concern darkened her eyes. “Are you injured? I could not forgive myself, truly, did I injure you.” She reached toward his face, hesitated, and then her hand curled back toward her chest as though she feared he would recoil from her touch.
    Moving away from her was the last thing he would do. Everything about her drew him in, and yet, at the same time, everything about her warned him to stay away. His gaze went to the hand that still rested on his chest, so small and insignificant. The fingers were slenderand well-shaped, the soft, white hand of a lady. He imagined her hand against his bare skin, even though he knew she would never knowingly touch anything so foul or corrupt.
    Aye, he was injured in places she would never know. And he would wager a fortune that she had never known anything like him in her short, sheltered life. Beneath the disguise of a knight lay the true face of evil, a demon that lusted after innocence. And if he did not get these strange emotions under control, she would soon learn exactly what sort of monster she was gazing upon so adoringly. He shook his head again in an effort to clear his befuddled senses.
Gesù
. The girl was a witch.
    “ ’Tis obvious your fall has rattled the poor man’s wits, Avalene.”
    The shrewd undercurrent in the steward’s voice
un-
rattled his wits in short order. He gave the man a curt glance. “Everything happened rather quickly. I needed but a moment to gather my thoughts.”
    “You are unsettled,” John went on, his gaze focused sharply on Dante. “ ’Tis a common enough condition in Avalene’s presence.”
    So, the steward was aware of his interest in the girl. A regrettable mistake, the kind he had not made in a very long time. In his world, truth was an illusion built upon lies, a place where one wrong word, one wrong gesture could cost his life. To argue against John’s suspicions now would only confirm them. Instead he set Avalene an arm’s length away from him, and then inclined his head in agreement with John. “I find it most unsettling when pretty maidens fall from the sky. Does this happen often here at Coleway?”
    The corners of John’s false smile tightened as a sprinkling of laughter moved through the crowd.
    Dante turned toward Avalene and dropped to oneknee before the girl. He bowed his head, the very picture of a chivalrous knight. Mordecai would likely laugh aloud if he saw him now. “I hope you took no offense at my boldness. Pray forgive any impertinence, my lady?”
    “Ah, I … you are forgiven,” Avalene said. “That is, there is nothing
to
forgive. Please, there is no need to … I am entirely in your debt, Sir Percival. Please rise. Are you certain you were not injured?”
    “Not in the least,” he assured her as he stood up.
    “Enough, enough,” said Lord Brunor. “Sir Percival has delivered his message and rescued the maiden. ’Tis time for the poor man