Page 56 of Knight School Chronicles Box Set

R oland stood up abruptly.

He reached out a hand. Amalia took it.

Lifting her from the ground, he said nothing, wanting this beyond measure. Beyond any kiss he’d ever wanted. But because he didn’t want to kiss her on the heels of a won wager, he hadn’t expected it to happen tonight.

Roland was not one to waste an opportunity.

Pulling her toward him, Roland wound his hand through the hair at the nape of Amalia’s neck. Showing her, without saying a word, that this kiss would not be at all like the last one, he lowered his head. Held hers steady.

And placed his lips on hers. This time, he didn’t pull away. Instead, Roland explored the crease of her lips with his own. When she opened for him, Roland wasn’t surprised her tongue touched his. The maid knew how to kiss properly.

Good.

Because he intended to give her a proper kiss.

Covering her mouth completely, holding Amalia’s head steady, he allowed his tongue full exploration, stroking and tangling with hers.

As Amalia’s arms wrapped around his waist, Roland pulled her head toward him, using his second hand as leverage as well, wanting to consume her.

Wanting to leave Amalia breathless, thinking of this kiss as she laid her head down on the pillow later that night.

And in the morn when she awoke.

Dangerous thoughts, given the situation. Her station. Eamon’s warning.

Did she press her body against his, or had Roland inadvertently pulled her even closer as the kiss spiraled out of control?

Moaning against Amalia’s lips at her whimpers of pleasure, Roland could feel the evidence of his desire for the maid between them and hoped that she could not.

He did not wish to alarm her. Or make Amalia think he wanted more than just this kiss.

But you do want more.

The thought had him reluctantly pulling away.

Releasing her, Roland looked at Amalia’s wet lips, hooded eyelids, and expression that told him she’d enjoyed that as much as he. Resisting the urge to pull her against him once again, instead he stepped back.

“Was that proper enough for you, Amalia?”

“Indeed, it was.”

Sighing, he reluctantly reached down for his surcoat. Shaking it out, Roland folded it, but Amalia outstretched her arms. “I will wash it.”

His eyes widened. “You are not a laundress, Amalia, and are not required to do such a thing.”

“That you recognize the fact is the reason I will wash it for you. I’ve clothing of my own that needs washing as well.”

“Why do you not simply give them to the laundress?”

“I would not expect you to understand.”

“Tell me,” he said, handing the surcoat to her.

“I am a lady’s maid, aye. But a maid, nonetheless.

If we were at Ashford, I would bring my lady’s clothing, and my own, to the laundress, and she would not question it.

But here, if I were to do the same, me being unknown to the serving staff.

..” She shrugged. “They would not take kindly to it.”

She was right. He did not understand.

“We are as different as two people can be,” she said. “You, an earl’s son. And me, the daughter of a farmer.”

“Different does not always mean bad.”

“Nay, it does not. But for us . . . ”

“Go on,” he prodded. “For us?”

“For us, maybe ‘bad’ is not the word I would use.”

“What word would you use?”

She thought about it for a moment.

“Futile, perhaps?”

He could not disagree.

“The other men you were with?” He let the question hang in the air, aware it was not a topic they should be discussing. But neither should he have kissed her, so this seemed a minor infraction.

“Both, I expected to marry. One was the son of a farmer, the other, the son of a blacksmith.”

He wanted to ask which of the men she gave her virginity to. But why did it matter? Roland had been with many women. But it did matter because...he cared. Unimaginably. Irrationally. He cared.

“Come,” he said. “I will escort you to your chamber.”

Amalia’s eyes rose.

“To the stairwell below it,” he clarified.

It wasn’t until the pair had reached that very stairwell, the castle hall and corridors eerily quiet, that Roland gave Amalia another truth.

“I’ve enjoyed our afternoon and evening together, and am glad you required an escort to the village.”

“As am I,” she said, looking upward.

For a brief moment, he thought of pressing his suit. Roland would like nothing more than to continue kissing her. To feel her breasts pressed against him, as he had before, but with no clothing between them. To make Amalia scream his name as she climaxed for him.

Futile.

She might be a maid, but Amalia was a lady’s maid. And not any lady’s maid, but Gareth’s wife’s maid and Sir Eamon’s charge. Which meant his charge.

“Dammit.”

He’d meant to utter the curse to himself and not aloud.

“Roland?”

“You would do well to retire before I am tempted to follow you, Amalia.”

“Follow me? Oh.”

For the briefest of moments, he thought she might invite him to do just that. Instead, she turned on her heel with a swish of her gown and fled as if he were pursuing her. If Roland wanted to scare the maid after they’d spent an enjoyable evening together, he’d done his job well.

She looked back just once, and briefly, before turning the corner, out of his line of sight. It was just as well. Stalking back to his own shared chamber—the recruit’s quarters, which housed too many men for his taste—Roland found both Alden and Darien awake. Waiting for him.

“So?” Darien asked, earning a “Quiet” from another of the men who was apparently not yet sleeping.

“So?” he repeated, ripping off his sword and belt.

“Perhaps we should ask on the morrow,” Alden said. Wise words from the blacksmith’s son.

“Or perhaps we should ask now,” Darien pressed. “Roland?”

A final truth, this one for his friends.

“I am,” he said, unable to think of another word to summarize his situation with Amalia, “in trouble.”