Free Teresa Medeiros by Touch of Enchantment Page B

waddled off the back of a deck of playing cards lifted a golden trumpet and blew a flourish of brassy notes, signaling the riders to commence battle.
    As the armored giant bore down on Sir Colin, the stallion taking two strides to every one of the pony’s, the crowd roared their approval. Tabitha clapped a hand over her eyes, but couldn’t resist peeking through her fingers.
    Colin used the giant’s size against him, ducking neatly beneath the lance’s first thrust. The gallant effort coaxed a smattering of applause from the audience, but it was quickly quelled by Brisbane’s sullen glare.
    Sir Orrick howled with rage inside his helm. Tabitha feared Colin would not be so lucky on the next pass. The Scot-Killer reached the end of the field and wheeledthe stallion in a taut circle. He seemed to be having more trouble controlling the unruly beast. Perhaps the horse had caught a whiff of his master’s scent.
    Brisbane clutched the rail with white-knuckled anticipation as he prepared to give the signal for the second pass.
    Determined to win Colin a few precious seconds to recover, Tabitha leaned forward. “I gather that you and Sir Colin were once friends. What turned you into such bitter enemies?”
    He cast her a contemptuous glance. “You should ask my twin sister Regan.”
    “And what would she tell me?”
    Brisbane snorted. “That her precious Colin could do no wrong. Regan was content to spend hours listening to him boast about winning his spurs, encouraging him to prattle on and on about his eagerness to serve both God and king.” His voice rose to a shout. “ ’Twas disgusting!”
    The priest cleared his throat. Brisbane recovered from his bout of jealousy only to realize that all eyes were gaping at him. He cast Tabitha a furious look before shooting to his feet.
    “To the death,” he shouted, sealing both Colin’s fate and her own.
    Tabitha’s breath lodged in her throat as the Scot-Killer came thundering down the stretch, leveling his lance at Colin’s unprotected heart. Colin never blinked, never faltered, and Tabitha discovered she couldn’t dishonor him by burying her own face in her hands. As death raced toward him in the guise of a monstrous boar, she grabbed the amulet from her pajama shirt.
    “I wish …” she whispered.
    Brisbane shot her a look, his sharp gaze tracing the length of the chain to her clenched fist.
    “I wish …” she repeated fiercely.
    But she’d spent too much of her life biting back her wishes. Now, when she needed the words the most, they wouldn’t come soon enough. Her cowardice was going to cost this courageous young knight his life.
    But Sir Colin of Ravenshaw had no need of magic, only might.
    As the stallion bore down on him, he stood up in the stirrups—his broad chest glistening with sweat, his dark hair flying behind him—and roared a battle cry that made every hair on Tabitha’s nape stand up. Sir Orrick struck low, missing his target completely. Colin struck high, ramming his own stunted lance into the vulnerable gap between chain mail and helm. The Scot-Killer collapsed in the sand, the soft tissue beneath his jaw gushing blood.
    The onlookers surged to their feet as Colin emitted a shrill whistle. The stallion wheeled from its mad flight, heeding his master’s irresistible summons. Colin easily vaulted from pony to stallion, then swooped low to snatch Sir Orrick’s dagger from its sheath. The horse reared, its nostrils flaring at the scent of blood, but Colin calmed the terrified beast with a stroke of its satiny neck and a soothing murmur.
    He shoved the dagger into his waistband and nudged the stallion into a gallop. Brisbane pounded on the rail and howled, “Stop him, you imbeciles!”
    His guards either stood gaping, paralyzed with shock, or ran in ineffectual circles, stumbling over one another in their efforts to gather both their gear and their wits. Colin bent low over the stallion’s neck, clearing the fence with magnificent