Immortal Champion by Lisa Hendrix Page A

ears. “It should not have been a lie, my lady. I should have known you as surely as you knew me.”
    “Ah, but I have the advantage. You have changed not a wight, but for being unsinged.” It was true. He looked exactly the same, other than his clothing. Even his face remained unlined by the intervening years, and his hair—still in need of a proper cutting, she noted—still gleamed of gold and copper, without the least glint of silver, even at the temples.
    One last young man heaved himself over the sill and fell to the floor, limply waving a black and silver riband as he gasped, “I claim the lady whose favor this is in the name of William, Lord Ethridge, who lies injured below.”
    As the inmates of the Castle of Love clapped and urged the lady forward, the page assigned to keep count blew a horn.
    Outside, the herald cried out, “All the ladies have now been won. The champions will retire to the great hall to claim their prizes.”
    The crowd flowed toward the gate in the rear wall, where a sturdy stair was being set into place with much clatter. Eleanor and Gunnar fell in with the others, and as they waited their turn to climb down, she stole another look at her champion, marveling at how unchanged he was. Truly, he looked no different at all. Why had she once thought him so very old?
    “What is that smile?”
    “Nothing,” she said. “I merely find it difficult to believe that you are here, at a tournament and as my champion at long last. A part of me thinks you must be some phantom of my imaginings.”
    His expression grew grave. “I am many things, my lady, but I am no phantom.”
    “Phantom or not, I bless whatever Providence put my glove in your hand.”
    “Providence,” he repeated softly, in a way that lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. The last of the others disappeared down the stairway, leaving only them, alone but for a single page. Eyes glittering like emeralds in the torchlight, Sir Gunnar put out his hand to help her down.
    Eleanor hesitated, suddenly and inexplicably wary of touching him. No, that wasn’t true. There was an explanation. Its name was Richard. She had resigned herself to marrying Richard.
    Sir Gunnar waited, one corner of his mouth lifted in that odd half smile she’d held in one corner of her heart for all those years. “Shall we go down, my lady?”
    “Yes. Yes, of course.” She laid her hand in his, resignation forgotten and four long years forgiven in a single touch.
     
    AH, BALLOCKS. RIGHT up there in front of everyone.
    Gunnar watched the line of champions and their ladies snake toward the dais at the front of the great hall. He hadn’t thought about that part of it, that if he succeeded, he’d have to step forward to claim his due. Why couldn’t the prizes be given in the Castle of Love, instead of here, before everyone?
    It truly was everyone. Raby had the grandest hall he’d ever seen, a huge chamber large enough to hold the army of men who’d been on the wall as well as all those who’d been watching.
    And now they’d be watching him.
    His shoulders tightened at the idea of putting himself forward before so many. They would remember him for years, every man of them. He’d have to avoid them all until memories blurred.
    Unless . . .
    No, he couldn’t think of that now. He must keep his mind on what was before him lest he put both himself and Jafri at risk.
    Steeling himself with a deep breath, he led Lady Eleanor past the frowning Tunstall, and onto the dais with the other couples. A page passed down the line, handing each lady an identical silver branch.
    “Well done to all our champions.” The countess pushed to her feet, more graceful than Gunnar would have thought possible with that belly on her. “You entertained me greatly, and now it is time to claim your kisses. I remind you to perform as admirably here as you did on the tower, so that you impress your lady and earn your silver branch.” She made her way to the far end of the line,