A Crimson Frost Read online

  “My daughter’s virtue?” King Rudolph growled. King Rudolph’s eyes narrowed as he studied the Crimson Knight for a moment. King Rudolph’s chest rose as he drew a deep breath. It seemed, for a moment, he would unleash his tongue at the Crimson Knight. Instead, he slowly looked to Anais.

  As King Rudolph glared at his daughter, Monet could not keep herself from looking to Anais.

  “Anais?” King Rudolph inquired.

  Yet Anais only straightened her posture, looking away from her father and to Sir Fredrick waiting at one end of the arena.

  “One lance,” King Dacian said.

  Monet looked to the Crimson Knight. His eyes narrowed a moment before he reached up, pulling his visor down over his face.

  “Unhorse him or kill him. I leave the choice to you, Crimson Knight,” King Dacian said.

  The Crimson Knight nodded. His charger reared, beating the ground several times with powerful hooves. The Crimson Knight rode to the far end of the arena, and the banner bearer stepped to the center of it.

  The crowd was silent. It seemed no person drew breath, apprehension hanging thick as porridge.

  Monet watched the bearer drop the banner. The Crimson Knight charged forward, leveling his lance. The thunder of hooves coupled the strain of leather. As the two knights bore down in assured devastation, Monet did not draw breath. Sir Fredrick’s lance was leveled and steady—as was the Crimson Knight’s. And then, the brutal crash as the Crimson Knight’s lance struck armor—shattered—echoed through the arena. Monet gasped, awed as Sir Fredrick Esmund reeled back at the blow—reeled and fell—entirely unhorsed.

  The roar of the crowd was deafening! Monet collapsed onto her seat, struggling for breath, her entire body trembling—tears escaping her eyes to trickle in great abundance over her heated cheeks.

  “Well done, Dacian,” King Rudolph said.

  Monet looked up to King Rudolph, then to Anais. Arrogant irritation in being bested owned King Rudolph’s expression, yet Anais’s countenance shone only fury and loathing as she glared at Monet.

  “You may thank your Crimson Knight for my two best chargers joining your stables, Dacian,” King Rudolph said.

  “And you may thank him for the assurance of your daughter’s virtue!” Monet cried.

  Monet was somewhat surprised when her father did not scold her. Rather he simply placed a comforting hand at her shoulder.

  King Rudolph offered no immediate response either—simply stood, eyes wide, mouth open, as if someone had delivered a slap to his bearded jaw.

  “King James will conquer Karvana, Monet!” Anais growled.

  “Anais!” King Rudolph scolded, rattled from his silence by his daughter’s traitorous threat.

  Anais was undaunted, however. “He will conquer it…and you will be left no better than a pitiful peasant in the field!” Anais added, hatefully.

  Taking the hand of one of her ladies-in-waiting, Anais stormed away, even as her father called after her.

  “Anais!” King Rudolph roared. When his daughter did not cease in her retreat, he turned to Monet.

  “What goes on here?” he growled.

  “The Crimson Knight has won the tournament, Rudolph,” King Dacian said. He offered a hand to Monet, and she took it. He helped her to rise. “And my daughter must away…for the ceremony to honor him will begin shortly. A man named Damon will ride to Alvar to collect your two best chargers and bring them to Karvana.”

  Monet’s father linked her arm with his own—an offer of strength and support. He paused, however, looking to Rudolph once more.

  “I wish you well, Rudolph. When next we meet, I hope it is to know a wiser, less arrogant King of Alvar.”

  King Rudolph said nothing, though his eyes narrowed with indignation.

  Monet yet trembled. Dacian could feel her weakness, her lingering fear. It yet held her captive.

  “You must recover quickly, Monet,” he said. “I know the strength is bled from you…too much empathy spent in Sir Broderick’s behalf. Yet you must find courage, for he is victorious. And victorious though he may be…he is yet bruised, bloodied, and broken for it. You must meet him. Gift him his prize, that he may know he has triumphed in our hearts as well as in tournament.”

  “Yes, Father,” Monet whispered. She yet wept, overcome with emotion, worn through with empathy for the Crimson Knight’s weariness and pain—frightened by Anais’s horrid behavior and declaration.

  “King James will not cease in endeavoring to capture Karvana…will he, Father?” she asked.

  “I fear not, Monet,” her father said. He had never been one to hide the truth from her for long—no matter how terrifying it may be. “Yet we have right on our side, dove,” he continued, “and many good soldiers who love their kingdom.”

  “And will their king lead them into battle, Father?” Monet asked, though she already knew the answer to her question. King Dacian of Karvana was renowned for accompanying his soldiers into battle. He would send no man into territory he himself was not willing to go.

  “Yes, dove. Their king will lead them.”

  Monet fought to withhold the tears welling in her eyes.

  “But, Father—” she began, terror striking her tender heart.

  “Their king will lead them…with the Crimson Knight of Karvana at his side,” her father interrupted. He paused, taking Monet’s shoulders between strong hands. His brow furrowed, his voice low and commanding as he spoke next. “Listen to me now, Monet,” he said. “I will see you stand strong before Sir Broderick as he takes the champion’s stage. I would have you thank him for his sacrifice and tribute to Karvana—to me…and to you. There is no doubt in my mind of this tournament being the least of his battles and sacrifices where our kingdom is concerned, Monet. He will yet continue to prove himself only further heroic. Therefore, meet him with strength in your carriage even if it is feigned…for I know well your fears. Meet him with gratitude in your whole countenance, and let your lips meet his with the lingering kiss of a humble and indebted princess…one deserving of his continued allegiance and protection.”

  Monet brushed the tears from her cheeks. The brutal pounding of her heart was madness!

  “But, Father,” she cried in a whisper, “so many eyes upon me. Every set of eyes in the arena will…and…and I have never before kissed a man…let alone one the like of Sir Broderick Dougray! What if I cannot find the courage to…to…”

  “You will find it, Monet,” King Dacian interrupted. “You will find it.”

  “Yet how, Father? How?” Monet could feel her entire being quaking. Her limbs felt heavy; her innards churned near to retching.

  “You will find it because you must. You have no choice but to find it.”

  Monet shook her head, brushing tears from her cheeks. “Father…I…I do not think—”

  “He bore favour, Monet,” King Dacian interrupted. “Though I have heard him vow many times never to bear favour in tournament, he bore yours…and triumphed. He well knew he would triumph, as he well knew of Ivan’s promised prize to the tournament champion…as I suspect you did not at first.”

  Monet blushed. Her father laughed and drew her into his arms.

  “What valiant knight would not battle in hope of a tender kiss bestowed by a pretty princess, eh? Such a thing is so rarely obtainable.”

  Monet lingered in her father’s loving embrace. She smiled—laughed a little. “Even the Blood Warrior of Ballist? Even the Crimson Knight?” she asked.

  “Even he, Monet,” King Dacian said. “Thus, kiss him well…for he much deserves to be well kissed. Does he not?”

  “Kissed well? Then perhaps he should’ve borne favour given him by one of cook’s kitchen maids,” Monet giggled. She felt her terror beginning to subside.

  King Dacian chuckled. “The one with the flaming red hair? The one cook caught indiscreetly trifling with Sir March’s squire?”

  “The very one, Father,” Monet said. “Perhaps she would know best of kissing well.”

/>   “Perhaps.” Another low laugh. “Though I do not think Sir Broderick Dougray would have been willing to ride into tournament to battle against so many worthy opponents for the sake of cook’s red-haired maid, do you?”

  Monet smiled, gently pushing herself from her father’s protective arms. Brushing tears from her cheeks, she gazed up at him. How she loved him! At times she could not believe she had been so blessed in him as a father. What had she done to deserve such a loving and noble parent?

  “I will meet him with strength in carriage,” she began, “though it will, indeed, be feigned.”

  Her smile broadened as her father lovingly caressed her cheek with the back of one strong hand.

  “And I will meet him with gratitude in my whole countenance…for I owe him more gratitude than even you are aware, Father.”

  “And?” he prodded.

  Monet inhaled a deep breath of courage.

  “And I will kiss him…the kiss of a grateful, indebted princess, humbled by his gallant sacrifice and service…endeavoring to be one deserving of his continued allegiance and protection.”

  King Dacian smiled. The unreserved love warm in his eyes caused hope and courage to rise in Monet.

  “Kiss him for the sake of the handsome and virile man that he is, as well, daughter.”

  “Father!” Monet exclaimed, a crimson blush rising to her cheeks. “Think you now that I am cook’s red-haired maid?”

  Monet giggled as her father shrugged. “It is said the Crimson Knight can make conquest of any woman by the mere bestowing of his glance,” he said.

  “And there are those who believe you were bred of fairies, Father,” Monet reminded.

  Monet startled as the horns sounded.

  “Thus the festivities begin,” King Dacian said. “We must hurry to the stage. They will begin by presenting prizes for champions in individual events—maces, swords, and the like. Your Sir Broderick has won much wealth in these alone.”

  “Do I yet own the appearance of having been weeping, Father?” Monet asked.

  King Dacian grinned. “You have the look and beauty of your mother,” he answered. “The Crimson Knight will be utterly bewitched by you.”

  Monet smiled. Oh, how desperately she wished it were true! To bewitch the Crimson Knight—to own the smallest part of his heart—what could measure its worth?

  The Champion’s Prize

  Monet sat, her back aching with faultless posture, her trembling hands folded with deceptive calm in her lap. As she watched Sir Terrence Langford accept his prize as archery champion of King Ivan’s tournament, she tried to appear composed. Yet with each twittered whisper—with each pointed finger in her direction—she feared her courage would fail her. Every person present, every soul gathered in Ivan’s arena, was waiting—waiting for the moment the Scarlet Princess of Karvana would bless the lips of the tournament champion with his champion’s prize—a kiss.

  “In wrestling…Sir Fredrick Esmund,” the herald announced.

  The crowd cheered as Anais presented Sir Fredrick with an ornate dagger embellished with gold and emeralds. Such was the tradition at tournaments—for she who had bestowed favour to present the prize to her champion. Monet had presented a similar ruby-jeweled dagger to the Crimson Knight for his triumph at maces and a small golden statue of a peacock for his victory in swords. Monet’s legs trembled with such nervous violence upon twice presenting Sir Broderick with prizes, she feared she might simply drop at his feet. Furthermore, the cool blue of his gaze each time their eyes met robbed her of breath, weakening her further.

  Now, as she sat watching Sir Fredrick accept his prize from Anais’s calm, graceful hands, she wondered whether she would yet find the courage to bestow the kiss promised the tournament champion. She nearly ventured a glance at Sir Broderick. He stood no more than a measure from her. Yet she could not bring herself to look at him, fearing that if she found his eyes already upon her, she might fade—no matter how strong her resolve to remain courageous.

  Sir Fredrick nodded to King Ivan in acceptance of the dagger—though Monet noted he glared at Anais before bowing and taking his leave.

  The crowd applauded, and King Ivan’s herald raised a hand to silence.

  “And now, good people…I present King Ivan’s champion! Sir Broderick Dougray…son of Kendrick Nathair…First Knight of Karvana…Favored Warrior of King Dacian…Commander of the First Legion…Commander of the Second Legion…Slayer of a Thousand Enemies…Blood Warrior of Ballist…Protector of the Kingdom…Guardian of the Scarlet Princess…the Crimson Knight…Champion of the Tournament of King Ivan of Avaron!”

  The crowd roared with cheering and applause as Sir Broderick again approached the stage platform. He removed his helmet, turned, and bowed to the crowd, displaying gratitude for such profound approval.

  Monet’s legs somehow managed to find their strength. As Sir Broderick bowed to King Ivan, she stood.

  “Bravo!” King Ivan called, applauding as he nodded to the Crimson Knight. “Well done, Sir Broderick! A well-fought battle indeed!” Monet held her breath as King Ivan added, “Now away to collect your prize, sir! And collect it well, my man!”

  Monet wondered if every man, woman, and child present could determine the state of her nerves simply by the quiver of her gown as she trembled beneath it. In that moment, she wished she were not swathed in scarlet. How less seen she would feel dressed in black or copper.

  She heard his footsteps, his boots heavy on the platform, yet she could not raise her gaze to face him. He stood directly before her—Sir Broderick Dougray—the Crimson Knight.

  Knowing it would not be acceptable to continue to stare at his breastplate, Monet slowly lifted her eyes to meet his. He was there—just before her—the bewitching blue of his gaze full upon her. The noise of the crowd cheering was near deafening and only served to further frighten Monet.

  “I am…your champion, Princess,” Sir Broderick said, offering a respectful nod.

  Monet swallowed—prayed that when she spoke, her voice would indeed sound.

  “You have battled well, Sir Broderick,” she said, thankful she had been able to speak. “You have brought great honor to Karvana, to its king…and to me.”

  “Thank you, your highness,” he said. The deep, alluring sound of his voice caused Monet’s trembling to increase, and again she wondered if the crowd—if Sir Broderick Dougray—were aware of her fearful condition.

  “A kiss, Princess!” King Ivan called. “To your champion, a kiss!”

  The crowd roared, and Monet looked up into the handsome face of the Crimson Knight. She felt her brow pucker as, of a sudden, her nerves gave way to intense empathy. The Crimson Knight was indeed worn! Great fatigue lingered about his beautiful eyes; his handsome face was streaked where perspiration had cut through the dust and dirt accumulated of battle.

  It besieged her then—the desire to comfort, soothe, and offer gratitude to such a champion, to such a heroic man. At that moment, the roar of the crowd fell silent to Monet’s ears, the many sets of eyes upon her forgotten as she gazed at her beloved Crimson Knight.

  “Thank you, Sir Broderick,” she whispered, her hands going to his face. The warmth of his flesh—the sense of his roughly shaven face against her palms—somehow caused a great heated moisture to collect in her mouth. She gazed at his lips—raised herself on toe, pulling his face toward her own. She saw his eyes narrow, as if he doubted she could muster the courage necessary to award him his champion’s prize.

  “You are most welcome,” he mumbled. Once he had again fallen silent, his lips remained ever so slightly parted.

  Parted lips? Monet thought. Her mind had only a breath of a moment to determine her course. If his lips were thus parted, then so must her lips be similarly parted if she wished the kiss she bestowed to be in measure.

  “Lingering,” she breathed. Her father’s instruction echoed through her mind a moment before every other thought was banished by the ethereal sense of pressing her lips to those o
f Sir Broderick Dougray.

  His lips were softer than she had imagined they would be—warm and moist. Of a sudden, a new and delicious trembling owned her body, for she realized she was no longer simply bestowing a kiss to Sir Broderick; rather, he was kissing her in return! Somehow their lips were not simply pressed: they were meet—a shared kiss born! The pressure of his kiss lessened just long enough for Monet to gasp against his lips a moment before he kissed her once more—his lips further parted—her own matching their parting. She was rendered breathless by the sudden awareness that the Crimson Knight was kissing her! In that instant, she thought she might literally expire from the rapture his kiss evoked within her.

  She swayed backward, her knees having weakened beneath her. The Crimson Knight broke the seal of their lips, his vise grip taking hold of her arm to ensure she did not crumple to the platform.

  As the crowd roared with approval, the Crimson Knight’s gaze captured Monet’s. A slight grin donned his lips—his delicious, masterful lips—and Monet was entirely bewitched. It was true! She knew then the very legends of the Crimson Knight’s power over women must indeed be nothing if not pure truth—for she was entirely undone!

  Monet struggled to straighten her posture—to subdue the violent trembling of her body borne of his intoxicating kiss.

  “Well done, Princess Monet! Well done, indeed!” King Ivan cheered.

  “Indeed,” the Crimson Knight mumbled, releasing his hold of her arm. Monet fancied that, as he released her, an odd chill of vulnerability washed over her. She suddenly wished he would not have released her—that he would hold her or, at the very least, touch her somehow—forever.

  “My good people!” King Ivan called. “I give you your tournament champion…Sir Broderick Dougray…the Crimson Knight!”

  Sir Broderick turned, bowing to King Ivan.

  “And now, Sir Broderick,” King Ivan began, “who shall reign as the Queen of Love and Beauty of my tournament?”