“Would you like some water?” he asked.
“Yes, I would.”
He straightened and turned, intending to retrieve
the water skin.
“That’s okay. I’m not helpless, I can get it myself,”
Judith insisted, sounding rather like a cocky page.
“Where is it? In your pack on Zeus?”
“Aye, but—“ Andrew looked over his shoulder and
discovered, to his dismay, that Judith clung to the tree
trunk as she dragged herself to her feet. Wincing, she
brushed off her backside before taking a few wobbly
steps.
He grabbed her elbow, but she shook her head as
she pulled free. “It’s all right,” she assured him. “I may
not be an expert rider, but I have been walking since I
was only one or two. I know how to do that fairly well.”
Judy knew she wasn’t proving her point with her
slow, crooked gait. Lord Almighty, but her legs felt like
she’d just done twelve solid hours on a Stairmaster! Still,
she had some dignity left, bruised ego and all. Under
her own power, she made her way to the horses and the
water.
Andrew let her go unassisted, smiling to himself as
he watched Judith hobble over to Zeus. Damnation, but
the wench was willful, stubborn and proud. Most men
considered those admirable traits only in other men.
But they suited a woman such as Judith just as she
suited him.
Judith knew they were a pair, Andrew knew she
did. When all this business was done, she’d admit it
and fall into his arms once again. That’s what mattered
to him, not who her sire was, or if she had wealth. Only
that he could hold her, and love her, and cherish her
’til his time on Earth ran out.
Eighteen
Judy made a contented sound and snuggled into her
blanket where she lay beneath the ashen sky.
“Snuggled” wasn’t the most appropriate word, she
corrected herself as the term came to mind. Snuggling
implied cozy comfort, an altogether pleasant experience.
If one of her writers had used “snuggle” to describe the
way she felt in this situation, Judy would have
suggested he find other, more accurate modifiers:
atrophied, cramped, frozen, miserable, suffering,
aching...
She and Andrew had ridden for what seemed another
eternity after their lunch and bathroom break.
Bathroom, ha! Judy thought she might be getting a rash
on her bottom from using leaves for toilet paper, or
maybe blisters from slamming against the saddle hour
after agonizing hour.
Her thighs and her butt weren’t the only parts of
her anatomy that felt raw, inflamed, or so sore as to be
nearly paralyzed. Her legs, feet, back and arms throbbed
as well. All afternoon, as her anguish increased, she
had longed for Andrew to announce they were stopping
for the night. He didn’t, though, and she didn’t ask what
his plans were. She would have died before begging him
to pack it in for the day, and there were times she
thought she was going to.
Of course, Andrew did stop, finally—still in the
never-ending forest with no tavern, inn or even a
crofter’s hut in sight. She managed to climb off her horse
unassisted, and then Andrew started a small campfire,
obviously pleased as punch when he used the disposable
lighter to ignite his little pile of twigs. Afterward, he set
out with a bow and arrow, announcing his intention to
kill some game for supper.
Judy supposed he had—the aroma of cooked meat
still hung in the air. But she hadn’t eaten anything.
She hadn’t even been awake when Andrew returned
from his expedition. The moment she lay down on her
blanket to wait for him, she went out like a light. Thank
God.
Exhaustion had inured her to her various
discomforts so that she managed to rest a while. Now,
though, as birds began chirping to welcome the
approaching dawn, she again found herself keenly aware
of her personal miseries. Not only did every muscle in
her body scream in torment, the earth she lay upon
poked and prodded every square inch of her body. Bravely,
she ventured to turn her head from one side to the other,
risking excruciating neck pain.
She discovered Andrew lying beside her making little
snuffling sounds as he slept. She found his light snoring
kind of cute and rather endearing, but that was because
of his proximity. When Andrew drew near, she fixed her
sites only on him, while the big picture grew as fuzzy as
an out-of-focus snapshot. But boy, oh, boy, it felt chilly,
and Andrew was nothing if not a great source of heat.
She could only hope that as long as he remained
sleeping, she would be safe—from herself. Apparently
Andrew intended to keep her safe from all other dangers
by leaving one hand on the sword lying between them.
She marveled, with an inner sense of delight, to know
she had slept beside a knight prepared to protect her at
all costs by brandishing his heavy steel blade. Yowza!
Yet a big ache throbbed in her chest so that she
couldn’t continue looking at him. She rolled her head
away as the combination of Andrew’s macho manliness
and innocent repose tugged at her heart. Geez, Louise!
Why did she put herself through this? She wasn’t
anymore right for him than a knight from the Middle
Ages was right for a 1990’s career woman. So loving
Andrew—
I don’t love him! What am I thinking? Love Andrew, ha!
All she had actually wanted was a little romance, a fling,
with an extremely attractive and available guy. But he’d
quashed that plan. Now, she was only biding her time
’til next fall when she could make another attempt at
time travel. Loving Andrew, for a bit or forever, would be
just plain stupid. And Judy Lambini wasn’t stupid.
Besides, she reminded herself, despite Andrew’s sex
appeal, he could frequently be a great big jerk!
The object of her musings snorted and moved slightly.
Her body tingled where his touched hers, so she inched
away, putting more space between them. Then she
propped herself on one elbow and, unable to resist, peered
down at him again.
It was clear why he made her feel all gushy inside.
Though she had spurned his advances on principle, she
knew he’d caught her fancy the very first day she had
met him. She had let him grope her while he argued
with his brothers in the great hall. She had felt that
spark of sexual heat the first time he’d climbed into
bed with her, and when he’d grabbed her leg under the
dinner table, too.
No man in her own time had ever excited her the
way Andrew did. But then, she had never met, in her
own time, someone like young Lord Laycock. He had a
body like a lifeguard and thick, shiny, dark brown hair
that sort of waved aroun
d his head, making Judy want
to run her fingers through it. Andrew’s eyes were even
darker, nearly as black as his pupils, and they drooped
as though their long lashes weighted down his lids.
Bedroom eyes, if there ever were any.
She moved the arm much of her weight lay upon
and yelped when a stone pressed into her flesh.
Andrew’s eyes popped open, and his hand clenched
the hilt of his sword as he sat upright, scouring the
vicinity with a purposeful gaze. “What is it?” he
demanded, turning to her after he’d apparently
concluded they faced no danger.
“Nothing. I was lying on a rock or something. It hurt.”
“Oh.” Andrew pulled her arm across his lap and
stroked it from wrist to shoulder.
He seemed to be trying to soothe her pain. It worked.
“How badly do you hurt?” he asked.
Judy chortled. “Badly. Very badly. How can you stand
it, riding so long and hard?”
“I’m well-used to riding. I hunt, and I train with Zeus
so that we’re prepared to go into battle together. I vow,
’tis far more grueling to ride wearing chain mail and
brandishing both shield and mace.”
“I suppose. But knowing things could be worse doesn’t
make me feel any better.”
Andrew shrugged his blanket aside and stood. “Let
me tend the fire and bring you something to eat. Sweet
Mother Mary, but you must be starving! I dared not wake
you earlier because you needed your sleep. But now you
must put some food into your belly. Afterward, I can do
something to ease your aches and pains.”
Judy nodded gratefully, but she doubted anything
short of a whirlpool, a masseuse, and a big dose of pain
pills could ease her misery.
“What’s this?” she asked dubiously when Andrew
returned to her pallet and handed her something
impaled on a stick.
“A hare.”
Judy peered at her food more closely. Minus fur and
tail, and cooked to a golden, crunchy turn, it remained,
indeed, a rabbit, which she did not find particularly
appetizing.
“Eeuuww!” With a grimace, Judy waved the stick at
Andrew.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t eat this. It still has its head!”
“You needn’t eat the head,” Andrew explained
patiently, sitting down on the edge of her blanket. “Nor
the bones nor the entrails. Just the flesh, which is very
tasty, even cold.”
“I can’t. It reminds me of a Guinea pig I used to
keep as a pet.”
“A what?”
“Another small animal, one I fed and played with
but never cooked and ate.”
Andrew narrowed his eyes. “Methinks you must be
more than a lady—mayhap a spoilt princess. Well, let
me play the servant and tear the meat from the bones
for you. You must eat, Judith. Your foregoing drink and
food is not an option.”
Reluctantly, she agreed. Andrew held the stick and
patiently peeled the meat away from the small carcass.
He fed each morsel directly to her, holding it between
his thumb and index finger until she took the food into
her mouth.
“Hey, this isn’t bad after all,” she admitted. “It
reminds me of something I’ve eaten before.”
“When I travel any distance, I always carry a pouch
with a special mix of herbs my mother combines
together. The seasonings enhance the flavor of many
meats, from fowl to fish, and they’re easy to carry. Plain
meat will always suffice to ease one’s hunger. But why
not make the victuals savory so that they are truly
enjoyable?”
“Smart thinking,” Judy agreed, wondering where
she had eaten something so similar. It hadn’t been too
long ago, and she thought it must have been in England.
At home, she tended to eat ethnic takeout or frozen
entrees.
Her appetite aroused by the taste of food, Judy
gestured for Andrew to give her another tidbit. Grinning,
he complied, but she closed her mouth too quickly,
accidentally capturing the tip of Andrew’s finger
between her lips. They both went completely still. He
left his finger imprisoned, and she neither chewed nor
swallowed. As their eyes met, she slid her lips farther
down, past Andrew’s knuckle, and sucked. A tremor ran
through her as he inhaled a quick, startled breath.
Judy didn’t breathe. Andrew’s drowsy, molten gaze
heated her own insides until they melted. Finally, she
had to inhale or drown in the churning, liquid emotions
bubbling inside her. Yet when she drew breath and
Andrew reclaimed his finger, she choked on the meat
that had been resting on the back of her tongue.
Andrew moved with quick efficiency, circling her
until he crouched behind her. There, he slapped her
full on the back until the passage in her throat cleared.
“Are you well?” he asked, concerned, as he sat down
to face her again.
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Drink,” he ordered, handing her the wine skin.
She obeyed, grateful for the cool, tangy liquid that
soothed her spasming throat.
As she wiped tears from her eyes, she avoided
Andrew’s gaze. That proved easy enough, because he
seemed to be looking anywhere but at her.
“I said I’d help ease your aches away,” Andrew
reminded Judith, wondering why he did so. God help
him, but he didn’t think he could touch her body without
exploring all her curves and crevices. “Roll over.”
“What?”
“Onto your belly.”
She obeyed, tucking her face into her folded arms.
He couldn’t believe Judith deigned to heed his command
now, of all times. She should have been insisting they
gather their things and head out. But nay, she lay before
him, patiently waiting for him to fondle her. Innocently,
she trusted him to do naught but ease away her aches
because he had insisted they wait to make love.
Fool! Andrew wondered which of them he called that
name, himself or Judith.
Attempting to maintain a degree of indifference, he
straddled her legs and began massaging her neck and
shoulders.
“Ahhhhh!” she cried, her voice muffled by the blanket
beneath her.
“’Tis that bad? Sweetling, you need more physical
activity.”
“I get plenty of physical activity,” she grumbled. “Just
not on horses.”
“On what, then?” He pressed his fingertips
purposefully against the knobs of her spine.
“Exercise equipment. I know you’ve never heard of
anything like that. They’re machines...implements...to
work a person’s muscles.”
Judith was obviously recalling things as her memory
fought to return, but he did not comment. He couldn’t
be sure that she was as aware of this fact as he.
Casually, he inquired, “Whe
re does one find such
implements?”
“A lot of people own their own. Others, like me, go to
special places where...I don’t know, I guess you’d call
them tradespeople, keep a great variety of exercise
equipment. We pay money to use their machines.”
“I see,” he muttered, though he did not. People kept
their bodies strong by working, riding, running, even
swimming, but mostly by toiling at the tasks that kept
them housed, fed and clothed. To have some sort of tools
for that purpose sounded both impossible and
impractical.
Andrew suspected Judith’s lower extremities would
feel more sore than her arms. Scooting down the length
of her body, he began to knead the knots in the muscles
of her calves and her thighs.
“If I go to heaven,” she said on a sigh, “I want it to
feel like this.”
He smiled. He wanted it to feel like this, too, with
Judith’s body beneath him. Although he would prefer
her face up or at least on her knees.
Shaking his head to clear it of such wayward,
dissolute thoughts, he examined the fabric of her
chausses as he ran his fingers over her calf. “Of what
sort of material are your leggings made?” he asked. “I’ve
ne’er seen or felt anything like it.”
“I dunno. I think it’s a combination of cotton and
Spandex or something.”
“What is that? How do you weave it so fine?”
“I don’t weave it. I buy it.”
“You purchase all your fabric for your clothing from
merchants? You spin no cloth yourself?”
“Nope. My job...my work...is something altogether
different.”
He went still, though he peeked at Judith’s profile.
Her eyes were closed, and she seemed more asleep than
awake. Cautiously, he asked, “What is your work?”
“I sell books,” she responded without hesitation. “Not
published books, but the manuscripts that are made
into books and sold to the public.”
“Explain” he urged, resuming his massaging of
Judith’s limbs.
“It’s complicated. I don’t know if I can.” She paused
so long, he wondered if she had drifted off to sleep.
Suddenly, she asked, “Andrew, are you familiar with
Beowulf?”
That, he knew. “Aye. ’Tis an ancient story brought
to England by the Norse hundreds of years past.”
“And someone wrote it down, hundreds of years past.
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