Free The Ever Knight by Georgia Fox Page A

giggle.
    Jisella took a stout breath and straightened her spine. “Not in the least. I accept your challenge, Deorwynn of Wexford.” The two young women spat on their hands and shook firmly. Spitting was one of Deorwynn’s favorite habits, just as saying “fuck” was Jisella’s.
    “But your husband is already coming,” a bouncing red-head reminded her. “You’re not allowed to look at other men, let alone go near one.”
    She shrugged, having no intention of trotting off meekly to marry the man her father had bargained for. Since the age of thirteen she’d been shut away here, kept out of trouble and hidden away from the world. Her father, a Saxon thane with lands now forfeit to the Norman King, had no qualm about using her in his wheedling schemes to win favor with the new ruling dynasty. Unlike many of his peers he knew when he was conquered. He was a man of ruthless pragmatism, a survivor. Now, six years and several stalled attempts later, he’d finally found his only daughter a husband from among the Norman hierarchy. Jisella would be sent for soon, to become the wife of a stranger. Not that the strangeness mattered. Since her mother died when Jisella was a child, there had never been much affection in her life. The girls here in this convent were the closest thing she had to family.
    In her father’s eyes she was nothing more than a possession, often a burden. Embarrassed by her healing gift, he shrank away from her, bearing his hurt rather than let Jisella cure him with her “witches spells”. It was a talent she inherited from her mother—a woman he’d killed with his own sword because she chose love over him—and as a consequence, he could barely bring himself to look at Jisella. He didn’t even remember how old she was. Recently he sent her a gift, a wedding gown that might have fit her when she was thirteen. Might have. He’d left her with the nuns in this place, entrusting them to keep safe her precious virginity and tutor her in the ways of being a good, pious wife. Now he could blame them if it all turned out horribly wrong, couldn’t he?
    She looked out through the shutters again, studying the warrior below.
    He stood in the water, lifting both arms to stretch leisurely, treating his audience to an unobstructed view of that breathtaking musculature and the long, thick object between his thighs.
    One of the women crossed herself. Another clasped her hands over her mouth. But they all continued watching. No one blinked.
    The warrior chatted to one of his comrades in that quick Norman tongue and from his gestures it was obviously a filthy tale he told. His hearty, deep laughter rocked the stone walls of the convent and trembled under Jisella’s feet. Apparently he didn’t care that this was a place of worship. He didn’t have to care. Only here for one night, unlike Jisella and her companions, he was not a prisoner, exiled to this cold, dreary fortress, waiting interminably like spirits trapped in a spell, with nothing to do but pray, eat and sew. And set the occasional wager. Anything to pass the time.
    Today this group of battle-weary soldiers had arrived to take shelter within these strong castle walls. It was a wet, cold All Hallow’s Eve and one man in particular had no idea what lay in wait for him.
    Hands pressed to her galloping heart, Jisella closed her eyes tight. Deorwynn’s challenge had lit a fire in her belly.
    She could still hear his humming as he washed the sweat off his body in the horse trough. Even from that distance he filled her senses. The smell of him was all male heat, lusty and impatient. As she breathed it in, the scent turned to liquid and lay in her throat, her first taste of him.
    He needed her and he didn’t know it yet.
    Remy was his name apparently. She’d heard it shouted across the yard a few times since the men arrived that afternoon. He was wounded in the leg. She witnessed him flinch occasionally, but he laughed a lot, not letting anyone see his pain.