Don’t think of him in that way. He doesn’t want you.
Honora closed her eyes, trying to forget his heated mouth claiming her own. Even now, watching Ewan move against his opponent, her body grew uncomfortably sensitive.
Ewan locked his arm around Beaulais, his arm muscles flexing. Where had he come by such strength? Honora recalled him building stone walls, hefting large boulders when they’d grown up, but his muscles then had been lean and tight.
Now, they showed a massive strength she’d never known he possessed. No wonder he’d been able to lift her so easily. But despite his size, he’d been careful not to crush her when his body weight had rested atop her own.
She took a deep breath, trying to block out the other memory of the last time a naked man had lain atop her. Her wedding night had been painful, humiliating and empty. And enduring Ranulf’s bed was something she’d loathed. Not once had she felt any desire for him—only the hope that he would be done with her quickly.
What would it be like to lie with a man who touched her with gentleness, kindling true desire? Her gaze shifted back to Ewan, and beneath her gown, goose bumps formed upon her skin.
No. She didn’t want to take a lover, especially not now.
Beaulais threw a punch, and MacEgan’s head snapped backwards. Blood trickled from his lip, but Ewan only smiled at his opponent. He didn’t look at all bothered by the slight wound. He responded with a knee to Beaulais’s stomach, moving in to wrap his right arm around the man’s neck. His arm flexed, strangling his opponent.
Beaulais tried to escape his grasp, but Ewan snaked his foot around the man’s leg and tripped him, sending him sprawling on his back. Within a few more seconds, the match was over.
Katherine clapped in delight. “Wasn’t he magnificent?”
Honora could only nod. How had he learned to fight like that? She found herself hoping Ewan would win, her attention focused completely upon him. Match after match, he won, until he was declared champion of wrestling.
In archery, Beaulais bested him, while Ewan’s arrow went slightly to the right of the center.
In the foot race, Ewan barely edged out Sir Ademar of Dolwyth, claiming his second win. Last was the sword fight, and the men were allowed a short rest before the final test of skill.
Honora stood, hoping to walk a little, to diminish the nervous energy gathering in her stomach. Her path was blocked by her father, the Earl of Longford, and Bevan MacEgan, who were engaged in conversation.
“By God, I knew I should have placed a wager on Ewan.” Lord Longford shot a pleased look toward Bevan. “Your brother has improved greatly since he was fostered with me. I knew a bit of Norman training would help.”
“And Irish training,” Bevan corrected.
Longford only smirked. “I thought you’d say that. He’s done well for himself, and I believe he’d make an excellent match with young Katherine here. Might as well get them married so you can return to Genevieve, eh?”
“If that is Ewan’s wish.” But the sudden mention of his wife brought a look of yearning to Bevan's face.
“Other suitors are competing for Katherine’s hand,” Lord Ardennes interrupted. “However, he might consider my eldest daughter Honora.”
Honora’s cheeks flamed. Her father made it sound as though she were an afterthought, a woman taken as a consolation prize.
She reached out and clenched the pommel of her dagger. It shouldn’t matter whether Ewan wed Katherine or not. Why should she be anything but happy for her sister? She certainly didn’t want Ewan for herself.
More than ever, she wanted to leave behind this tournament, to hide in the armory or in the stables. Her unsettled future made it impossible to do anything else but worry. She hadn’t been able to concentrate on finding the thief ever since her father’s suggestion that she marry. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her.
She approached her father and Bevan MacEgan. "Forgive me Father, but I . . . need to leave to take care of some personal needs."
“Return within a few minutes,” Nicholas warned. “The sword fighting will be the last competition, and I expect you to be present.”
The glint in her father’s eyes made it clear that he would brook no arguments. Sometimes she wondered if he secretly knew about her sword fighting skills. She’d been careful never to let him see, for he would not understand her need to excel in sword play. But nevertheless, there were times when his gaze appeared all-too-knowing.
"I'll return soon," she promised. But after skirting the edge of the crowd, she came face to face with Sir Ademar.
“My lady,” he greeted her, bowing.
She leaned up to study the knight. Though exceptionally tall, Sir Ademar's face was pleasing enough to look at. With light blond hair and dark blue eyes, he had a Norse look about him. He was one of the stronger fighters, and she’d seen him defeat many a man in combat. He was exceptionally quiet, however, and rarely spoke to anyone.
“Sir Ademar.” Honora nodded in greeting and tried to move around him.
“Might I—“ He stopped, as if gathering his thoughts. “M-might I speak with you a moment, Lady Honora?” His face colored at his stammer, but he forced himself to continue. “Your father tells me that . . . y-you are planning to remarry.”
