Free My Noble Knight by Laurel O'Donnell

back when something caught her eye.
    She studied the spot where the leather had failed, the bottom of the broken piece of leather. She lifted it to inspect it. The spot of the break began with a clean cut. A straight line. It ended with a ragged rip. She expected the worn out leather to be frayed and worn, like it was at the end of the break. But the beginning was clean. Tingles raced along her neck.
    Layne stared at the stirrup. It had not been natural wearing of the leather. It had been cut.



Chapter Eight
    S hivers shot through her body. She heard heavy footfalls and quickly shoved the stirrup leather into her tunic. Then began rummaging through the saddlebags. For a moment, she couldn't remember what she had been looking for.
    The footfalls stopped.
    She glanced over her shoulder.
    Carlton stood in the tent opening, his arms akimbo. “Do you need help?”
    “I can't find --” Then her hand closed over the ale flask and she took it out victoriously. “No.” She brandished it happily, containing her nervousness behind a smile. “I've got it.”

    Griffin refused to be distracted by the woman who sat on the top of the fence, her booted feet hanging loosely below her. She clutched the top rail. He had to get a dress for her. It was inappropriate for her to be dressed in breeches and a tunic. A man could see all her curves! He could see all of her curves and it was distracting. Very distracting.
    Griffin tore his gaze from her and reined Adonis around. He took the lance from Carlton and spurred his stallion, charging down the field toward the quintain. He hated the static quintain. It swung around in a circle and hit less experienced knights in the back hard, but it was useless for a knight of his caliber. When he had been at home, practicing with his brother, they had developed a quintain that rocked. The object of their passes was to hit it hard enough to knock it over. It was a difficult thing to do as the quintain weighed almost as much as a fully armored opponent. But Griffin had mastered it. And challenged himself to hit it just hard enough to teeter it, without knocking it over so that it would return to its original position. That was a challenge! He missed that.
    Griffin couched the lance beneath his arm and charged toward the quintain. He held the lance firmly, aiming for the center of the quintain. He leaned in slightly, expecting the moment of impact. He struck the quintain square on, the impact sending reverberations down his arm into his torso and down into his legs. It pushed him back against the rear of his saddle, his legs and knees gripping Adonis.
    As he passed, the quintain began to swing. He leaned forward over Adonis’s neck as the weighted portion swung, missing hitting him in the head or back. When he was clear, he lifted his lance and began to slow Adonis. He turned to see the quintain spinning around in a circle.
    But he was not satisfied. It began to slow after two whirls, which meant he had not hit it hard enough. He grimaced and came around to where Carlton was standing. He tried not to look at Layne.
    Her smile was jubilant and full of excitement. Every time he hit the quintain, she grinned and smiled like an excited child. This was not the place for her, Griffin told himself again, but even as he did, he was glad to see her so happy. Something blossomed in his chest at her lively expression.
    He tossed the lance at Carlton’s feet. “What was wrong with that pass?” he demanded, adjusting his leather jerkin.
    Carlton looked down at the lance, then at the quintain. “You used the stirrups.”
    “Aye,” Griffin agreed. “I did. I will not on this next pass. What else?”
    Carlton looked thoughtfully at the lance again. “The lance is still in one piece. You didn’t hit it hard enough,” he said quietly as if talking to himself. Then his gaze snapped to the quintain. “The quintain. It only swung around twice.”
    Griffin nodded. “Good. Well done.” He reached down as Carlton