Page 12 of A Knight in Tarnished Armor

They were but feet apart and Linnet held her breath for a heartbeat. A silent scream rose into her throat.

An instant later, de Ros slid from his saddle, crouched down in his outside stirrup.

Linnet gasped.

The lance hit thin air.

Before the knight could rein in and turn, de Ros launched from his mount. His arm caught around the knight's neck and pulled him off his horse.

Both men hit the ground.

There was a scuffle and they rolled into the high grasses near the river. She could not see either man, only movement in the grass, and the sounds—the loud clank of armor and male grunts.

The knight suddenly stood.

Her heart sank.

He faced her.

Her hands flew to her mouth and her scream rose again.

Then just as quickly the black knight moved to his horse, mounted in one swift motion, and he rode away.

4

Head throbbing, William opened his eyes. Bright sunlight blinded him for a moment. He jerked his dagger free and shot up into a squat in one swift motion.

Linnet screamed.

He cursed and flinched.

"You are not dead," she said, her eyes wide.

"Deaf perhaps, but not yet dead." He looked around. "Where is he?"

"Gone. He mounted his horse and rode off through the woods."

William groaned with disgust and sheathed his dagger.

"Are you badly wounded?" Her voice was a worried whisper.

He sat back in the grass and rested his arms on his raised knees. Pain shot through his head. He touched the knot on the back of his head and winced, then pulled his hand away. His fingertips had smudges of red blood.

"You're bleeding!"

" 'Tis nothing." He started to stand.

She grabbed his arm, her eyes watchful and her brow furrowed as she tried to assist him. If it wouldn't have hurt to do so, he would have laughed aloud. He was twice her size. She could never hold him up should he pass out again. But he rose with her, her arm around his waist and her shoulder leaning under his arm. She laid her hand on his chest, right where his heart beat and gave him a look that was tender with concern.

His cynicism drained away as he looked down at her, and he felt something more than just his desire to have this woman. He felt somehow bound to her by a strong sense of responsibility. For more than just her safety. For her happiness. He was used to taking charge of people's lives, his men-at-arms, his friend and king, those weaker and unable to fight. Such were a knight's duties, duties he accepted with pride because he had worked so long and hard to earn his golden spurs.

But he had never been responsible for something as unfamiliar to him as a woman's heart. He frowned, and a cut on his forehead sent an annoying trickle of blood into his eye. He swiped at it.

She studied at his head, then looked in horror at his bloody hand. "Come. Give me your other hand and I'll help you to the river's edge and tend your wounds."

He let her help him, fighting the urge to smile. Tending to him seemed to make her happy, so he went along with her, feeling strangely comfortable and staring at the strangeness of her hand threaded through his, then at the top of her head. Every few steps she would look up as if she expected him to faint from such puny scratches.

"Not much farther" she would say, then squeeze his hand. At the river she insisted he sit, attempting to ease him onto a tuft of bright green summer grass as she clucked and fussed. His head no longer ached. In fact, he felt rather well.