Peter enjoyed the good natured ribbing, until Edgar wiggled his eyebrows and said, “But will she still be a maiden on the return journey?”
The urge to punch both his lifelong friends intensified when Hugh giggled and exclaimed too loudly, “I doubt that one’s a virgin anyway. Did you see the tits?”
Peter got to his feet. “I think we’ve all had a bit too much to drink. Come on.”
“Aren’t we having a sweet?” Edgar whined.
“No, I’ve already settled the bill,” Peter replied over his shoulder.
His friends followed him into the warm air of a summer’s evening. Faint traces of pink lingering in the sky promised fair weather for the ride. “I’m going to pass on a nightcap,” he declared, forestalling Hugh. “Have a good holiday. See you when you get back.”
His pal pouted. “Yes. Okay. Goodnight.”
They shook hands and parted. He walked to his tube station, pondering the strange quirks life could take. He’d thought that earning his PhD would be a life-changing event, yet something indefinable had happened tonight which he sensed would have far greater consequences. If only he knew what it was.
He didn’t have long to wait for a train. It was full when it arrived and packed by the time it pulled away. He looped his hand into one of the overhead straps, swaying with the movement of the train. He closed his eyes as the rhythm of his thoughts played over and over in his subconsciousness.
Pink streaks in the sky
Pink hair
Pink nipples
He’d travelled this line so often he knew instinctively when his station was coming up. As the train pulled to a stop he roused from his trance and stepped onto the platform. Without warning, in the midst of a crush of people hurrying out of the station, an image of Susie’s pink clit popped into his head.
He paused and leaned back against the tiled wall, hoping the rock-hard erection would subside before he embarked on the five minute walk to his flat.
The notion a waitress had bewitched him was too laughably medieval to contemplate, yet somehow he’d fallen under her spell.
It was the strangest thing. Whenever Susie got off the tube late at night, she dreaded the short walk home. Tonight she didn’t feel alone and afraid, even though she was carrying a garment bag that might prove tempting to a street thug.
The knight walked beside her.
She knew it was ridiculous. The Templar was a figment of her overactive dreams. Yet, she felt the urge to let him know how things were progressing.
“I’m going to Cressing tomorrow,” she told him. “To the Medieval Weekend.”
A dog barked somewhere in the distance.
“That’s where de Norrels was Preceptor, right?”
A neighborhood cat darted across the street.
She lifted the bag. “This is my medieval costume. It’s a bit too revealing, but the man who’s giving me a lift is okay. He won’t take advantage.”
The Rose and Crown sign hanging on the wall of the pub squeaked when the wind caught it.
“I’m not sure why I’m going really, but it’s interesting Peter is going too, don’t you agree?”
The street light outside her building still made its weird buzzing sound as it flickered on and off.
“The Council’s never going to fix that, you know,” she told him. “Good thing my flat’s not on the street side.”
Safely inside, she hung up the garment bag and slipped off her shoes. “It’s funny,” she confided. “I hear those sounds every night and they always give me the willies. Tonight they didn’t bother me.”
She hummed as she made a cup of cocoa, set the alarm and got ready for bed. “Will you be at Cressing?” she asked, sipping the last of the cocoa before settling down for the night.
He didn’t need to reply. She knew he’d be there.
The Ride
Peter shrugged off his disappointment when Susie waved. It was lame-brained to expect her to be wearing the medieval costume, though why girls favored jeans slashed at the knees was beyond him. At least she’d had the common sense to wear the leather jacket.
He pulled over in the loading zone outside the station as she hurried towards him.
He set the kickstand and unbuckled the spare helmet.
She seemed bothered when he handed it to her and she passed him a garment bag. For a moment, he was afraid she was going to back out of the excursion and he realized to his surprise he’d looked forward to giving her a lift. Perhaps she just didn’t want to flatten her spiky hair. “Rules of the road,” he said.
She accepted the helmet and put it on. “It’s silly,” she replied, tilting her chin so he could help fasten the strap. “I thought you’d be wearing the Templar tunic.”
It felt good that she seemed comfortable enough to admit it. He rolled up the garment bag and stuffed it into one of the lockable hard-bags. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing about your outfit.”
Her blue eyes widened and she grinned. “I suppose we would look kinda silly.”
Her first genuine smile sent his hormones into overdrive again. She was beautiful when she stopped frowning. He regained his seat, not looking forward to an hour of riding with a rigid erection. “Hop on,” he said, then wished he’d used a different turn of phrase.
She straddled the seat behind him without hesitation.
“You’ve ridden a motorcycle before,” he said, though it confirmed his earlier opinion she was a biker chick.
“Yes,” she replied. “My brother had one. This is his jacket.”
He lifted the kickstand with the heel of his boot feeling slightly off-balance. That wasn’t the answer he expected. “Does he not ride anymore?”
“No,” she replied, shifting her weight. “He totalled it in a crash on the M6.”
“And never got another?”
“He died at the scene.”
A wave of protectiveness rolled over him. He wanted to switch off the engine and rock her in his arms, but a commissionaire was striding in their direction, parking ticket dispenser at the ready. “I’m sorry,” he said lamely. “Hold on.”
She put her arms round his waist and leaned into him as they pulled away from the kerb. The press of her body against his did nothing to alleviate the thickening at his groin, but suddenly he was a knight errant carrying a damsel in distress to safety.
Such fanciful notions weren’t his style. “I’ve definitely spent too much time with the Templars,” he muttered under his breath.
Susie never spoke of Keith’s accident. The loss was too painful, even after four years. Her brother was the only thing that made living at home in Wales tolerable. He was her friend, her ally, her twin. It was the two of them against the world—Keith and Susie keeping each other sane amid the alcohol-fueled depression of their parents. She still resented him for abandoning her.
If she hadn’t secured a place at Uni she’d have left Penmaenpool anyway. Life on a remote hill farm tending Welsh Black cattle held no appeal.
It felt strange being back on a motorcycle, something she’d avoided since the accident, but there wasn’t much traffic this early on a Saturday morning and Peter navigated the relatively quiet streets with careful confidence.
They soon reached the Motorway and her eyes drifted shut as they picked up speed. A late night and the crack-of-dawn alarm began to take their toll. She rested her cheek against Peter’s back. The sun had warmed the leather jacket. As the purr of the powerful engine vibrated through her, she snuggled into him, tightening her grip around his waist, feeling freer and more relaxed than she had for a long time. Memories of riding pillion behind her tearaway brother resurfaced—except Peter was broader, more solid, more reliable.
She and her knight were off on an adventure. The gnawing worry about saving up for her dream seemed to have melted away—for today at least. Perhaps it was an omen that they would discover the treasure.
Peter worried Susie might have fallen asleep. It was unexpectedly exhilarating having her cling
to him, but he was afraid she might tumble off the bike. He slowed down and took the exit ramp for the Welcome Break rest stop at Birchanger Green. “I thought we’d grab a coffee,” he shouted over his shoulder when she stirred.
He had an ulterior motive. Maybe a bit of probing might reveal what she knew about de Norrels. There’d be a big crowd at Cressing—not much chance to talk once they arrived. She’d probably wander off and he could hardly follow her around everywhere.
Not wanting to leave the bike, he opted for the Starbucks drive-thru.
“Nothing for me, thanks,” she said over his shoulder while they waited in line.
“Sure you don’t want anything? I’m having a lo-fat latte.”
She hesitated only a moment, but it dawned on him she was perhaps careful with her funds. He tended to forget how fortunate he was. “My treat,” he said as they pulled up to the microphone, ordering before she had a chance to refuse.
He picked up the drinks at the window and passed them to her. “I’ll find a spot near an empty bench,” he said.
That promise turned out to be easier said than done in the crowded parking lot, but eventually he found a space. She hopped off the bike when he killed the engine and held both coffees while he took off his helmet and secured it to the bike. Then they traded and she removed her headgear.
“Good teamwork,” he joked.
She ran her hands through flattened hair. “I probably look a fright.”
“I like you better without the spikes,” he admitted, wishing he hadn’t mentioned it when she scowled at him. He gave her the latte and gestured to the bench. “After you.”
As she sat down, she undid the studs of her jacket to reveal a small change purse on a strap around her body. “You didn’t have to buy me coffee,” she began. “I can pay my own way.”
The pride in her voice hinted at resentment and he recalled the way she’d stared at his credit card. He began to get the feeling money was tight, and the last thing he wanted to do was offend her. “You can get the next ones, then,” he replied before sitting down to take a sip of his latte.
“Do you like working at the pub?” he asked after a few minutes of awkward silence.
“Sometimes.”
“I suppose people can be hard to deal with when they’ve had a few drinks.”
She nodded.
He worried she might have overheard Hugh’s indelicate remarks about her breasts. “I’m sorry about my friends last night. They were rude. They’re actually nice guys.”
She shrugged and took another sip. “After my outburst during your panel they probably think I’m a loser anyway.”
Here was the opening he’d hoped for. He decided not to beat about the bush. “Speaking of which, your mention of de Norrels has me intrigued. What do you know about him?”
She blushed then swung her legs straight out and stared at her sandals. “Nothing—except he was given the logs.”
“How did you find this out?”
She sipped, glanced at him quickly, then sipped again. “The knight told me,” she whispered so softly he barely heard.
“Knight?”
“He told me in a dream.”
He clenched his jaw and stared at her knees peeking out of the torn jeans, tempted to tell her he didn’t appreciate being monkeyed about. She could bloody well walk the rest of the way to Cressing if that was the game she was going to play. “In a dream,” he repeated sarcastically, tossing his empty cup into a nearby waste bin.
Sounds Good
Susie should have kept her mouth shut. Peter Bateson wasn’t the sort of person who believed in dreams and visions and premonitions. She stood and threw the half-full cup into the trash. “Forget it,” she hissed, trying to refasten the studs of Keith’s jacket with trembling hands.
He stalked after her. They came face to face across the bike. She averted her eyes from his angry gaze, not sure why she cared that he was upset.
He put on his helmet and fiddled with the strap. “If you don’t want to reveal the source of your information,” he said, “I get that. But don’t insult my intelligence with talk of dreams.”
She’d learned from years of bitter arguments with her parents that she couldn’t win a confrontation. She wasn’t good at it. Emotion tied her tongue in knots, so she said nothing as anger boiled inside her. He’d misunderstood her reasons for going to Cressing and jumped to the wrong conclusions.
When he thrust the helmet into her hands, she lost control. “I thought you offered me a lift out of the goodness of your heart,” she hissed, “but you were only interested in picking my brain. You’re not the chivalrous knight I mistook you for.”
She immediately regretted the stupid remark. They weren’t living in the Middle Ages. He must think her an idiot.
Jaw clenched, he glared, then straddled the bike and started the engine. “Hurry up,” he shouted, “this parking lot is notorious for the time it takes to re-enter the motorway.”
She sat behind him, grimly gripping the rail of her seat as he revved the bike out of the parking lot and into the slow-moving exiting traffic. She closed her eyes as he jockeyed for position and moved ahead in the line, earning obscene suggestions and gestures from several drivers. Her back soon ached with the effort of remaining rigidly upright as he sped onto the motorway and the journey resumed.
She’d been silly to hope he might like her once they got to know each other. The first man she’d been attracted to had proven to be mercenary—except he wasn’t interested in her body. He coveted what she knew, which ironically was nothing. It was time to accept she would always be a loner, a foolish misfit who believed in dreams and buried treasure.
Peter prided himself on his careful handling of motorbikes. He’d taken a course on motorcycle safety and soaked up as many tips as he could on the subject from the internet.
Now he was streaking up the M11 as if the hounds of hell were after him. Susie was probably holding on for dear life, scared out of her wits. Thoughtful of him after she’d shared the circumstances of her brother’s death.
He eased up on the throttle and relaxed his tense shoulders, wishing she would lean into him again. He missed the feel of her body against his back.
He blamed himself for the sudden collapse of their easy camaraderie. He’d crafted a careful strategy to elicit information from her, then she’d blown his mind with talk of knights appearing in dreams. He didn’t believe in such poppycock, but perhaps she genuinely did. He tended to jump to the wrong conclusions—not a desirable trait for a good researcher.
Her accusation that he wasn’t chivalrous rankled. He considered himself a gentleman. He’d offered her a ride after all.
So you could assess the threat level to your thesis.
A non-existent threat if she’d merely dreamt about de Norrels.
That didn’t make sense either. Why would an obscure fourteenth century templar knight pop into the dreams of a sleeping waitress in the twenty-first century?
The throb of the engine roared in his beleaguered brain, but by the time he found a spot in the crowded parking lot at Cressing Temple he’d calmed, especially when he discovered there was no charge for motorcycles.
Susie got off the bike, removed her helmet and looked around uncertainly.
“Give me your jacket,” he said, shrugging his own off his shoulders.
She glanced at him sharply. “I’ll carry it with me.”
Dismayed by the suspicion in her big blue eyes, he took off his helmet. “Look, I appreciate it means a lot to you, but it will be quite safe here. I lock my stuff to the bike all the time. You won’t enjoy yourself if you’re lumbered with the jacket all day.”
She hesitated, then undid the studs, slipped it off and handed it to him.
“I brought two lengths of cable just to be sure,” he said, handing her the garment bag she’d brought.
Teeth clamped on her bottom lip, she watched him thread the cables through the sleeves and the helmet buckles. “Good idea,” s
he conceded as the U-lock clicked into place.
He cast about for somewhere to change. “Meet you back here in five minutes,” he told her, pointing to the row of green Porta-loos set up at the edge of the lot.
Pouting, she studied her feet, garment bag clutched to her chest. “Don’t feel you have to babysit me all day,” she muttered.
He took a chance and ran his fingers through her hair, resurrecting pink tips flattened by the helmet and rekindling a pleasant tingling at his groin. “Listen. We got off on the wrong foot. I apologise for losing my temper. I propose we change, come back here and put our clothing in the hard bags, then we’ll explore. How does that sound?”
He was relieved when she nodded. “Sounds good.”
He just wished she’d said it with a smile.
Susie waited a minute or two for a vacant Porta-loo. It wasn’t the ideal place to change into a costume. There was hardly any room and nowhere to hang stuff. Wrinkling her nose against uncertain odors, she undressed and stuffed her jeans and T-shirt into the bottom of the plastic garment bag. The floor was wet; getting into the costume with the bag tucked under her arm proved to be a challenge, particularly when it came to lacing up the corset. Without the benefit of a mirror she had to rely on a quick glance down to make sure her boobs weren’t flowing over the top of the white blouse.
She’d looked forward to spending the day with an intelligent and good-looking man, but that was all ruined now. He’d probably make some excuse to get away from her quickly.
She fastened the ties of the medieval bonnet, did a quick sniff-check of her underarms—not that there was anything she could do to remedy sweaty pits—and hurried out of the torture chamber, the bag clutched to her chest.
Lifting the long skirt’s hem out of the gravel, she noticed her toes were already dusty. Perhaps sandals weren’t a good idea, but trainers and medieval garb…no!
Knightly Dreams Page 4