by Webb, Peggy
"Gee, how lucky can a girl get?" She glanced at her furry bodyguard. His ears perked, and he went into a half-crouch, as if he were getting ready to spring on her and eat her up.
"Okay now, down, boy. Down. Or is it girl?" She knotted the sheet around her breasts, then held her hand toward him, palm out, pretending more confidence than she felt. "Stay, boy. Stay. I'm going to get dressed."
As much as she hated the thought of putting beautiful clothes over a dirty body, she wasn't about to go trailing around the castle in a sheet with a wolf at her heels, looking for a man who met his lover in the rose garden at night
On the other hand, he might be a nice change from the inscrutable, dictatorial Dragon.
She bathed from the basin as best she could, then dressed herself in her borrowed finery and set out to explore. Her heart beat like the wings of a trapped hummingbird as she stepped outside the relative safety of the bedroom and into another world.
o0o
Dragon watched her from afar. She'd gone to the rose garden first, Shadow and Laird at her side, and there she'd been as enchanted as a child, racing among the blossoms, bending to sniff, to admire. She'd turned to Laird, obviously asking permission before she plucked a blossom and tucked it behind her ear.
The white rose nested against her fiery curls as if it belonged there. She was meant to be adorned with flowers.
Next she discovered the stables, and fired a million questions at Laird. Dragon couldn't hear her questions, but he could tell by the look on Laird's face that they were both intelligent and outrageous. Laird was by turns as serious as a tutor and as tickled as a man who'd won a jousting match.
Dragon envied him. He wanted to be the one to instruct and amuse Lydia. He wanted to be the one to see her face as she made each new discovery.
But proximity was dangerous; truth was best discovered from a distance.
All Laird knew about the woman was that Dragon had found her wounded in the forest, that her name was Lydia, and that she had strange hallucinations. Dragon had named her illness amnesia brought on by the dragon attack. He thought it a kinder explanation than lunatic.
As he watched she dismissed Laird, then crossed the drawbridge, Shadow at her side. As long as the wolf was beside her, she could not escape and she would be safe.
He reined his stallion into the trees atop a ridge overlooking a vista that included his fields and woods as well as the sea beyond. At the end of the drawbridge, Lydia hesitated, glancing in all directions. The path she chose led to the meadows. Arms flung wide, she raced, Shadow tearing along at her heels. Then her feet tangled in her skirt and she went down.
Dragon leaned low over the stallion, urging him forward. He was halfway down the ridge when Lydia got up and dusted herself off. Dragon stilled his horse, watching.
She stuck out her chin, shook her fist, then gathered her skirts up and tied them in a knot. Her legs were slender and brown. He knew them well, knew the silkiness of her skin, the size and shape of the muscles that set Lydia apart from other women he'd known. This woman from another world had the firm, well-toned legs of a runner and the punch of a stout adolescent boy.
But there was nothing at all boyish about her as she surveyed the terrain, hiked up her skirts, and set off running, her bare legs gleaming in the sunshine.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dragon was honing his skills with his sword, with Laird as his reluctant partner.
"Tell me everything she said today . . . and use that shield properly. I could have brought blood in your left shoulder."
"God's whiskers, how am I supposed to defend myself and talk about the wench at the same time?"
Laird was a far better swordsman than he claimed. He was one of the reasons for Dragon's skill. He was a partner in frequent practice sessions, filling in the gap left when King Arthur conquered his enemies then instigated the practice of negotiation instead of war.
"I have confidence in you, Laird."
"Well, I don't like this business of being a spy. I'm not constitutionally suited to it."
"Lancelot's manservant doesn't talk to him that way."
"Jax's brain is the same size as his winkie; both would fit in Marie's thimble." Laird thrust toward Dragon's right. "Almost got you. You'd better keep your mind on the game."
"What did the girl say?"
"About what?" Laird's eyes twinkled.
"Cheeky servants will be flogged at dawn."
"She asked if I was a good lover." Dragon let him have his fun. Laying aside his shield and sword, he swabbed his sweaty face with a cloth, then waited. He knew the art of patience.
"God's nightgown, she asked more questions than any wench I've ever seen. She wanted to know the names of every tree and bush and flower, every bird and animal, she asked what kind of meat she had for breakfast and how it was cooked, she asked what breed of horses we have and could she ride. She wore me out with her questions."
"I'm sure you're up to the challenge."
"Is that your way of telling me I have to play nursemaid again?"
"Yes. As long as Lydia is our guest, you will be her companion as well as her tutor."
The way Laird studied him, Dragon knew questions were coming, questions he wasn't prepared to answer. As he hung up his sword he pictured Lydia racing with her skirts up.
"Did she ask anything about me?"
"Nothing."
Was that disappointment Dragon felt? "Good," he said. "If she does, tell her nothing."
o0o
Lydia was jarred out of sleep. For a moment she thought she was back in her apartment, then she felt his presence in the room. Dragon. The man who ruled his castle and everything in it from a lofty and safe distance.
She waited, wondering why he was there, what he was going to do. She'd had her first taste of freedom that day, freedom to do everything except leave. She'd discovered wondrous plants and flowers in the woods, strange birds, trees unlike any she'd ever seen. And the castle and grounds were something straight out of legend.
At the end of the day, exhausted from excitement and exploration, she'd eaten meat she didn't want to identify at a long table in an enormous room with raftered ceilings, all by herself.
And now here he was. The master of the castle.
Lydia held herself still. She wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of asking questions, even of acknowledging his presence.
She never even heard his footsteps, but suddenly he was beside her on the bed, sitting so close, his hip touched hers. He pulled back the sheet. His hands were gentle as they traced the reddened welts on her back, tender as they applied the salve.
Lydia held her breath until she thought she might faint, then she expelled it in a long, slow sigh. She was so tired, and the massage felt so good that she closed her eyes and gave herself over to the pleasure of his touch. If she tried hard enough, she could almost believe that she was back home enjoying the tender attentions of someone who loved her, someone who would never give her a fake diamond, then take back his false promises via the telephone. Long distance at that. That coward Trent Brandon had driven all the way to Memphis just to tell her he didn't love her.
At least he'd had to pay long distance rates.
Dragon set the salve back on the bedside table. She waited for him to leave, waited for his weight to leave her bed. Then his hands were on her once more, gentle and comforting as they caressed her bare back.
Lydia felt deprived when she lost the warm weight of his hands. Dragon left the room as quietly as he had come, and for a moment she lay there with her thoughts spinning and her head full of questions.
She got out of bed and padded to the window, the sheet a silk mantle over her shoulders, goose bumps rising on her arms. Nights were cold in Camelot.
Camelot. Another world. Another time.
Another fatal attraction.
Lydia leaned her cheek against the cold stone window ledge. If she thought Memphis was a long distance for a Dear John call, wait till she tried to g
et one from Camelot.
"Face the facts, girl," she said.
Lydia was no fool. She knew she was losing her heart to a man she could never have, never in several hundred years. Five or six hundred, to be exact.
If she thought she was in agony now, wait a few more days, a few more weeks. Dragon was the most tempting man she'd ever known, a true knight in shining armor. And there was only so much temptation a woman in her condition could stand.
There was only one thing to do: Go home. But how? How had she arrived in Camelot, and how could she leave?
Lydia tried to recall every detail of her last evening at home, the jog, the chair, the book, the ring. A slash of moonlight caught the eyes of the dragon, and they blinked at her. Could it be the ring?
She remembered putting it on her finger, remembered how the eyes had glowed that evening. But then what? Maybe she'd rubbed it, or twisted it.
"Here goes." She stroked the dragon's head. Nothing. Stroked the tail. Nothing. Rubbed the entire ring with all her might. And still she stood on a cold stone floor in the castle of a knight named Dragon in a mystical place called Camelot.
Her lips quivered, and the wolf padded over, tilted his head, then lay at her feet
"You know, don't you, Shadow? You feel my agony, don't you?"
Lydia closed her eyes and twisted the ring, once, twice, three times. Her mind was filled with the image of flames and the sound of wind. She held her breath, braced for takeoff. The flames were so real, she could hear the crackle, feel the heat.
Something lurched inside her. Was she moving, flying through space, traveling through time? She kept her eyes closed until there was nothing in her mind except blackness, a total void. Slowly she opened her eyes.
Shadow whined, and the stone ledge felt like ice underneath her fingers. There was nothing left to do but make the best of her situation.
o0o
For three days Dragon watched her from a distance, avoiding all contact except the nightly forays into her bedchamber. Foolhardy mission. Dangerous obsession.
Each night it was the same. Silently he applied the salve, and silently she accepted. He knew when she woke up and knew when she fell asleep. But neither of them broke the silence.
Was it a game with them, or was it war?
o0o
He was summoned to the castle on the evening of the fourth day. Arthur was waiting in the throne room.
"Dragon, I want a private word with you."
Had King Arthur found out about the girl? Was it possible that someone had come onto his estate unawares and glimpsed the red-haired wench racing through his fields, hair flying, bare legs pumping? Or perhaps they had heard her the previous day as she'd romped on the seashore, singing. The songs were unlike any he'd ever heard, the rhythms totally unfamiliar, the lyrics sometimes mournful, sometimes snappy, sometimes bawdy.
Dragon steeled himself. "I'm at your service, as always."
"As always." Arthur smiled. "The Lady Guinevere will arrive next week, the Lord willing."
"Lancelot will see to her safety."
"I've no doubt he will. This conversation is not about Guinevere's journey."
What then? Dragon's guilty secret?
In a conversational ploy typical of the king, Arthur changed topics.
"We missed you at the falconing yesterday. I daresay Percival would not have won if you had been there with Bathsheba."
"True. Bathsheba is a fine bird."
"Well trained. It seems you do all things well, Dragon."
Dragon accepted the compliment with an inclination of his head. Then with a twinkling eye and disarming quickness, Arthur zeroed in.
"As you know, there will be many prenuptial festivities. I want the Lady Guinevere to be highly entertained. Lancelot will wear her colors at the joust. I want you to be his opponent."
Lancelot was the best, therefore the logical choice to wear the future queen of Camelot's colors. But what Dragon lacked in skill at the joust, he would make up for with endurance and determination. They would be well matched, and Guinevere would be well entertained.
"I'll give him a good run," he said.
"Quite so." Arthur turned to leave, then turned back casually, as if the most important thing he had to say was an afterthought. "Oh, and by the way, I want you to be in charge of security the week of the prenuptial festivities."
All the knights had assumed that honor would go to Lancelot. By way of explanation, the king added, "Lancelot will be assigned as the Lady Guinevere's personal bodyguard."
Dragon stood in the flame-lit hall as the king's footsteps echoed down the corridor. How could he serve as the king's chief of security when he harbored a woman who might be the king's mortal enemy?
It was time to close the distance and find out the truth.
o0o
Lydia knew the moment Dragon entered her room.
There was no longer a need for his nightly vigil, for her wounds were merely faint red lines.
So why was he there? She lay still, waiting for the moment he would draw back the sheet, anticipating the moment he would touch her.
"Lydia."
She thought about not answering, but decided against it. Dragon took what he wanted. Silence would gain her nothing.
"I'm here." She sat up, the sheet pulled high. "Why have you come?"
"I'll ask the questions." He tossed something heavy onto the bed. "Put this on."
"What is it?"
"You are the most maddening wench I've ever known. It's a robe. Put it on or I'll carry you out naked. The choice is yours."
"Gee, life is so simple in the castle. Do what the master says or face the consequences."
"Exactly."
She reached toward the end of the bed, and her fingers closed over fur.
"Turn your back," she said. "Not that you haven't seen everything already."
He made no comment as he faced the wall. The robe was ermine, rich and luxurious. Its sleeves hung below her fingertips and its hem dragged a good foot behind her.
Obviously the robe belonged to Dragon. Hidden in the dark, she scrunched her neck down like a turtle, buried her face in the fur, and inhaled the heady scents of its owner. She was going to feel like a fool if he turned around and caught her.
"The ASPCA is not going to like this," she said.
"Are you ready?" he said.
"Ready for what?" He scooped her off her feet so fast, her head spun. "What do you think you're doing? Put me down."
"It's dark, you don't know your way, and the robe is long. I don't want you to trip and fall."
"How kind of you."
He ignored her sarcastic jab, but there was no way she could ignore the way she felt in his arms. Delirious. Heavenly. And strangely safe.
She'd read stories about women like her, women who fell in love with their kidnappers, some of them who even became thieves or worse, all for love of a dangerous man.
Not that she was falling in love, not by a long shot, but she was definitely feeling sparks.
As Dragon stepped into the dark, cavernous hallway, he cuddled her tightly against his chest.
Make that a whole forest fire, she amended.
Lydia did what any sane, sensible woman would do: She found the perfect spot for her cheek, that delicious hollow at the base of his throat, wound her arms around his neck, tangled her fingers in his soft, dark hair, and enjoyed the heck out of every miraculous moment she spent in his arms.
But, of course, she didn't want him to know any of that. Let him think she was merely hanging on for dear life.
"First you sic a wolf on me, then you kidnap me and go stalking off to heaven only knows where." For a moment she got sidetracked by her own fantasies. He was taking her to his bed, where he would peel back the ermine, then devour her inch by torturous inch. Or ... he was taking her to the rose garden, where he would spread her on the ground and cover her body with rose petals and kisses. Then, there were the stables. They would be nice. All that sweet-
smelling hay.
"Where are you taking me?"
"The dungeon."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lydia wasn't about to show terror. Even when she saw the leg chains and the torture racks.
Maybe he was into kinky sex. She hoped.
Her arms tightened around him, and she shivered, even wrapped in ermine.
"Are you cold?"
"Yes." A lie, but better than the truth. She wasn't about to let him know she was scared.
Torches on the wall cast eerie shadows. It was the stretching rack that terrified her most. She'd seen the movies. She knew how one of those things could pull you apart
"Well, Dorothy, this is not Kansas," she said.
"Dorothy?"
"Just another of my aliases." Her mother always told her she'd make jokes even if she were facing a firing squad.
"If only Mom could see me now."
Dragon prowled the dank depths of his dungeon, apparently trying to decide which torture toy he wanted to try first.
"Eenie, meenie, minie, mo," she said. "Just pick one and get it over with."
"You think I brought you here to torture you?"
"Well, didn't you?"
He set her on a stone bench in the center of his torture chamber, then leaned over her, one foot propped on the bench, elbow on his knee.
"I thought about it when you first came, but I changed my mind."
"Then I'm not going to be food for the fish?"
"No, Lydia, you're not going to be food for the fish." A smile flashed briefly across his face, then disappeared. "As long as you answer my questions truthfully."
"Is that all? Well, shoot, Sherlock"
"Lydia . . ." His brows drew together in warning.
"Just a joke."
"The truth, Lydia, no jokes."
"Okay, scout's honor." She gave him the Brownie Scout salute. "But why down here? I can tell you everything you need to know in the comfort of my own bedroom."
"My bedchamber, my decision."
She saluted. "Yes, boss."
Trent hated her jokes, her lighthearted manner, had claimed that she never took anything seriously, including him. But Dragon was smiling. A different century, a different kind of man.