Knight of Love by Catherine LaRoche Page A

knight?
    Her spare clothing—a second set of boys’ breeches, shirt, and loose jacket—was terribly crumpled but dry. She combed her hair out with her fingers and replaited it as best she could. Never before had she appeared dressed as a vagabond street urchin to dine with an earl. It almost made her smile to imagine her mother’s shock. The duchess would have a fit of the vapors to see her daughter so.
    On the tent table, Gunther and a cook laid out a cloth and candles—beeswax, she noted, wondering whether they were an attempt to impress her or the earl’s usual extravagance. They then brought in a dinner of herbed roast chicken, boiled potatoes, and stewed carrots. The cook put to the side a steaming-hot raisin pudding with a cream ginger sauce. She raised a brow at how he’d been able to produce that dainty on a battlefield campsite. As the servants finished laying out the meal, the earl ducked beneath the entry flap, bearing a bottle of German white wine. The servants bowed and left.
    The tent immediately shrank as Ravensworth moved inside. My God, he is a mammoth. The observation did not help her nerves. His head, shaved down to black stubble with an angry red scrape at the back of the skull, brushed the top of the tent by the central pole. His breadth filled the center of the tent. It sucked the very air from the space.
    Manners dictated she curtsy, but her breeches made the gesture ridiculous. Nor did she feel inclined to be gracious. Panic and near hysteria were better descriptions of her mental inclinations, but giving in to such was not an option. She needed to keep her head if she were to have any chance of working her will with this man.
    â€œGood evening, my lord.” She contented herself with a civil nod of her head. He had washed off the rest of the blood from this afternoon’s battle; his smell now was sandalwood soap and fresh linen. His gold buttons, crimson brocade vest, and polished black boots all far outclassed her toilette. Indeed, he could have strolled into the state banquet hall of Schloss Rotenburg dressed as he was.
    He managed a bow in the confines of the tent, with enough elegance to match his evening wear. “My lady, I am pleased to see the white chill of the road replaced by the pink in your cheeks. You look lovely this evening.”
    She merely raised her eyebrows at him. She looked, she well knew, a royal mess.
    He sat her at table with courtly attention and began to serve her, slicing chicken onto her plate as he inquired whether Gunther had attended sufficiently to her needs.
    Ravensworth opened the bottle of wine with practiced ease. “I’ve been saving this Riesling from Hochheim for a special occasion. When Queen Victoria visited the Rheingau region a few years ago, she declared it one of her favorite whites.” He poured first for her and then himself and smiled as he raised his glass in a toast. “I think tonight qualifies as special.”
    Despite the bowl of stew she’d devoured earlier, she was so hungry, it took all her years of training in ladylike comportment to avoid wolfing down her food and draining her glass of the excellent wine. The effort to cut small bites and sip delicately while answering his banal questions about her family distracted her completely from the precariousness of her situation. As he moved on to serve her dessert and more wine while be babbled on about his sister Lady Margaret and other acquaintances they shared in common, she realized his goal.
    He’d fed her and relaxed her enough to convince her that he wasn’t truly crazy.
    But that did not mean she was marrying the man.
    After Gunther cleared dinner to serve them coffee and pour Schnaps for the Freiherr , she decided it time to make her point.
    â€œLord Ravensworth, allow me to thank you for your kind hospitality. This meal and the shelter of your camp are most appreciated.” She fought to keep a grudging tone out of her