Florida Knight

by Blair Bancroft

  “We’re not heavily loaded this trip,” Kate said. “If I’m vending, we have a mountain of stuff, but this time is easy.”

  This wasn’t heavily loaded? Michael shrugged. Packing wasn’t what was bothering him. If Kate stayed this impersonal, they were in trouble. No one—not even Bubba—would believe they were a couple. “I’ll drive,” he announced as Kate started to slide into the driver’s seat.

  Kate glared. Michael stood his ground, clamping his teeth over a strident urge to remind her he was FHP. That’s how much the woman messed with his mind. He’d come close to declaring—in front of Mona and Bubba—that he’d spent his entire career driving the highways of Florida. He swore at himself, while continuing to hold out his hand, palm up. He caught the moment when Kate remembered his warning, gave in to necessity. The long lashes above the blazing green eyes drooped. Her lips curled up. Only Michael could see the mockery. “Of course,” Kate purred, “that would be great.”

  Behind them, Mona reached across the aisle, clasped a hand over Bubba’s arm as he stirred in his captain’s chair. They both knew Kate never let anyone else drive her van. Something was surely up, but Mona had a feeling it wasn’t love. Which was sad, very sad indeed.

  “So where are we going?” Michael asked.

  “North on 75.” Kate tried to settle into the passenger seat. Unfortunately, as Michael crunched gravel backing out of the driveway, her foot was already reaching for the brake. This was a mistake. She should have told Barbara Falk to go jump. It was all going wrong. Kate felt like a runaway freight train poised at the brink of a downhill run to disaster. Ridiculous! They were four happy campers off for the weekend. Fresh air, sunshine, camaraderie, good food, a few thumps of a glaive . . .

  “Okay, let’s practice,” Kate declared. “In LALOC, I’m Catriona MacDuff, mostly called Cat. You’re Raven, Mona is Alys of Avon, Bubba is Erik the Strong—“

  ”Maximus,” Bubba stated loudly. “Not Erik. Maximus.”

  Kate poked her head around the tall back of the captain’s chair. “Since when?” she demanded.

  “Since we saw Gladiator on video,” Mona said with a sigh. “That’s all he talks about. I told him it wasn’t period, but Maximus is his hero.” Mona shrugged, gave Kate the age-old what-can-you-do-with-’em look.

  Kate eyed the stubborn set of Bubba’s massive jaw. “Sure, why not? There’s one LALOC household that dresses Roman every summer. Mini skirts for both sexes. Suits the Florida climate, they claim, so why can’t you be Roman too?” Bubba beamed at her.

  “Household?” Michael hated to have to ask, but he couldn’t think of any other way to understand the blasted LALOC language.

  “Some people with similar interests—whether it’s archery, rapiers, calligraphy, weaving, music—join together and become what’s called a household. It helps promote their skills—sort of an apprentice system—and gives them a sense of belonging.”

  “You have a household?”

  Kate straightened in her chair, looked out the window. “I’m not a joiner.”

  “Okay.” Michael drove up the on-ramp to I-75, inserted the van into the swift flow of traffic. “So I’m Raven, you’re Cat-something, Mona’s Alice, and Bubba is Max.”

  “A-L-Y-S,” that kind of Alys,” Kate said. “Alys of Avon. Mona wanted to keep it simple. Some of the members have names which run on forever and are totally unpronounceable, particularly the Welsh. Clever but not practical. And you can simply call me Cat. Short for Catriona.”

  “Scottish for your own name, right?”

  “Right.” Kate turned back to Bubba. “Michael is going to be Raven. And he’s going to remember to call you Max. You got that, Bubba?”

  “Sure. No problem.” Bubba leaned forward. “You think Max is okay, Cat?”

  “You can be anything you want, Bubba. We’re supposed to be having fun, remember? We’ll just ignore the Authenticity Nazis. I sometimes wonder if they’ve forgotten LALOC was founded as one big lark, a let’s-dress-up-and-have-a-fantasy costume party.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Kate caught Michael’s smile. Unfortunately, as she turned toward the front, she also got a good look at Michael’s feet. “You’ve got zippers,” Kate choked out.

  “So? What was that remark I just heard about Authenticity Nazis?”

  “But boots with zippers . . . Michael, you can’t have zippers.”

  “They’re the only black boots I’ve got.”

  “Aw, come on, Cat. It’s his first time,” Bubba rumbled from the back. “Nobody’ll mind.”

  “They’ll be too busy looking him over to even notice,” Mona added. “Fresh meat.” The last two words were close to a whisper, but Kate heard them. So did Michael.

  Kate crossed her arms, glared at the eighteen-wheeler in front of them. Mona was right. She’d already thought about the men’s reaction to a new macho male, a potential fighter, the partner/lover of a woman who had turned down every LALOC offer she’d ever received. The women, however—she hadn’t really thought about them. Mona was right. Married or single, teenage to widow, they were going to sit up and take notice. That Michael—Raven—had come with Catriona MacDuff, the frozen woman, would only make him more interesting. More of a challenge. Raven—the newcomer whose tightly leashed energy couldn’t be concealed under cloth of black. Whose craggy face challenged a woman to make him smile, to find out what lay beneath the tough outer layer.

  Dear God! They were barely on the road and she was having trouble controlling her libido. The libido she had thought shut away forever. Kate closed her eyes as Michael passed the huge truck. She’d never been on the Interstate with someone else driving. She hated the loss of control.

  Lieutenant Michael Turco was a major disruption in her life. Half of her wanted to pitch him out on his ear. The other half . . . the other half welcomed the opportunity to sit hidden behind the height of her captain’s chair and watch him as he drove with the ease and confidence of a man who had spent his life on the road. It was going to be a very long weekend. More, Kate feared, than either of them had bargained for.

  “What the—?” Michael clamped his teeth over a raunchy four-letter word, accepted the long bundle Bubba—Max—was handing down from the top of the van. Why he’d associated camping with some picturesque cabin in the woods, Michael couldn’t have said. Stupidity, ignorance. Whatever. He must have seen pictures of Appalachian Trail hostels . . . or something. But a tent about the size of a postage stamp was not what he’d had in mind at all.

  By the time he’d carried his burden to where Kate was pacing off her selected territory, Michael’s brain had gone on hold. He was going to get through this, that’s all he knew, but the toll was going to be high. A tiny ray of hope crept through the haze. Maybe the girls were sharing one tent, he and Bubba the other.

  “I’ve checked for fire ant mounds,” Kate announced. “This looks okay. We’ll set up with the flap facing that way.” She pointed.

  Michael lowered the tent bundle to the ground, stared blankly at Kate. Maybe the blasted thing was bigger than it looked. Five minutes later he knew it wasn’t. Kate had taken over, was doing all the work with the ease of long experience. He let her because he could see the tent was a snap to put up, and it was obvious Kate needed to assert herself. Besides, he wanted no part of the preparation for this particular torture chamber.

  “I have a small tent on purpose,” Kate declared, as she whacked a peg into the ground. “Discourages visitors.” She hit the peg so hard it was nearly lost in the thick carpet of pine needles.

  She might have warned him, Michael grumbled. Not that he could have done anything about it. Well . . . bought a bigger tent maybe. That was it! He’d buy a bigger tent . . . get his own tent.

  And blow his cover to hell and gone.

  Michael looked away from Kate’s efforts long enough to discover Bubba—Maximus, he had to remember Maximus—was driving the last peg home, looking like Mr. Back Woods personified. Mallet in hand, jeans and T-shirt tight o
ver bulging muscles, a broad grin of satisfaction on his face.

  “Don’t worry,” he called to Michael, “you’ll get the hang of it. Next time you can do it.”

  “Yeah, sure, uh–Max. It’s been a long time since Boy Scout camp.”

  “Let’s get the rest of the stuff out now,” Kate said. “Then we can get rid of the van.” Dutifully, the four of them carted coolers, sleeping bags and costumes into the two tents. Michael was astonished that everything seemed to fit. He’d caught Kate’s dilemma as she arranged the tent. She’d started to put the coolers and personal gear down the middle between the two sleeping bags. She’d eyed the screened front and sides of the tent, realized someone might notice the hostile configuration. Not bothering to disguise her annoyance, she’d shifted everything around, placing the equipment at the back, hanging his—Raven’s—costumes beside her own things from a nylon loop at the rear of the tent. “That’ll have to do,” she mumbled.

  He eyed the twelve inches between the two sleeping bags, swallowed hard. He’d seen a lot of nubile young things since they’d checked in at the gate an hour ago, then stood in line for registration. They’d looked him over, though he couldn’t tell what they were thinking. Probably that he was over the hill. At the moment he wished it was true. And the men . . . almost without exception their eyes had bulged. Nudges, pokes, outright stares, even a pointed finger or two. Obviously Kate’s aversion to men was well known. Was he supposed to brazen it out as if sharing a tent with Catriona MacDuff was a mere nothing? Or play a smug King of the Hill, victor in the long battle for Cat’s favor? Or play the stupid innocent who didn’t know he’d won the heart of an Ice Woman?

  “Out,” Cat ordered. “I’m going to change.”

  “Now?” He was beginning to hate surprises.

  “Yes, now. You can take the van back to the parking lot, then you can change.” Her tone was about as clipped and impersonal as it could get. Michael, who was about to become Raven, seized the opportunity to flee.

  When he got back from checking out the lake, an outdoor amphitheater, a variety of wooden buildings, and a never-ending array of wooded campsites, the site selected by Kate’s local LALOC group had been transformed. He stared. The area tucked beneath a canopy of live oaks and pines had come alive, a chaos of cars, SUVs, tents, camp chairs, coolers, milling men, women, and children. There were seven tents in various stages of construction. One man was hanging a banner from the branch of a live oak. The design was a startlingly realistic black snake writhing in the claws of a dragon. Two other men were setting a ring of tall torches into the sandy soil beneath the brown covering of pine needles and oak leaves.

  “We used to have a campfire in the center of each site,” a voice beside him said.

  “Hi, Mona.”

  “Alys,” she corrected automatically. “The fire danger is so high we’re only allowed fires in containers or the torches. Hope it rains soon.” Mona heaved a sigh. “It just isn’t camping without a fire.”

  Oh, great, Michael groaned. Here we are surrounded by woods, and now someone mentions fire. What else could go wrong?

  So where was Kate? “Uh–Alys, you know where Cat is?” There! He thought he’d done that quite well. Stupid game!

  “Right there.” Alys nodded toward the center of the campsite.

  He hadn’t given a moment’s thought to what Cat might wear. Now he knew his imagination couldn’t have conjured this vision even if he’d worked on it all week. What was she trying to do, drive him crazy?

  Cat knew the moment the man from FHP returned. She felt his eyes trailing down her long blond hair, moving over the loosely fitted Medieval gown. She could feel him x-raying what was beneath, gulping his fill, registering, oh yes, Catriona MacDuff was all female. Why she’d put on a dress when, on Friday nights, she usually wore male garb, Cat didn’t want to examine too closely. She’d planned to wear her usual Friday night work outfit of brown wrap pants and straw-colored peasant tunic, but her hand had paused, guided by some perverse genie, and picked up the dress instead. And, of course, her French braid didn’t suit the long semi-fitted green gown . . . Or at least that’s what she’d told herself.

  Her only excuse for this idiocy was that she had agreed to play a role. Being one of the boys when she had brought a supposed lover to the weekend event was a violation of her agreement, however reluctant that agreement might have been. As an excuse, it was pretty weak—and had come after the fact—but it was all she had. The resulting shock to LALOC regulars, particularly the jocks, was in itself worth the effort. The deluge of questions the moment she emerged from the tent in her softly shaped forest green gown, her silver blonde hair tumbling loose over her shoulders, was like nothing she’d ever encountered before. Who? What? How long? Come on, Cat, tell all!

  It was significant, Cat realized, that no one asked Why. Michael Turco might be all planes and angles, a glowering sculpture carved by lightning, but no one could doubt his power to attract.

  She turned, held out a hand to him, and together they faced the members of the Golden Beach Shire. “Everyone . . . this is Raven.” Instantly, she regretted taking his hand. It turned out to be a lethal maneuver she felt all the way down to toes encased in soft twelfth century-style leather slippers.

  He was getting far more than a once-over, Michael realized. Eyes of every color gleamed, white teeth flashed; strong grips challenged. LALOC members were checking him out with a vengeance. How many of the men had failed with Cat? How many were wondering what he had that they didn’t? How many were chagrined to discover they couldn’t blame their failure on Catriona MacDuff having a preference for females? How many considered the possibility she was throwing up a smokescreen?

  “You’d better change,” Cat said with a breathtaking smile, the loving girlfriend to her significant other. “We’ll check out the Feast Hall, find out about supper, what classes are on for tomorrow. I want to be sure you’re registered for the Newcomer Class.” She squeezed his arm, waved him toward their tent.

  Their tent. Michael nodded to the group, made his escape. An odder bunch of people he’d never seen. Men from twenty to seventy, wearing everything from jeans to tights to some kind of sheik’s robe. Women in peasant blouses that plunged to where the sun usually didn’t shine, women in outfits that might have stepped out of a Robin Hood epic, women in every kind of headdress from fancy hair nets to long flowing veils. Cat was right. Once all the vehicles were moved back to the parking lot, the place was going to resemble a Medieval camp site. If you discounted the telltale tents of colorful ripstop nylon.

  Definitely weird.

  But not as weird as sharing a tent with Kate. As being Raven, lover of Catriona MacDuff.

  Chapter 7

  As the four travelers from Golden Beach approached the Feast Hall, they had to thread their way through a jumble of bustling people, packing cases, folding tables, guy ropes, and pavilions in various stages of assembly. “I’ve heard of running the gauntlet,” Raven quipped as he and Cat approached the campground’s largest building, “but how come these people rate a campsite right outside the mess hall?”

  “They’re vendors,” Max said. “This is where they sell things.”

  “Every Event sets aside an area for vendors,” Cat explained. “Here, it’s right in front of the Feast Hall.”

  “Great spot,” Raven noted as they paused on the porch, looking back at the disarray scattered across the broad expanse of green lawn. Once the vendors were set up, there would be a strip of lawn between the rows of booths, a path most LALOC members would travel several times a day. Because knowing the lay of the land, and the people on it, was as natural to Raven as breathing, he looked past the chaos, past the almost completed pavilions. Evidently, the vendors slept where they sold their merchandise, as tents were perched behind each open-fronted booth. The tents looked like they came from a discount store, but the pavilions sheltering the vendors’ wares were in an entirely different category. They featured everything from bright-color
ed umbrellas—definitely not what Cat called “period”—to elaborate edgings and peaked canvas tops that truly mimicked a fair from the days of the Middle Ages. Colorful and effective, he had to admit.

  Everywhere he looked, craftspeople were scrambling to set up their wares on long tables or clothing racks in time to be viewed by LALOC travelers straggling in to a late supper. All kinds of jewelry, Raven noted. Medallions, ceramics, beads, wire sculpture, odd games he’d never seen before. Leather work from sturdy belts to intricately embossed containers. Tall laced boots, soft suede slippers. Armor. Raven’s eyes gleamed. A vendor was laying out everything from chainmail to conquistadore-style metal breast-plates. As if drawn by a magnet, Raven detoured toward the armorer’s booth.

  “Later.” Cat grabbed his arm, urging him toward the entrance to the Feast Hall. “Give them a chance to set up. I’m hungry.” Secretly, she was amused that Raven the inscrutable, the intractable, had betrayed an interest in armor. Perhaps she should have suggested he purchase an armored codpiece. Sternly, Cat repressed a smirk. Keeping her back to her nemesis, she chose a table inside the feast hall and started to lay out their gear. But her mind refused to concentrate on the simple task. It had taken a table full of medieval-style metal to pierce the personal armorplate Lieutenant Michael Turco had drawn around himself. An armor that had grown thicker and more impenetrable all afternoon as he found himself surrounded by a foreign, nearly incomprehensible world. For a moment Cat almost felt sorry for him.

  While Cat and Alys swiftly set the table, Raven examined the room. Tables, chairs, a couple of plastic lined trash barrels—definitely not Medieval. Ice machine, coffee dispenser, supersize jug of iced tea. Huge open windows above the serving counter revealed a stainless steel kitchen with people—all in Medieval servant-style costume—bustling about. Two were ladling soup from huge tureens; the others, presumably, were preparing food for the next day.