“Aye. The bastard struck me with a sword.”
Sword? What on earth? “You must be suffering from memory loss. Let’s try something. What’s your name?”
“Thomas Wilton, lady.”
“I’m Penelope Merriweather, but my friends call me Pittypat.”
He looked at her, eyes boring into her as if seeing her for the first time since she’d found him, his gaze lingering on her lips before traveling down to her coral-painted toes, turning on a furnace inside her. As she watched him, he jumped and darted another glance at her toes, pointing.
“Penelope is a beautiful name.” He hesitated. “Why do your feet bleed, lady?”
She couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face.
“They’re not bleeding—it’s polish, to make them pretty.” Where on earth had this guy come from? Had the bump to his head left him thinking he was actually some kind of historian or medieval knight?
“You know your name, so I don’t think it’s memory loss. Let’s try a bit more. Where are you from?”
“Dover, England.”
“Good, how about family? A wife?”
He opened his mouth to answer just as the phone rang, and the poor guy jumped a foot in the air, landing in a crouch, hand going to his hip, eyes wild.
“My sword, where is it?” He patted his boots. “My blades are gone as well. Did you take them?”
“No.” She looked for the ringing phone, lifting up piles of mail on the counter until she found it.
“I didn’t see any sword or blades on the beach. You must’ve lost them last night. Shouldn’t drink so much.” She held a finger up. “Hold on, let me answer this.”
As she talked to her sister, Thomas watched her mouth, his gaze ping-ponging between her lips and the phone at her ear, making her self-conscious.
“Pittypat, I try not to meddle in your foolishness, but you need to listen to me: that man could be homeless, crazy, or some kind of escaped convict. There’s no sense in borrowing trouble. I’m calling the police.”
“No, don’t, Mildred. He just hit his head pretty hard, and I think he’s suffering from a short-term delusion, thinks he’s some kind of medieval knight. You know I hate hospitals; that’s where sick people go and don’t come back. Anyway, he isn’t sick—with a few days of rest he’ll remember he’s a stockbroker or doctor, or maybe a construction worker, by the build on him.”
There was a heavy sigh before Mildred replied, and Penelope could picture her sitting in the outdated harvest-gold kitchen, a giant cup of coffee at her elbow as she twisted her long necklaces through her fingers over and over again.
“This isn’t a stray dog or cat. He is a living, breathing man, and he could hurt you.”
Penelope held up a hand as if she could reach through time and space and stop her sister from talking.
“I’m fine. Once I figure out who his family or friends are, I’ll call them to come get him. And I’ll see if Mr. Boston is in town this weekend. I didn’t notice anyone next door, but this guy looks like he could be one of his friends.”
But Mildred wouldn’t hear it, and she started in on one of her rants. Instead of suffering through it, Penelope simply hung up with a sheepish grin at the man watching her through hooded eyes.
He sat transfixed a moment before shaking his head, then he stalked over to her as if she were a piece of bread and he was a hungry seagull, took the phone from her hand, and examined it, running his fingers over the device, turning it over and over before holding it to his ear and then close to his mouth.
“Hello?” He frowned and shook the phone. “The strange box, what is it? You spoke into it. I heard a woman’s voice answer you.”
“It’s a phone. Check your pockets—do you have one on you?”
The man again gave that blank look, so she slowly stepped beside him and gingerly touched his hips, looking for pockets. And, truth be told, she thoroughly enjoyed the muscles that rippled and flexed under her touch. Land’s sake, he was like warm stone.
“That’s odd, you don’t have any pockets. I would’ve thought you’d have pockets at least in your pants.”
She stepped back and looked at him again, this time more closely, noting faded scars through the tears in his shirt and pants. This was a man who’d lived a hard life.
“Oh well, it doesn’t matter. It would’ve been ruined from the ocean anyway.”
“Lady, you spoke to another person through this device. What kind of magic is this? Are you a witch?” He took two steps back from her, and she resisted the urge to start chanting lines from the Scottish play.
“Well, there are some people who call me a witch, but not the kind you’re thinking of. I love celebrating nature, marking the change of the seasons, but can I cast spells?” She shook her head. “Don’t I wish, but no, I can’t. Come on, let’s get you in the shower, and then I’ll see about finding you some clothes. I think Rainbow’s brother left a set last time he was here.”
SIX
How had he ended up in this strange land called America? The beautiful woman had found him senseless on the beach, and at first Thomas thought she was a mermaid come to take him back to the depths. Instead, the woman with eyes the colors of emeralds had shown him to a soothing room where she showed him wondrous things.
He caught sight of himself in the looking glass and peered closely, the reflection so clear that he spent overlong looking at himself, thinking he had never known what he truly looked like until this moment.
Had he always looked so fierce with his many scars and imperfections? Thomas rested his hands on the cold thing she called “sink” as he opened his mouth wide, looked at his teeth, and tilted his head back, trying to see up his nose.
Oakwick Manor was a smoldering ruin, and Josephine and Heath would be looking to him to rebuild and care for them. He had to make his way home, but with no funds to speak of, he needs rely on Mistress Merriweather. With him missing, Heath would try to take his place, but would soon tire of the duty and go back to wenching and drinking until there was no more gold.
After showing him how to make the water flow, Penelope had left him in the bathing chamber, saying again she was no witch, but he doubted her word after watching her summon forth blissfully hot water with a flick of her wrist.
He tried it now, turning the metal handle and jumping back when water splashed into the sink. In a moment it was hot, and he turned it off, turning on the other one, which was icy cold. Every time he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he jumped, which was unlike him, for Thomas was afraid of nothing except sea monsters and witches, but everyone was afeared of them if they cared for their mortal souls.
The water in the low bowl was still, and he put his hand in, surprised how cold it was. She had called it a toilet. There was a lever on the side he was supposed to push when he had relieved himself. Tentatively, he reached out and pushed the button, leaning close to watch the water swirl around and vanish, only to be replenished. Several times he pressed the lever and watched the water before relieving himself, though afterward he made sure to put the lid back down when he finished, as that seemed to be important to her, though in truth he wasn’t sure why it made a difference.
The brush for his teeth was made of a material he had never seen before, smooth and shiny and bendable. What was the word? Plastic. He washed his hands and picked up the brush, eyeing the blue color doubtfully. There was no room for hesitation—she had been kind to him, but Thomas knew he had to quickly adapt to this strange place, convince her to aid him so he could go back home. As much as he wished to stay and explore this wondrous land and learn more about her, he had a duty, and he would see it done. What he wanted did not matter.
The sticky blue liquid that went on the brush for his teeth smelled like mint from the gardens, but why was it blue? He squeezed the tube, and the ointment went soaring through the air to land on the sink and mirror. By the third try, he had a mound on the brush, and, squaring his shoulders, put it in his mouth to
clean his teeth. It felt strange in his mouth, but his teeth were smooth, and he rather liked how they felt.
Where was her husband? Mistress Penelope had not mentioned a man, and he had seen no sign, but how could she live alone? Mayhap she was a wealthy widow—the bathing cloths were thick and soft, unlike anything he had ever seen, and she had an overlarge stack of them for his use, yet no servants.
The tattered remains of his tunic and hose lay on the cool white floor, no longer fit for anything but the rag bin. The shower was another marvel, the water so hot that steam filled the chamber. Thomas groaned in pleasure as the heat eased his aches. His wounds no longer burned, aided in healing from the seawater.
There was a long shelf in the water chamber with many bottles with exotic names, each one smelling nicer than the next. The thing called shampoo, she said, was for washing his hair, and the one called shower gel was for his body. He didn’t know why he needed two different ones, but he took her word. The shampoo said Coconut Delight, and as he smelled it, he thought he now knew what a coconut smelled like, even if it looked rather ugly and hairy on the image. He dumped a bit in his hand and frowned, not sure if it was enough, so he added more until his hand was overflowing. The resulting foam told him he had used too much, and his eyes watered as the liquid ran into his eyes, nose, and mouth.
When he’d finished scrubbing his hair, Thomas squirted the orange-scented shower gel into his hand. The smell filled the room as the steam from the shower made him feel like he had died and gone to heaven. He lingered overlong under the spray, marveling at how the water came from the pipes, but it finally started to turn warm and then cold, so he reluctantly dried off, wrapping the towel around his waist, one more task to tend to.
There was a can called “shaving cream” along with a pink instrument with two small blades. Eyeing the small blade dubiously, he shook the can and pressed the top, the resulting amount overflowing his hand, landing on the sink, mirror, and floor.
“Bloody hell,” he yelped, jumping back. With another curse, Thomas cleaned up the best he could, smeared another handful of foam on his face, and held up the tiny pink blade, squinting at it.
“How hard could it be?” He knew later, as he stood looking at himself in the mirror, peering at the five small cuts on his face, that it would take him some time to get used to using the small instrument. There was a knock at the door, and he opened it.
“I wanted to tell you how to use the— Oh my, let me get you some tissue paper.” Penelope pulled a square from the roll next to the toilet, tore it into pieces, and stuck them on his face. “There, it’ll stop the bleeding.” Then she stepped back, her eyes huge as she took him in.
“I’ll just leave you to get dressed.” She ducked out the door and turned around, handing him a stack of clothing. “These belonged to a friend’s brother, and I think they’ll fit. He’s in the military and isn’t home very often, but he always keeps a change of clothes here when he stops by to recharge his soul at the beach.”
She looked at him again, and Thomas thought of England, counted sheep—anything to forget the look of interest on her face so he would not embarrass himself in front of her.
The door shut, and he let loose a low, throaty chuckle. She found him pleasing and well formed. He would like to bed her— she had the lush curves a man could hold on to through the cold winter nights; she was the kind of woman he would go to war for, to keep for his own.
Dressed in the formfitting soft pants and shirt, he found her on the sofa. Once again he was struck by the view in front of him, the waves seeming to start right outside of her window.
“I thank you for aiding me in the use of the wondrous bathing chamber.”
His stomach growled, and she put down a book, blinking at him, the corner of her mouth twitching.
“Wow, those won’t do at all. And by the sound of your stomach, you’re starved.” She stood up, and he admired her form, the long dress concealing and revealing as she moved. He swore he could watch her forever and not call the days wasted. If only he did not have the heavy mantle of duty calling him home.
“Let’s go to the store and find you something better to wear, and then we’ll get something to eat. You like pizza, right?”
SEVEN
Penelope wanted to fan herself after getting an eyeful when she barged in on Thomas in the shower. The broad expanse of chest, the heavily muscled arms and legs, the scars, new and old—whatever his history, it had been violent. But she did the nice thing and averted her eyes—well, she did sneak in a couple more glances here and there. After all, what red-blooded woman wouldn’t with that kind of beauty in her bathroom?
“My wounds are almost healed. ’Tis faster than they have ever healed.”
For a moment she heard the words, but they didn’t register; she was busy looking at his washboard abs. Then she shook herself. “If you were in the ocean a long time, maybe that’s what did it.”
He shuddered.
“What?” She watched him closely, hoping he was having a breakthrough, remembering something about himself or his family.
“In the water, during the storm, I felt a sea monster bump me before taking me down to what I thought was my watery grave, where it would swallow me whole if I was lucky, or tear me to shreds and feast on my entrails.”
“Yuck, that’s a disgusting image I won’t easily get out of my head anytime soon.” She pursed her lips. “More likely it was a shark or a curious octopus. Lucky you, it wasn’t hungry. But you know…it might have been nothing more than a piece of debris from the boat you were on.”
“Nay, I went over the cliff, took Roger with me. At least that useless lackwit is dead.” He grinned at her. “It was a sea monster.”
“I hate to burst your bloodthirsty bubble, but how can you be sure he’s dead? After all, you survived.”
“Bloody hell, I pray the bastard is dead,” he muttered, and when his stomach rumbled again, she jolted out of her daydreams of having him around…for, well, a while. She led him out the front door and down the steps to the car. He eyed it uncertainly.
“We go in this? Where are the horses?”
“Guess you still think you’re some kind of medieval knight? There are no horses. This is a horseless carriage; it goes on gasoline, liquid food. Get in—she doesn’t bite.”
He stood still, not moving as she got into the car, and when he still hadn’t moved, she reached over and unlocked the door. As Thomas gingerly settled himself in the seat, she wanted to laugh. It was like a clown car with fifty clowns compressed inside; he took up all the space, making the car feel a tenth its size.
“It’s a good thing it’s nice out today. I’ll put the top down.”
She started up the engine of the MG, and he jumped, clutching the dash.
“Saints, what is that foul noise?” His hand went to his side again, and for a moment she wondered if he was telling the truth—he really thought he always carried a sword. It was something she needed to think about.
Top down, she turned in the seat to look at him. There was sweat above his lip, and he was pale, eyes rolling around like a nervous horse, and she thought for a moment he might be sick. Penelope placed a hand on his arm, and when he turned his face to hers, she held his gaze.
“You’re safe, I promise. This is how we get from place to place. It may sound loud, and we’re going to go quite fast, but I promise you, I’ve got your back.”
He swallowed and, with a tight nod, turned his gaze to the interior of the car. Catching sight of her seatbelt, he frowned, reached for his own, and after a few tries managed to buckle himself in.
“Ready?”
He nodded. “Aye, lead on, lady.”
“Please call me Penelope.”
“As you wish, la—Penelope.”
Maybe she should have called Mildred to drive them. Penelope had to keep telling herself to drive slower, as she had a well-deserved reputation around Holden Beach for having a heavy foot. Thank goodness it was only a fifteen-
minute drive to the shopping center, because he held on as if he were afraid she was going to jump the car off the bridge or execute a roll and send him flying to his death.
They pulled into a parking spot. Thomas remained seated, his knuckles white, the tendons in his hands standing to attention, so quietly she went around and opened his door, offering her hand, which he clasped as if it were a life preserver thrown to a drowning man. Guess she really needed to work on slowing down a bit.
“You sure you’re not going to throw up?”
His hand was clammy, but he squared his shoulders. “A Wilton does not swoon. ’Tis the motion of this horseless carriage; makes my entrails churn.”
Deciding to keep quiet, she led him into the store and straight to the men’s department. He did look ridiculous—the sweatpants were more like capri leggings, and the sweatshirt showed a tantalizing glimpse of his stomach, which made her feel like a teenager all over again, crushing on a good-looking guy in her classes.
“It’s really hot this time of year, you’ll probably want short sleeves and either shorts or lightweight pants.” She led him over to a rack of golf shirts in a multitude of colors.
“There are so many to choose from.” He touched the material, stroking the shirt. “’Tis such fine cloth. Where are the weavers?”
“They’re in another country.”
He looked pale again, then regained his equilibrium and sorted through the shirts, efficient in his movements, which she could appreciate, given how much she detested shopping.
Penelope reached in and held up an orange shirt to him. The color was off, but… “I think you’re going to need an extra large, based on your shoulders and chest.” She had to tilt her head back to look up at him; she guessed he must be about six foot three to her five eight. The rack spun, and she reached in, pulling out an azure shirt that reminded her of the sky.
“Try this one—look for the XL on the tag.”
As he moved to the extra-large shirts, she left him to pick out a few pairs of shorts. The weather app said it would be in the nineties and humid, so he’d be coolest in the shorts.
My One and Only Knight Page 3