Her cheeks were flushed with exertion, her eyes narrowed with complete concentration. “Why aren’t you fighting me back?” she demanded. “Stop defending my blows, and show me what you know.”
Her challenge made him quicken his assault. He attacked, forcing her toward the corner of a room. Using his full strength, he kept his sword moving, sending strikes against her weapon that would surely weaken her arm.
But still she kept meeting his force with her own blade. Her face was tight, exhaustion making her move slower.
When at last he had her trapped, he swung his sword toward hers, and she didn’t block him. Catching himself at the last moment before he skewered her, he cursed and drove the blade into the wall.
Honora kicked his feet out from under him, and his head cracked against the ground. She sat upon him, holding the sword to his throat, one hand upon the hilt, the other on the flat side of the blade.
“Do you yield?” Her voice was throaty, as though he were her prisoner in bed sport. No longer did he care that he’d lost this match. Honora’s skirts had ridden up, her thighs straddling his waist. Her firm backside rested upon his manhood, and instantly he hardened.
With the close contact, Honora reddened, suddenly aware of her effect on him. Ewan palmed her hips, intending to lift her aside. Instead, he felt the firm shape of her bottom, and Honora expelled a sharp breath.
Her face was bright with exertion, her hair damp with perspiration. She looked like a woman who had been made love to for hours. Gritting his teeth, Ewan tried to ignore his body’s reaction.
“You play a dangerous game, Honora. I could have harmed you.”
“But I won, didn’t I?”
His stomach muscles flexed as he took both of her hands. Ignoring the possibility of the sword slicing his palm, he pushed her backwards until he was seated upright. She had no choice but to loosen her grip on the weapon.
"You didn't play fair."
With his face so near to hers, he could conquer her in another way, their mouths mingling in a kiss like the one before. His desire flared with the need to possess her again. Honora tried to scramble off his lap, but he couldn’t let go of her. Not yet. He might have lost this sparring match, but he wanted her to understand his displeasure.
“What is my forfeit?” He reached back and gripped her nape, winding his fingers in her shorn hair to trap her. Her breath caught, her shoulders rising as though she were suddenly afraid of him. The sword rested between them, and Honora moved it away.
“Let me up, MacEgan.”
“After you answer my question. You never said what you wanted if I lost the match.”
She dug in her heels and tried to push backwards, but the motion sent her rocking back against his erection. He could almost imagine loosening his trews, raising up her skirts until he sank inside her.
Damn her. Whether it was intentional or not, she’d awakened a craving he wanted to satisfy. But he could not. Not if he wanted to wed Katherine. Lust was something he’d never expected with Honora, but it was easily avoided.
“I want . . . your help in capturing a thief.” Honora didn’t sound fully convinced, and he wondered why she’d hesitated. She tried again to escape his grasp, and this time he allowed her to get up.
“What thief?”
She picked up the blade, cleaning it meticulously. “Someone stole a wooden chest from the chapel, and I believe it’s a member of the household.”
“Have you spoken with your father?”
“Yes, but he’s found nothing.” Frustration tensed in her face. “It could be one of Katherine’s suitors.”
“But you don’t think it’s me.”
She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t be telling you all this if I believed that. And besides, I went looking for the chest in your room. It wasn’t there.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Listen to the other suitors. You always were good at slipping around without anyone seeing you. Let me know what you find out.”
“Why does it matter to you, Honora?” He leaned against the wall, noting that she was still uncomfortable. “You live on your husband’s estate now, do you not?”
“I am not ready to return. Not yet.”
The violent edge to her voice drew his curiosity. She was running away from something. Or someone. A dark thought occurred to him, as he recalled his brother’s wife Genevieve. She had been betrothed to a Norman knight who’d taken his fists to her. Thanks to Bevan, she’d escaped the marriage. Was someone threatening Honora in the same way?
