Immortal Champion by Lisa Hendrix Page B

where she faced the first couple. “It appears we begin with you, Sir Gilbert. Be ware you don’t perform too well. My lord husband watches.”
    As the crowd chuckled, the knight who’d claimed the jealous Lady Anne glanced toward the earl, hesitated, then overcame whatever misgivings the countess’s odd warning had apparently raised, slipped an arm around the maid’s waist, and claimed her with a deep kiss. The lady stiffened and her hands came up as though to push him away, but after a heartbeat, she softened in his arms, her fingers curling into his shirt, and Gunnar could hear her sigh even from where he stood at the far end of the dais. The delighted laughter of the crowd pulled the pair apart with a jerk, the lady blushing red as a beetroot.
    But she gave Sir Gilbert her branch.
    The next man took a different tack, offering the sort of kiss a man might give his sister. But for all its lack of fervor, it seemed to be the proper kiss for that lady. She turned as rosy as the first, and that man, too, won his bit of silver.
    So it went down the line, some kisses as full of passion as any two lovers might share, others tender, a few clumsy but earnest. The young squire’s Lord Etheridge managed to kiss his lady to a near swoon, balanced on one foot though he was.
    The closer it came to Gunnar’s turn, the more his stomach churned. This kiss he’d sought so blithely now seemed to bear some import beyond the moment’s pleasure. He gnawed on his lip, trying to think how best to approach it. Beside him, Eleanor fidgeted, clearly as nervous as he.
    And then, too soon, it was his turn. He turned to face Lady Eleanor, every eye on him, hers most of all. She stilled, waiting. Her lips parted slightly, moist, as though she expected a true kiss, a lover’s kiss, and a part of him screamed to scoop her into his arms and oblige.
    But no. Not until he was certain. For now, he needed both caution and something . . . special. Something just for her.
    “My lady.” He bowed slightly and dropped to one knee. Taking her hand, he turned it over and drew it slowly toward his mouth. He hesitated, letting the musk and spice perfume she wore at her wrist fill his senses, then bent and, as gently as he could, brushed a kiss into her palm.
    A kiss like a butterfly. A snowflake.
    Eleanor’s fingers curled shut around the kiss, trapping it, and above him, her tiny, breathless “ah” told him more clearly than words that he’d chosen rightly.
    “ Très gentil , monsire .” The countess nodded her approval as Gunnar pushed to his feet and collected his silver branch. “Even my lord husband can find no fault with a such a kiss. And now we will decide the champion of champions, at least in the ways of love. Ladies, come.”
    She led the maids off to one side, where they formed a tight knot and much whispering ensued.
    Gunnar leaned over to the man next to him, the one who’d stolen the veil from him, and lowered his voice. “Why does the countess worry how her husband will react to the kissing?”
    “You don’t know? I thought you and Lady Eleanor . . .”
    “I met her long ago, and only briefly. At Richmond. I know nothing about her.”
    “Ah.” The fellow tipped his head toward the earl. “She’s Westmorland’s daughter. As are Lady Anne and Lady Margaret, though from his first wife, God rest her.”
    “Daughter?” A hazy memory floated up: the duchess’s mention of the name Neville , and himself, thickheaded from smoke and exhaustion, unable to recall who that might be. Of course: the Earl of Westmorland was Ralph de Neville. By the gods, he had walked right into her father’s hall without even knowing it.
    Balls. He truly had forgotten her. He shouldn’t have, but he had, letting his recollection of her slip into the morass of six centuries of memories.
    As he stood there kicking himself for his foolishness, the countess made her way back to the front with the ladies. At her side, Eleanor slowly rocked up and down on