Free Knight of Deceit (Knights of Passion Series 2) by Evie North Page A

enjoyed the work, but now . . . it had lost its gloss. And she certainly did not relish the thought of Sir Walter discovering he had been duped. Some of the men she had lain with had been brutes and although Margaret might not care if her counter was smashed, Maven did not want to die in one of her half-sister’s schemes.
    Perhaps he would not come after all? The princesses would travel to England and Maven would accompany them, and her life would go on as it had before. She wasn’t a prisoner, but she may as well be one.
    Suddenly her eyes grew wide in the darkness. The door to the chamber creaked as someone entered, and there was a footstep close by the bed.
    “Princess,” said a gruff voice. Sir Walter’s voice. Not Barlow’s voice, which she always thought of as like a velvet glove caressing her skin.
    Maven tried not to squeak. She spoke in the barest whisper, aware of what was at stake for herself and Princess Margaret. “Sir Walter?”
    He gave a soft chuckle. “Who else?” he said, and she heard him taking off his boots and tossing them aside. The bed shifted and she felt him settle down beside her. His hand brushed against her naked shoulder and he gave a satisfied grunt.
    A strand of his hair brushed her face as he bent over her —which was odd, as Sir Walter’s hair was cut so short—and then she felt his smiling lips on hers and passion swept her up once more and her momentary doubt was gone.
    “ Mmm,” he said, “you taste of pomegranates, princess.”
    “There w ere pomegranates at supper tonight,” she whispered back.
    “I remember,” he replied. “You and your sister Isobel sat like queens at the head of the table. You are brave, princess , but I do not think you really want to be part of this bargain between Scotland and England. Am I right?”
    Maven knew he was speaking of the treaty. Tomorrow Margaret and Isobel would go to England and there marry noblemen of John’s choosing. Maven was to go with them, far away from home and family, and probably she would never see either again. And what of her dreams of Barlow? If only they had time she was sure they would do more than gaze at each other from a distance.
    Happiness was a fleeting thing and Maven knew that. Nevertheless her heart ached. She did not want to go. She did not want to spend her life as Margaret’s counter. She did not want a life of taking strangers into her bed rather than the man she really desired.
    “You are quiet,” Sir Walter said, his lips once more brushing against hers. “Perhaps you do not wish for a Scottish husband after all. Perhaps you would prefer an English nobleman.”
    Maven shook her head. Probably Margaret would chose an English nobleman, but while she was making up her mind she wanted to keep Sir Walter on a leash, just in case.
    She found his hand and squeezed it. “I fear being sent far away from my friends and family. If-if you can help me then I will be forever grateful.”
    Margaret would never say anything so craven but Sir Walter wouldn’t know that. He only knew the Margaret she showed to him—a young sixteen year old girl, a little unsure and flattered by his attentions. That she had allowed him into her bedchamber must make him believe her very foolish indeed. Ripe for the plucking.
    His hand slid south and curved about her breast. His fingertips brushed her nipple and Maven felt it peak. Her breath sighed out. How strange. His caress was gentle and eager, not the rough pawing she’d expected. This promised to be far more pleasurable than she’d imagined.
    His mouth closed on hers with passion. She felt his tongue against the crease of her lips. Her ow n mouth opened on a moan. She reached to grasp him, feeling his hair beneath her fingers and the shape of his head. Again his hair was long and silky soft.
    For a brief moment confusion stilled her, and then his touch brought her back to the moment. He ran his hand down over her ribs to the soft curve of her belly and then into the