A Knight of His Own
By: H.C. Brown |
Published By: Hawt Books Publishing
Published By: Hawt Books Publishing
Word Count: 12000
Heat Index
Heat Index
Available in: Epub, Adobe Acrobat
Buy Link: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-aknightofhisown-1268440-147.htmlAbout the book
England 1075—Sir Degare Aucourte is in an
intolerable situation, the last thing he desires is a wife. Ordered by King
William to marry an elderly Spanish countess, he must find a rouse to avoid the
marriage bed. Five years earlier, he met the love of his life, the Black
Knight, Alano. The deeply sensual dark angel taught him all that a man could
give to another. Degare became a slave to his lover’s erotic punishment. After
a month of bliss, Alano sailed to Spain. Will the Black Knight ever return to
mend Degare’s shattered heart?
An excerpt from the book
England, 1075
“No! I will not. The thought of marriage disgusts me. How could you possibly expect me to marry such an old woman? She is past childbearing age to be sure. Do you think me some kind of fool?” Degare strode to the window and stared into the distance, shaking with anger. He turned and lifted his chin, his eyes blazed with defiance. “Yes, I see that you do.”
Sir Jean Aucourte folded his arms and glared at his petulant son. “You have no choice. It was King William’s decision. It’s not in the crown’s best interest to leave Sir Jean’s estate without a Norman lord in residence.” He lifted his chin a flash of anger crossed his usually genial expression. “Can you imagine what will come to pass if Lady Isabella requests that her brother govern Wilburn in her stead? Well do you? This action will place a Spanish lord in control of an estate on England’s coast.” He grimaced. “How long will we be safe in our beds before the Spanish invade?”
Degare stared at his father with his face set a mask of disgust. “I cannot be expected to bed an old woman, Father. I beg you to be reasonable.”
Bile seeped up the back of Jean’s throat. How had this child come from his loins? Degare was a depraved man, a son of the devil. His youngest son preferred the company of men. Both his other sons were as tall as he, of muscular build, and had flowing black hair. They were married now, but unlike Degare, his other sons had tupped their fair share of wenches in their youth.
His gaze drifted over his son and he bit back a snort of derision. Degare was without doubt, a changeling. To be so different the fairies had to have stolen his real son from his crib at birth. Degare had fair skin that was as soft as any maiden’s and he had eyes more like a doe. His son had refused all attempts to wed the daughters of his friends—all landed knights. In truth, his youngest son had become an embarrassment to the proud name of Aucourte. The whispers of his son’s predilection for bedding brutal men had even reached the king’s ear. He ground his teeth and faced his son. “Aye, I know of your affliction, Deg. Mayhap some time with a woman of experience will bring you back to God.”
Jean observed a shocked expression cross his son’s angelic face.
Degare had stopped pacing and skirted the sofa to stand before him with arms outstretched. “I wish you could understand, Father. I am as God-fearing as you are. Indeed, there are many born such as I who serve as God’s messengers. My affliction, as you describe it, harms no one. All come willingly to my bed.” Degare dashed a hand through his hair. “Don’t you understand I have no inclination to lay with a woman? In fact, I gravely doubt it possible.”
“Enough! Do not foul my ears with your debauchery. Do your duty as a knight of the King. Agree to this joining, for as surely as you believe that God forgives your transgressions—King William will not!”
Degare raised his chin, but did not meet his father’s gaze. Despair curled in his gut. How could his father understand? His father would never permit the notion to enter his thoughts that one of his sons preferred males. The stubborn man would never condone such a thing. I am doomed. Nothing I say will change his mind.
“As you wish, Father. Mayhap as I am a disgrace, it is best we no longer occupy the same castle. I will leave at once.”
With a heavy heart, he turned on his heel and strode from the solar. He marched along the passageway and slipped down the spiral staircase leading to the cloisters. A light breeze bushed against his cheek. A flash of sunlight pierced through the ornate columns brought a memory long buried. His heart twisted with the pain of lost love.
Alano.
That day had dawned like this one, brilliant and fresh. He smiled. The memory of the first time, he laid eyes on Alano, filled his mind in absolute clarity. As he strode onto the practice field that morning the sun had shined with the exact brilliance. The soft, gentle wind had carried the same sweet scent of honeysuckle from the bushes on the perimeter of the forest.
Knights from across the sea had journeyed to England to train in order to compete in Vespers. King William’s knights upheld the reputation of the Norman king’s prowess in battle and many knights came to do battle from England and lands far away.
On that fine morning, Degare had omitted his armor favoring the comfort of leggings during his training. He’d pushed on his helm and then with sword in hand had strolled onto the field with his young squire . . . and time stood still.
He remembered vividly gaping in awe at the battle, taking place in the middle of the arena. As he gazed from the window across the empty field, his mind conjured the memory in brilliant clarity. A magnificent Spanish knight, naked to the waist, advanced on his opponent. The knight swung a heavy sword and crashed the sharp blade down without mercy upon a faltering challenger. The dark knight stepped and twirled in a deadly dance with muscles bulging in thigh and arm. Degare’s groin had heated with each of the man’s graceful but lethal moves.
He’d bitten his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood at the sight of the knight’s hair, black as a starless night, clinging to the thick sheen of sweat across his muscular, bronze-skinned shoulders. His gaze had drifted to the man’s black leggings molded to a rock hard ass and long, muscular legs.
In awe of the handsome knight, he watched, transfixed. The delicious man had turned and raised his sword to deliver the deathblow, stopping short of decapitating his opponent. The black Knight called for the man to yield, and the correct reply given, had dropped his sword. Then the man had lifted his dark eyes to Degare and winked. Dear God, his face was sinful. A dark angel, with lips so full and lush Degare’s cock had raised in a salute.
The dark knight’s deep sienna gaze had traveled down Degare’s body in a blatant appraisal and come to rest on his straining shaft. Heat crept up Degare’s neck and into his cheeks, but he held the handsome man’s sinful gaze. The knight’s full lips turned up at the corners and he regarded him with a long fathomless stare. Degare’s heart had pounded with fear. He did not have the strength or where with all to survive a challenge from such a man. He had turned away in a dismissive gesture and addressed his squire in an attempt to flee the field without causing alarm.
“I have decided not to train today.” He handed his sword belt and helm to the boy and avoiding the Knight’s stare, headed for the stables.
He often sought sanctuary from his father in the hayloft. When the grooms were out in the field tending to the knight’s horses the place was vacant for hours. Degare moved silently into the dim building and inhaled the warm smells of hay and horse. He strolled past the stalls and headed for the ladder leading to the hayloft. He crawled into the straw and lay down on his back to listen to the grunts and laughter echoing across the battlefield. He pictured the black knight and rubbed his balls. God, that man had made him ache for a soft, warm mouth around his cockhead.
Degare unlaced his breeches and allowed his dick to spring free. He ran one finger up the length and swirled the sticky slit. His mind went to the handsome knight. Images of the man’s damp, glossy chest and tight breeches filled his mind. He spat on his palm then fisted his length and pumped in slow deliberation. Degare fixated on the man’s lips, so full and ripe—made for closing around a man’s aching hardness.
“No! I will not. The thought of marriage disgusts me. How could you possibly expect me to marry such an old woman? She is past childbearing age to be sure. Do you think me some kind of fool?” Degare strode to the window and stared into the distance, shaking with anger. He turned and lifted his chin, his eyes blazed with defiance. “Yes, I see that you do.”
Sir Jean Aucourte folded his arms and glared at his petulant son. “You have no choice. It was King William’s decision. It’s not in the crown’s best interest to leave Sir Jean’s estate without a Norman lord in residence.” He lifted his chin a flash of anger crossed his usually genial expression. “Can you imagine what will come to pass if Lady Isabella requests that her brother govern Wilburn in her stead? Well do you? This action will place a Spanish lord in control of an estate on England’s coast.” He grimaced. “How long will we be safe in our beds before the Spanish invade?”
Degare stared at his father with his face set a mask of disgust. “I cannot be expected to bed an old woman, Father. I beg you to be reasonable.”
Bile seeped up the back of Jean’s throat. How had this child come from his loins? Degare was a depraved man, a son of the devil. His youngest son preferred the company of men. Both his other sons were as tall as he, of muscular build, and had flowing black hair. They were married now, but unlike Degare, his other sons had tupped their fair share of wenches in their youth.
His gaze drifted over his son and he bit back a snort of derision. Degare was without doubt, a changeling. To be so different the fairies had to have stolen his real son from his crib at birth. Degare had fair skin that was as soft as any maiden’s and he had eyes more like a doe. His son had refused all attempts to wed the daughters of his friends—all landed knights. In truth, his youngest son had become an embarrassment to the proud name of Aucourte. The whispers of his son’s predilection for bedding brutal men had even reached the king’s ear. He ground his teeth and faced his son. “Aye, I know of your affliction, Deg. Mayhap some time with a woman of experience will bring you back to God.”
Jean observed a shocked expression cross his son’s angelic face.
Degare had stopped pacing and skirted the sofa to stand before him with arms outstretched. “I wish you could understand, Father. I am as God-fearing as you are. Indeed, there are many born such as I who serve as God’s messengers. My affliction, as you describe it, harms no one. All come willingly to my bed.” Degare dashed a hand through his hair. “Don’t you understand I have no inclination to lay with a woman? In fact, I gravely doubt it possible.”
“Enough! Do not foul my ears with your debauchery. Do your duty as a knight of the King. Agree to this joining, for as surely as you believe that God forgives your transgressions—King William will not!”
Degare raised his chin, but did not meet his father’s gaze. Despair curled in his gut. How could his father understand? His father would never permit the notion to enter his thoughts that one of his sons preferred males. The stubborn man would never condone such a thing. I am doomed. Nothing I say will change his mind.
“As you wish, Father. Mayhap as I am a disgrace, it is best we no longer occupy the same castle. I will leave at once.”
With a heavy heart, he turned on his heel and strode from the solar. He marched along the passageway and slipped down the spiral staircase leading to the cloisters. A light breeze bushed against his cheek. A flash of sunlight pierced through the ornate columns brought a memory long buried. His heart twisted with the pain of lost love.
Alano.
That day had dawned like this one, brilliant and fresh. He smiled. The memory of the first time, he laid eyes on Alano, filled his mind in absolute clarity. As he strode onto the practice field that morning the sun had shined with the exact brilliance. The soft, gentle wind had carried the same sweet scent of honeysuckle from the bushes on the perimeter of the forest.
Knights from across the sea had journeyed to England to train in order to compete in Vespers. King William’s knights upheld the reputation of the Norman king’s prowess in battle and many knights came to do battle from England and lands far away.
On that fine morning, Degare had omitted his armor favoring the comfort of leggings during his training. He’d pushed on his helm and then with sword in hand had strolled onto the field with his young squire . . . and time stood still.
He remembered vividly gaping in awe at the battle, taking place in the middle of the arena. As he gazed from the window across the empty field, his mind conjured the memory in brilliant clarity. A magnificent Spanish knight, naked to the waist, advanced on his opponent. The knight swung a heavy sword and crashed the sharp blade down without mercy upon a faltering challenger. The dark knight stepped and twirled in a deadly dance with muscles bulging in thigh and arm. Degare’s groin had heated with each of the man’s graceful but lethal moves.
He’d bitten his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood at the sight of the knight’s hair, black as a starless night, clinging to the thick sheen of sweat across his muscular, bronze-skinned shoulders. His gaze had drifted to the man’s black leggings molded to a rock hard ass and long, muscular legs.
In awe of the handsome knight, he watched, transfixed. The delicious man had turned and raised his sword to deliver the deathblow, stopping short of decapitating his opponent. The black Knight called for the man to yield, and the correct reply given, had dropped his sword. Then the man had lifted his dark eyes to Degare and winked. Dear God, his face was sinful. A dark angel, with lips so full and lush Degare’s cock had raised in a salute.
The dark knight’s deep sienna gaze had traveled down Degare’s body in a blatant appraisal and come to rest on his straining shaft. Heat crept up Degare’s neck and into his cheeks, but he held the handsome man’s sinful gaze. The knight’s full lips turned up at the corners and he regarded him with a long fathomless stare. Degare’s heart had pounded with fear. He did not have the strength or where with all to survive a challenge from such a man. He had turned away in a dismissive gesture and addressed his squire in an attempt to flee the field without causing alarm.
“I have decided not to train today.” He handed his sword belt and helm to the boy and avoiding the Knight’s stare, headed for the stables.
He often sought sanctuary from his father in the hayloft. When the grooms were out in the field tending to the knight’s horses the place was vacant for hours. Degare moved silently into the dim building and inhaled the warm smells of hay and horse. He strolled past the stalls and headed for the ladder leading to the hayloft. He crawled into the straw and lay down on his back to listen to the grunts and laughter echoing across the battlefield. He pictured the black knight and rubbed his balls. God, that man had made him ache for a soft, warm mouth around his cockhead.
Degare unlaced his breeches and allowed his dick to spring free. He ran one finger up the length and swirled the sticky slit. His mind went to the handsome knight. Images of the man’s damp, glossy chest and tight breeches filled his mind. He spat on his palm then fisted his length and pumped in slow deliberation. Degare fixated on the man’s lips, so full and ripe—made for closing around a man’s aching hardness.
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