I was sketching the other day, practicing poses, and a picture of Kel with a glaive, dressed in a flimsy nightgown, came out of it. This story is the result. Enjoy! ;)

Knightdress

He didn't realize that he'd always wanted to see her fight in her nightdress until it actually happened. She was reporting at Mastiff, and had stayed the night – in her own chambers, of course. Just because he was a widower didn't give him the right to infringe upon her honor. Or his, for that matter. But when the alarm sounded, and the enemy was nearly over the wall, there was no time to dress. He fought in breeches, sword in one hand and buckler shield in the other. The sword was his; the shield had been thrust on him when someone – Owen, no doubt – had seen him without any other protection.

His squire, fool boy that he was, fought in a billowing nightshirt and loincloth, the flowing cotton making him ghostlike in the dark. Everyone else, in varying states of undress (was that Sir Esmond locked in combat with a towel around his waist?), battled to keep the Scanran raiders at bay. When they'd finally been pushed beyond the outer wall and were being routed on foot, he leaned against the battlements where he'd slain his last opponent, and saw her.

She was a white blur in the darkness, her glaive flashing with deadly grace all around her lithe body. Her nightdress was nothing but fine linen, nearly transparent, falling from thin shoulder straps to mid-thigh. The wide skirt provided ample movement, especially hiked up around her hips. Two of the guards she had brought from New Hope fought with her, along with Sergeant Domitan of the King's Own. The first two, at least, had on trousers. The Sergeant had on a tunic and nothing else, and the way he spun and dipped as he fought afforded anyone within a reasonable distance an eyeful of what was beneath his tunic. Wyldon snorted. He would have to have a word with Raoul about that fellow.

The battle was over quickly, especially once her servant lad had let the horses out of their stalls. Rider-less, barebacked – as naked, in their way, as their masters – the warhorses thundered into the fray, routing the last of the Scanran soldiers. He watched as her weapon slid with macabre elegance into her final opponent and back, letting the body fall to the ground like a rag doll. She stood still, braced on strong legs, looking around at the testament of their victory. Then she looked up, and saw him watching her. Her sweat- and blood-streaked face broke into laughter, and she raised her hand in salute, leaning on her glaive. He nodded curtly in reply before turning and descending back to the ground level to ascertain the extent of their losses.

"You fought well given your… disadvantage," he told her later in his office. She was still in her nightdress, and he had not had a spare moment to put on a shirt, so the small space suddenly seemed a lot smaller.

She cocked an eyebrow. "You mean my state of undress?" She smoothed the linen self-consciously over her flat stomach. "I forgot all about it once the fighting started." She giggled suddenly. "Did you see Esmond? He was fighting with one hand and holding up his towel with the other."

"Perhaps that will teach him to bathe right before an ambush," he drawled, inwardly delighting in her laughter, and the way her muscled body relaxed at his joke.

"Indeed, sir." She paused, and for a heartbeat he thought he saw those dreamy hazel eyes flicker over his bare chest. "I think I was less incapacitated than most." Yes, she was definitely eyeing him – not blatantly, no, that was not the lady knight's way. But he was accustomed to close observation, and he didn't miss the way her gaze lingered on the muscles of his abdomen, still hard after years of service to the realm.

"What were our losses?" she asked softly, breaking the spell.

"Three were killed, twelve wounded. I believe Masbolle had an… unfortunate accident. Ran into the butt of a spear, didn't he?"

She bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Maybe that will teach him to go charging about without anything around his nether regions."

"Indeed." He shook his head, fighting his own smile. "Well, lady knight, I think that will be all. Well fought tonight."

"Thank you, sir." She bowed, nearly granting him an excellent view of what lay beneath the thin cloth. "Perhaps we'll get a chance to see one another in such a state again soon."

He nearly choked. "I beg your pardon?"

Her face registered innocent confusion, but he knew the meaning of the glitter in those sly hazel eyes. "If the Scanrans attack at night again, sir. It's bound to happen."

"Ah." He cleared his throat, and arched a mocking eyebrow. "And if it's not Scanrans, well, who knows what else might come our way. Stranger things have happened on a warfront."

"That they have." Amusement warred with something else behind the still features of her face, and then she walked up to him and kissed his cheek. One hand trailed down the side of his chest, feeling the shallow cuts he had received during the battle. "You should have those looked at, my lord," she whispered huskily. Those eyes flashed teasingly at him, and then she was at the door, hand on the latch. "Good night, Wyldon."

He opened his mouth, and closed it again, waving a hand at her instead. One long-lashed eyelid dropped in a wink, and she was gone.

Lord Wyldon sank into a chair and put his head in his hands. He had intended to dress and make the rounds, seeing that all was secure, but the image of Keladry fighting in her nightdress was burned into his mind, and he couldn't seem to make it leave.