Immortal Champion by Lisa Hendrix

he had to offer: Do I know you? Did he think she would be amused?
    Her fingers tightened around the glove in her hand. She’d hurl it at him if there weren’t so many people watching. Why, oh why, hadn’t she kept her tongue when she’d spotted him amongst the combatants? Fool that she was, she’d crowed it out, certain that he’d come for her, thinking he would drop to his knee and beg her forgiveness for not returning sooner. Instead, this . . . tripe.
    She broadened her smile, unwilling to let the others see her humiliation. “Ah, monsire , you do like your jests.”
    His eyes widened a bit and his forehead pinched with concern, as though he thought she might be mad. “Um, yes. I do, but . . .”
    “ ‘Tis mine, knave!” Two knights tumbled over the sill, pummeling each other as they fell. Women and pages scattered, but Eleanor, her attention fixed on willing Sir Gunnar to be silent, reacted too slowly. They rolled into her, and as she tried to jump back, her foot tangled in her hem. She teetered.
    Strong arms swept her up before she fell; a broad body sheltered her from the tussle.
    His arms. His body. She caught a whiff of sweat and straw that set her heart racing.
    He set her firmly on her feet and stepped back. “Are you hurt, my lady?”
    “Hurt?” Eleanor blinked at him. “No. No. I am fine. That makes twice now you have saved me, though of course, this time my plight was not nearly so dire.”
    The furrow reappeared. “Twice? I’m sorry, my lady, but . . .”
    God’s knees, could it be that he truly did not know her at all? Stung, Eleanor glanced past his shoulder, to where the others were, thankfully, occupied with separating the offending knights and welcoming two others, newly victorious. That wouldn’t last, though. He had to remember. She had to make him remember.
    “A clue, then. Bend close.” She crooked an impatient finger, summoning him down, and as he neared, leaned forward to press a kiss to his right cheek. “We both smelled of smoke when last I did that.”
    The crease between his brows deepened as he straightened, and then he touched his cheek and his eyes met hers, recognition dawning at last. “The maid from the fire. Lady, um, Eleanor, is it?”
    Her budding delight faded at his uncertainty. “Aye.”
    He looked down at the glove in his hand. “Yours. This is yours?” He sounded surprised.
    She held up its mate. “It is.”
    “But it . . . I didn’t know. I didn’t even know—”
    Eleanor saw her half sister, Anne, turn to watch. She put a hand on his arm as though teasing. “Silence, sir. You will turn my head with such flattery.”
    But it was too late. Anne had heard, and she swooped over like a hawk on a wounded quail, her champion and betrothed, Gilbert d’Umfraville, pulled along in her wake.
    “Is it true, then? He didn’t come for you after all? Oh, Eleanor.” Anne’s chuckle fairly dripped with venom, and Eleanor felt her cheeks blaze.
    Sir Gunnar glanced to Anne then back to Eleanor. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he turned just enough to acknowledge Anne with a slight dip of the head.
    “But of course I came for her, my lady.” He turned his shoulder to Anne, directing his full attention on Eleanor. “It is only that I didn’t realize I had found her. You see, the Lady Eleanor I carried in my mind was a child. This fair creature . . . is not.”
    Eleanor knew she wasn’t meant to note that slight hesitation, nor the way his gaze flickered down to her bosom between words. But note it she did, and the warmth in his eyes and voice drew an answering warmth in her that melted away her irritation like summer snow.
    “Some debate whether she has entirely left childhood behind.” Anne sniffed dismissively and sailed away. Gilbert bowed, muttered, “Your pardon,” and went after her.
    Eleanor smiled up at Sir Gunnar, an honest smile now, as she murmured, “My thanks, monsire . I don’t even mind that you lied to her.”
    His neck reddened up to his