Shadow Rider. Kathrynn DennisЧитать онлайн книгу.
Guy drew a deep breath. His eyes searched her face, as if he savored one last look. He stepped away. He pulled off his gloves and bowed to Sybilla. “I am Sir Guy of Warwick. Sworn by oath to serve King Richard and by fealty to the Earl of Ketchem. By my honor as a knight, I will not steal your foal.”
His face grew intent. “But I can pay, Mistress Corbuc. If you are willing to sell.” He leaned beside her and draped his arm across the stall boards behind her head. He took her hand into his and interlaced his fingers with hers.
Sybilla stole a startled glance at their entwined hands. The heat from his fingers promised languid warmth, like the golden sun on a lazy summer day, radiant and caressing.
He smiled, his eyes hopeful and meant to charm.
Sybilla’s breath quickened. What kind of woman did he think she was?
She ducked from underneath his arm. “The foal is not for sale.”
Guy pulled her back. “But I can pay, Mistress Corbuc. I am an honorable man. We can strike a bargain.”
A strange sensation, tingling heat, raced from her fingertips to her gut. Mother Mary, he was vital and strong and she couldn’t help but notice how his breath quickened.
He leaned closer, his voice husky. “I’ll give you three times more than you will get for him at Smithfield Market. If you will let me.”
Without warning, he placed her palm against the bulging velvet money pouch hanging just below his belt.
Sybilla gasped. God in heaven, he’s missed his mark with me.
She wrapped her fingers around the velvet bag and yanked. “What can I do with a stolen emerald, Sir Guy? A lowly woman, poor and without a husband. If I tried to sell it, I would be arrested and hanged for thieving.”
His brow knotted. “I didn’t steal Hamon’s em—Hold there!”
She raised her arm, her fist gripping the pouch.
He reached for her wrist. “That’s not an em—!”
Before he had the chance to grab her, Sybilla hurled the pouch across the stall. “Now let me go, you lout, else I’ll call the sheriff.”
Simon spun around to face the barn door. “It seems, Mistress Corbuc, he is already here.” He raised his sword. “Guy! To arms!”
Chapter Two
Fighting back a scream, Sybilla ducked beneath Sir Guy and knocked the water bucket over, kicking the straw to cover up the muck.
A deep male voice boomed from outside. “Show yourselves. On the order of the sheriff.”
Terror shot through Sybilla. Good saints. ’Twould be better to be accused of fornication than it would to be caught attending to the foal’s birth.
She threw her arms around Sir Guy’s neck and with a flying leap, she wrapped her legs around his waist.
He staggered, struggling to gain his footing. He toppled, taking Sybilla down with him. She landed underneath him. His handsome face directly over hers, he rested the weight of his upper body on his forearms and smiled down at her. He didn’t look at all surprised, or worried. If anything, amusement danced in his eyes.
Footsteps approached, the sound of boots stomping through crunchy snow. The mare and foal skittered into the corner.
Sybilla pressed her mouth to Sir Guy’s and kissed him hard, praying her ruse would be convincing. What did she know of lust and coupling, aside from what she’d witnessed mares and stallions do? She had never lain beneath a man.
Sir Guy took her lower lip between his teeth and gently sucked. “Open your mouth a little,” he muttered against her lips. “’Twill make it look more real.”
Much to Sybilla’s dismay, his tongue pressed its way between her slightly parted lips. He drew his head back for a moment and looked into her eyes. “Mistress Corbuc,” he whispered. “You are delicious. And I have a feeling…” He lowered his head and planted a searing trail of kisses on her eyelids and across her cheeks.
Sybilla’s heart jumped. The stolen kisses from the baker’s son three years ago were never like this—so arresting. Sir Guy’s passion stirred up something deep inside her––an alarming need for more. Instinctively, she lifted her chin and leaned her head back, allowing Guy to explore her neck, to go dangerously lower with his mouth. The heat from his lips set her skin on fire and sent goose bumps rippling down her arms.
God’s breath, what was he doing? What was she doing? The night watch was here!
Limbs flailing, she struggled, but her ill-thought effort only caused Sir Guy to shift. He settled his lower body between her legs, his firm shaft pressed immodestly against her mons. A sudden rush of heat flowed over her, starting from her core, spreading, and arousing more than just a hint of maidenly desire. A low moan escaped her lips.
Sir Guy grinned down at her. “If you are pretending your enthusiasm, Mistress Green Eyes, you should know that I am not. The passion that you stir in me is real.”
The barn doors banged open and a lantern flooded light into the darkness. From the floor, Sybilla could see the feet of three men: a guard’s boots, a priestly pair of slippers, and a finely crafted pair of leather shoes, dyed red, complete with silver buckles.
“What goes here?” bellowed the voice above the red shoes.
Guy lowered his head and whispered into Sybilla’s ear, “Trust me. I will not steal your colt––or your virtue. Remember that.” He jumped up and pulled Sybilla to her feet.
Trembling, Sybilla lowered her chin, hoping to hide her flushed face.
Glancing up, she watched a sardonic smile spread across Guy’s face. He tipped his head at the sheriff. “Good eve, Sheriff. What brings you here?”
The sheriff stroked his pointed black beard. His beady eyes studied Sybilla. “Mistress Corbuc? What businesses have you with this man?” His gaze roamed the length of her.
Sybilla lowered her eyes, wishing she was fully clothed. “I-I…”
Guy stepped forward. “Mistress Corbuc and I arranged a meeting. I wanted to see the colt she had for sale. We were just negotiating the price.”
Sybilla glanced away, alarmed. She’d never witnessed anyone address the sheriff as though he were no more than a beetle on a dung heap.
The sheriff cocked a well-groomed eyebrow. “She has no colt, unless the old mare has given birth. And you, Sir Guy, have no money left, having gambled everything you owned and lost. Unless of course, you plan on paying with a stolen emerald, the one belonging to Lord Hamon.”
Sybilla shot a glance at Guy. Good Lord, the man gambled like her father.
Guy narrowed his eyes. “Lord Hamon’s emerald? His sister stole it. I do not have it. You can check my person. If you dare.” His tone was calm, but the muscles in his jaw were tight.
The sheriff sneered, dimpling his cheeks. “Then you have stashed it somewhere and I intend to find it.” He peered inside the stall. Letting out an irritated breath, he wheeled around to face Sybilla. “The foal is not an hour old, Mistress Corbuc. The mare still has the birth sac hanging from her tail. Were you here, attending the delivery?”
Her whole body shook with denial. “No. I was only—”
The priest crossed himself. “Saints preserve us. The foal has four white socks. A familiar if there ever was. And Mistress Corbuc here delivered it, of that I can be certain. The watchmen checked the smith’s shed where she’s been sleeping and she was not there. That was an hour ago.”
The priest pushed his black hood from his head. It was Father Ambrose, who somehow had managed to grow fatter over the winter. He glared at Sybilla, his face flushed, his horse hair undershirt visible at the neckline