A Crimson Frost by McClure Marcia Lynn

Author:McClure, Marcia Lynn [McClure, Marcia Lynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Distractions Ink
Published: 2010-10-20T04:00:00+00:00

As she lay upon her bed, no canopy or curtains to help defend her of the cold, she thought of the blacksmith and his lovely wife—of their six brawny sons. She wondered if all those who dwelt in Ballain were as welcoming. She hoped that they were.

Drawing her legs to her chest in an effort to warm herself, she frowned. She could well hear the Crimson Knight’s breath, slow and sound. It seemed he slept warm—in the least warm enough to find sleep. Monet, however, wondered if the heated rocks in her bed had already cooled, for she was chilled and stiff. She touched one of the rocks Sir Broderick had wrapped in cloth and placed in her bed. It was warm on her fingers, but she thought it did not warm her bed so well.

She glanced to the door. The fire yet burned in the hearth, and she could see Sir Broderick stretched out upon his bearskin. His hands were tucked beneath his head; his arms and chest were not covered by the fur spread over him. Yet he appeared to sleep sound. Monet shivered, so thoroughly chilled she feared she would never be warm again. She thought, were she nearer to him, it would warm her—he would warm her. She thought Sarah was not so cold in her bed, for Bronson would be with her there.

Monet closed her eyes tight. She would not think on it. The Crimson Knight was her protector—with her simply for her father’s charge. Further, if he could find respite in sleep with nothing but a bearskin and fur for comfort, then she would find it in her fresh straw bed and heated stones.

She bade memories of Karvana to linger in her mind. Her father’s face was there—and oddly, that of young Channing. Tawny fields and tree branches heavy with fruit lingered in her thoughts—as did the Crimson Knight—and King Ivan’s tournament. Of a sudden, Monet felt her mouth warm with the memory of pressing lips with the Crimson Knight. She saw him there in his pavilion, having won his final joust, his arm still bleeding from his wound, the leather strap hanging from his neck, the pouch it held. How his eyes had smoldered when she had entered—how soft his raven hair had appeared.

Monet sighed, her shivering having ceased. Sleep would find her. She was at last warm, and she was safe, for the Crimson Knight of Karvana was there at her door—and in her mind.

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