Free The Ever Knight by Georgia Fox Page B

A man who spent his life on the battlefield would not set his weapons down easily for any reason. Admittance of pain would be a sign of weakness in his eyes. When he stepped from the trough, she saw his struggle to overcome another twinge. He touched his thigh briefly and the muscle tensed. She made herself attuned to it. Attuned to him. Her gaze drifted down over his manhood. It was half-reared up already, unless it was always in that state of fullness. The tip was broad and dark, the shaft long and so wide that her finger and thumb would not meet around it. Like the rest of him it was alert and lively. His was not the first prick she’d seen, but it was the largest. Certainly a good deal more meat upon his proud cockerel than she’d viewed upon those of her father’s serfs, when she once watched them bathing in the stream at home.
    Remy. A warhorse of a man, thick-headed, stubborn as a weed, strong as two oxen, fierce as the flames of a dragon’s breath.
    But Remy was a walking dead man. The infected wound would strike this proud warrior to his knees in a matter of hours and take his last breath in two days from now. Jisella, a Child of the Full Moon, saw it. The pixies had brought him here on this day, when her powers were at their peak and tonight the moon would be whole. All was in alignment.
    He needed her and she needed him.
    This soldier was not merely a dare for Jisella; he was the one who would rescue her. The moment she saw him she knew he was her Ever Knight
     
    * * * *
     
    Remy stabbed his knife into the slab of roast beef, just as another man made a reach for it. He was damned hungry and no one better get in his way. The other hand was hastily withdrawn and he greedily shoveled the meat into his mouth, never looking up to see who had challenged him. They’d know better next time.
    The nuns here were reluctant with their hospitality, sparing only a few dishes from their cookhouse—mostly burnt, spoiled and tasteless. Probably the scraps that would otherwise have gone to beggars at the gate tonight, or else the pigs in the yard, he thought wryly. But he’d swallow anything when he was this hungry. Exhausted and victorious from routing another stronghold of determined Saxons, his men were thankful to rest a while and fill their bellies with anything warm. Pity there were no whores here. Just his luck, he mused. He was in dire need of a wench and the only ones at hand were untouchable ‘Brides of Christ’ and a bunch of coddled little girls, all virgins.
    Tomorrow he’d collect what he came for and they’d be on their way again. Once he’d delivered the package to his brother he’d find a town with a brothel and treat his men. They deserved it.
    A sudden sharp pain shot through his leg from hip to knee. His knife fell to the table with a loud clatter. Quickly he picked it up again, laughing at his clumsiness. But the pain was worse. Sometimes if he sat for too long in one position he didn’t know if he would ever get up again. It was terrifying for a man who’d lived his life as a warrior, most of it in the saddle. He was no use to anyone if his leg gave out. Tonight the pain made him weak, a heavy sickness lying in his gut. A thin film of sweat coated his body and yet he was cold. He’d quietly asked one of the nuns who brought them food if she had a salve for infection and whether she might apply some to his wounded leg to draw out whatever poison was in it. She’d looked at him as if he asked her to put her wizened lips around his cock and suck it dry. Before he could speak another word to her she’d scuttled off, shaking her head and waving her arms.
    Remy was surprised. He thought Christianity was about helping people, but then, what did he know? He was only good for battle and bloodshed. He let the clerics and learned folks decide what they were actually fighting for.
    But the way she’d looked at him…
    Perhaps it was the language. The English tongue did not come smoothly to Remy. Even