by Webb, Peggy
CHAPTER FIVE
Phantomlike, he entered the room. The wolf lifted his massive head, and they stared at each other, beast and master. A silent understanding passed between them, and Shadow tucked his face between his paws and fell asleep.
Dragon stood over the bed, watching the rise and fall of the woman's breathing. The sheet clung to her, close as a lover, damp in patches where the salve had stained.
She was beautiful in the moonlight, like a mermaid risen from the sea, shining hair, droplets of moisture gleaming on her face. Dragon wet a cloth in the basin of water he'd brought to her bedside. Kneeling, he began to swab the fever from her brow—gently, willing her to stay in her slumber so he could keep his secret watch.
But the days had given her strength, and she stirred, softly at first, then with vigor and purpose.
"What?" She swatted at his hand, then her eyes flew open and she stared at him. "You!" With a suddenness that caught him off guard, she sat up in bed and socked him in the eye. Her fist was small but her aim was deadly. And her punch was far more powerful than he'd bargained for.
Laughing, he pinned both wrists with one hand and continued washing her face.
"You are feverish."
"If I have a fever, I'll wash my own face, thank you very much."
"You can't."
"Why not?"
"The wolf won't let you leave the bed to fetch the basin."
"Then I'll sweat it off like any normal red-blooded American girl."
If he got her mad enough to talk without thinking, he could learn much. Perhaps he might even learn why she was there without having to toss her into the dungeon—an idea that was becoming more and more distasteful to him.
"I thought normal girls liked it when men touched them."
"Only if they have permission. You don't have my permission."
"I didn't ask."
She struggled against his hold, then gave up. Strange, a sorceress giving up. Perhaps the fever had sapped her power. Perhaps she was being wily. Or perhaps she wasn't a necromancer after all.
Strange, the way foolish dreams were born.
"You can let go my hands now. I won't try to escape."
"Any attempt would be futile."
"I'm no dummy. I've already figured that out." She lifted her hair and tilted her head, exposing a neck as white and graceful as a swan's. "You missed a spot."
Her hair curled around his fingertips like something alive, like something that would snare him if he weren't careful. Dragon made quick work of her neck.
"Where did you go tonight?" she said, siren-like, her tender skin glowing like alabaster.
So this was her magic. He forced himself to look away.
"This is my castle. I'll ask the questions."
Dragon folded back the sheet and began to sponge her shoulders. She shivered.
"You undressed me, didn't you?"
"I did."
"Then I suppose it's foolish to ask if you're the one who smeared this smelly salve all over me."
His silence spoke for him. A patch of moonlight illuminated her face as she stared at him with eyes the color of a robin's egg. He'd never seen eyes quite that wide, quite that clear, quite that shining. A man could fall in love with a woman merely by looking into her eyes.
"Don't even consider doing it again," she said, the sheet rising and falling rapidly over her chest.
He folded the sheet once more, this time exposing her breasts, as round as chalices, as enticing as a cool river on a hot day.
"I would gladly let you apply the salve yourself, but the dragon wounded you in places you can't reach."
Sudden tears came to her eyes. "Then why don't you let me die? If you're going to keep me caged up like an animal, you might as well let me die." Her lower hp trembled. "Why don't you?"
"It would not be honorable to let you die until I know whether you are the enemy."
In one of her quicksilver changes of mood, she snatched the cloth and threw it in his face.
"I'm not the enemy, you bullheaded barbarian. I'm a bookseller from California who went to sleep in my chair and woke up in the woods somewhere with a dragon breathing down my neck."
The moon sailed low, sending a beam of light across the ring on Lydia's finger, a dragon carved in silver. The red eyes studied him. Something inside Dragon split in half, and all his beliefs, all his ideas tumbled like a stone wall under a battering ram.
He covered her with the sheet, then gently pried open her fist and gave her the damp cloth.
"The wolf and I will wait outside the door." He placed the salve on the table beside her bed. "When you have done all you can do, call and I will come in and take care of the wounds on your back"
He was halfway to the door when she called after him. "Can't this wait until morning?"
He suppressed his grin before he turned to her. Trust Lydia not to do anything without a fight.
"No."
"You don't have to be so bossy."
"This is my castle. I'm the boss."
"Boy, you take that old saying to extremes."
"What old saying?"
"A man's home is his castle."
Once again, she confounded him. But now that he had expanded his thinking to include the impossible, now that he entertained the notion that she might be from another time, he saw clues everywhere. He had never met a person who used so many phrases, words, and names he didn't understand. That alone was a vital clue, for though Dragon made no claims to the kind of intelligence Arthur possessed, he was the knight the king deferred to when a Round Table discussion went beyond the practical into the philosophical.
He thirsted for answers. He wanted to spread her possessions on the bed and discover the truth there and now. But he'd learned the danger of impulse at Arthur's feet.
"I'm glad to see that you're stronger, Lydia."
Her face softened. "That's the first time you've called me by my real name."
She touched him in remarkable ways, and Dragon turned quickly away. Until he knew the truth, the wise course would be to view her as a sorceress.
"Call when you want me." He summoned the wolf, then strode through the doorway with the speed of a hart racing from the hunter's arrow.
o0o
"Boy, does that man know how to choose his words," she muttered.
It felt good to be standing on her own feet without Dragon or the wolf watching. The first thing she did was race to the window. A full moon had broken through the clouds, and what Lydia saw took her breath away. She saw the battlements of a vast castle, a moat and drawbridge, formal gardens laid out with row upon row of white roses, moon-kissed and gleaming. And surrounding it all was a stone wall imposing enough to give her pause. How could she possibly escape over that wall? Naked, to boot? And what if she really was in Camelot?
Shivering, Lydia wrapped her arms around herself. It was, finally, the only explanation that made any sense. Who would want to kidnap her? She was practically penniless, and heaven knew her mother didn't have anything worth all this trouble. And if Trent Brandon hadn't thought she was worth a face-to-face confrontation when he'd broken their engagement, why in the world would he go to all this trouble, not to mention the expense, of such an elaborate hoax.
That left two options: She was crazy or she was in Camelot. Lydia rarely got the blues, let alone a full-fledged case of depression. She'd been more miffed than depressed when Trent had dropped her.
Strike off crazy. She was in Camelot
With a gorgeous knight standing outside her door waiting to caress her back. Not caress, exactly, but who was going to know the difference? She had nobody to tell, nobody to run to, and no place to run.
But how had she gotten there, and how could she ever go home?
Overcome, she sank onto the bed. Fear, excitement, curiosity, confusion, and loss all raged through her.
"Now what?"
While she pondered her dilemma, she applied the salve. It was unlike any she'd ever seen, thick
and smelly, of a peculiar shade of green that suggested it had come from plants. The amazing thing was that it worked. Not only did it soothe, but she was healing without scars.
Knotting the sheet around her breasts, Lydia returned to the window. She and Trent had planned to come to England on their honeymoon. They'd argued about where to stay, with Lydia pressing for one of the old castles that had been converted to a bed-and- breakfast inn and Trent holding out for something more modern in the heart of London.
"Boy, if Trent could see me now."
Lydia started to laugh, and as the sound trilled upward, she knew she wouldn't be able to stop. Not without help.
"Dragon." She gasped out his name, and he was at her side before she could call him a second time, hands gripping her shoulders, face bent close, eyes dissecting her, penetrating her until her laughter became something else, something far more dangerous than hysteria.
"I need you," she whispered.
His touch was tender, his mouth sweet, so sweet that she forgot she was in pain, forgot she was in Camelot, forgot everything except that he was a man and she was a woman. Male and female. Yin and yang. Earth and rain. Stardust and moonlight.
The kiss was pure magic. In that fleeting moment while he held her in his arms, continents and centuries merged, and Dragon was the only man she'd ever known.
She wasn't prepared for the kiss to end. Didn't want it to end.
When he drew back she was still puckered up, a teenager on her first date, a wide-eyed virgin who'd experienced her first taste of paradise. She retreated to the bed.
"You were near hysteria," he said, as if he could explain away magic.
What was she supposed to do? Thank him?
Not by a long shot. Somehow she'd found a way to travel through time, but Lydia didn't intend to be the only woman in California who had been jilted by a man per century.
"If you continue to keep me naked in your bed, you're liable to be dealing with something besides hysteria. I am a woman, you know." If he laughed, she was going to sock him.
He didn't
"Tomorrow I will bring you some clothes."
"I want my clothes. I want all my things."
"No."
"Then I'll just parade around in this sheet"
"Very well. But you'll have to take your chances with the servants." His eyes twinkled. "Laird has been without a woman for two years."
"I thought you were the boss of your castle."
"I can't control everything that goes on behind closed doors."
"Then bring me some clothes. Size six."
He arched an eyebrow, then cupped her breasts, his hands hot as branding irons. Slowly, ever so slowly he traced the contours of her body.
She could hardly breathe, let alone speak.
"Stand up," he said.
"What are you doing?" In spite of her protest, she did as she was told.
"Taking your measure."
His hands curved around her hips, cupped her buttocks, swung back around to pass lightly over her pelvic bones. She bit her lip to keep from shivering. She'd thought his kiss was heavenly, but what he was doing to her now set her in orbit. She shot past the stars and moon, circled Venus, and sped toward Jupiter, burning as she traveled.
"I think you've taken enough measure of that particular spot."
"On the contrary, Lydia. I've just begun."
CHAPTER SIX
A river lay in the hollow between her bones, a river that would suck him in and drown him. He circled his thumbs on her warm skin, reluctant to deprive himself of that forbidden pleasure. Consorting with the enemy. What else was he capable of?
The Round Table shone through his mind, bright as shields on a battlefield, bright as the crystals in Merlin's cave. The memory shamed him, and he let go of the enticing sorceress who sought to seduce him.
She sucked in a sharp breath, holding him in the steady regard of her blue eyes. For a moment he almost fell victim once more. Shadow's growl saved him.
"What . . ." Lydia said, but he clamped his hand over her mouth to quiet her. Willing her to silence with his eyes, Dragon glided to the window, little more than a shadow himself, and silently checked his estate. There was movement in the rose garden. Two shadows met, then merged, bodies as lithe as wheat in the wind.
Dragon chuckled.
"What is it?" Lydia said.
"Laird is finally out of his agony."
"The servant?"
"He's more than a servant; he's a trusted friend."
"Are you going to tell me what's going on, or are you going to keep me captive here in this bed for the rest of my natural life?"
Her spunk sparked his admiration. It was cruel to deprive her of all contact with the world, and he was not a cruel man.
"Come here and see for yourself."
Wrapped in the stained sheet, her hair tumbled, she looked like a homeless urchin. But she carried herself like a queen. He could almost imagine that the sheet trailing behind her was a robe of finest silk.
She stood close, her hair fiery in the moonlight, alive, mesmerizing. Standing on tiptoe, she peered into the garden. Dragon could have reached out and touched the soft cheek she pressed against the stone ledge.
"See them?" he said.
"Yes." She turned toward him, her face tipped up, tears streaming down her cheeks.
She amazed him, this woman of the strange ways, this woman who could sock him in the eye one minute and dissolve into tears the next.
"Why are you crying?"
"Because it's so beautiful."
"The garden is beautiful in the moonlight."
"I'm not talking about the garden. I'm talking about the two of them. I'm talking about love."
What Laird would be doing with the kitchen wench later in the stables could hardly be called love, but Dragon didn't contradict her. Instead he studied her. Lydia was a fascinating paradox. Her heart was fierce as a warrior's and tender as a dove's.
He was a knight with duties enough to keep any man's thoughts from straying to love. Love is for the weak was a favorite saying of the knights. But Dragon had always wondered. And now he questioned, but only himself and only in rare moments such as tonight when Arthur had glowed with happiness, and a woman with flames in her hair gazed at him through tears.
"I'll get the salve." Confusion was new to Dragon, and he wished he could consult Merlin, but too much was at stake. The mysteries of Lydia could only be solved by him.
"Can I stand by the window and watch?"
Would a witch ask? "Yes," he said, wondering.
o0o
Her back was a study of shadow and light, and his hands moved across that familiar terrain, feeling the kiss of her skin against his fingertips.
"This is for healing," he said, not knowing in that magical moonlit moment whether the healing was for him or her.
The next morning Lydia found clothes lying at the foot of her bed, the silks of her childhood dreams, soft as clouds. The kind of clothes that would float around her as she moved. She could picture herself drifting about the castle, her skirts whispering mysteriously. Dragon had chosen blue. Lydia was not without vanity. She liked to think he'd selected that color because of her eyes.
She swung her feet over the bed, then glanced at the wolf waiting in the corner.
"You're not going to attack, are you?"
Dragon appeared in the doorway. "He won't attack. He has his orders."
Lydia pulled the sheet up to her chin, blushing furiously. She didn't know how or why she'd been zapped into another world, but she thanked her lucky stars, her guardian angel, and any other powers watching over her that she'd landed in the castle of an intelligent, reasonably kind man. It didn't hurt that he was gorgeous, either.
"Don't you ever knock?"
"It's my castle. Everything in it belongs to me."
"I'm not your servant, and I'm certainly not your possession."
"You're my captive."
Lydia eyed the clothes with long
ing. "Does that mean I'm going to be all dressed up with no place to go?"
He chuckled. "No. You have the run of the castle and the grounds." Lydia was soaring like a hot-air balloon until he added the caveat. "Shadow will be your constant companion."
"How can I trust anybody with fangs?"
"His orders are to protect you as well as to guard you. He always obeys my orders." He turned to leave.
"Wait. . . ."
Now what? Poised in the doorway, he looked like something she ought to put in a lighted curio cabinet for people to drool over. Herself included. Gorgeous but untouchable. She knew she shouldn't ask the next question, knew it would mark her as a woman more than a little interested in a man, but heck, she was in Camelot. In a few minutes she was liable to wake up in her own bed in California. What did it matter if she made a fool of herself every now and then?
"Where are you going?"
"About my business."
Heat stung her cheeks, and she raked her heavy hair away from her face. "Not that I care, mind you. But there are certain things I need to know. For instance, where is the shower, the soap, the shampoo?" She was deliberately baiting him. Of course Camelot didn't have such things. He didn't know what she was talking about, but you'd never know by looking at him. "How will I take a bath? How will I eat?"
"Laird will provide all your needs. All you have to do is tell Shadow to take you to him."
"Great. I can just picture me and your manservant in the bathroom together. Maybe he'll scrub my back."
"Would you prefer that I do it, Lydia?" Was he laughing at her? Drat his inscrutable hide.
"What I would prefer is for you to get lost. Go out and slay dragons or whatever it is that knights do so I can get dressed in peace."
He took her at her word, mule-headed man that he was. Why did they all insist on taking everything a woman said literally? Didn't he know that when she told him to get lost, all she wanted was a hug? Here she was, a Southern belle in King Arthur's Court, so to speak, and she needed somebody to put his arms around her and tell her that everything was going to be all right. Even if it wasn't. She needed the comfort of fiction to get through this strange ordeal.
"Well, Lydia, old girl, I guess you're on your own," she said. Except for the wolf, of course.