Florida Knight

by Blair Bancroft

  Ten feet away at the edge of the Lyst Field, Raven stood stock still, unable to sort out his emotions. Horror, rage, nausea. Visions of Mark covered in blood. Cat—his Cat—her magnificently sculptured features equally damaged. The insanity of Cat daring to be a fighter. Of challenging a bull like Brocc one-on-one.

  The vision of a bloody Cat was replaced by the satisfying clarity of Brocc beaten to a bloody pulp. By Raven. Cat’s man.

  Raven broke his trance, strode onto the field. It was part of his cover, right? This was his woman, his to protect and defend. His to revenge. Putting his arm around her shoulders, claiming her for his own, felt good. Odd . . . she didn’t protest, didn’t turn on him. A faint smile; she leaned into him as if grateful he was there.

  As he walked Cat off the field, Raven finally realized why he’d had the feeling he was Catriona MacDuff’s prize of war. She truly was the warrior knight, he the lowly hanger-on trailing in her wake. Well, the damned scenario was about to change. Cat might be a warrior, but her battle prize was about to turn into more than she could handle.

  Yet, for the moment, his woman was more important than his anger. “More water?” he asked. Cat nodded. Raven had only to hold out his hand and a pewter mug full of cold water was thrust into it. A young waterbearer hovered beside them, her eyes wide with concern. “May we take the cup with us?” he asked.

  “Of course, m’lord. It’s Lady Cat’s cup,” the teenage girl replied, with a bob of her head.

  For a dizzying moment Raven felt tugged out of time. The female waterbearer’s gown was simple—a long flow of brown cloth, long sleeves, a simple braided belt hanging low on her hips, a rough crystal hanging ’round her neck. And behind her, beside her—everywhere he looked—were other women in long flowing gowns, men in armor, in leather, in long tunics, in monk’s robes, in Arab caftans. He’d fallen into H. G. Wells’s time machine. None of this could be happening to Michael Turco whose feet had been firmly planted in modern times for the past thirty-six years.

  Cat held out her cup for more. The girl dutifully ran off to get a refill from the squat orange jug which, Raven thought, was his only hold on reality. A chunk of plastic so ugly it could only be a product of the industrial age.

  Max wandered toward them, still looking disgruntled. “You okay, Cat?” he rumbled.

  “I’m fine.”

  Raven, who still had Cat tucked into his side, felt her gather herself for the smile, the lie, as she reassured her champion.

  “Maybe you should lie down,” Max suggested, eyeing her doubtfully.

  Cat reached out, laid a hand on his forearm. “Max, I’ll be fine. Really. I just need a little rest. It’s okay, Raven will look after me.” She lifted her chin, looked into her giant friend’s eyes. “Thanks for defending me, Max. I–I’ve never had anyone to fight my battles for me. It felt good.”

  Max’s frown metamorphosed into a brilliant grin. He ducked his head, shuffled his feet in the dirt. Red suffused his moon of a face. “Glad I could help,” he muttered. “Brocc shouldn’a done that.”

  As Raven reached for her surcoat, intending to skin it off to get to the studded leather breastplate she wore under it, Cat waved him off. If he’d looked at the damned thing earlier, really looked, he would have known it was Catriona MacDuff. The heraldic design on the brilliant green sleeveless tunic was a pink rose, a silver sword, and a sewing needle with a swirl of silver thread. How could he have missed it?

  He got to work, peeling off surcoat, pauldrons, elbow cops, knee cops, other odd bits of metal whose names he’d forgotten. Solemnly, Max picked up the gear, assuring Cat he’d see that everything got back to her tent. Raven accepted Cat’s mug of water from the patiently waiting waterbearer, then wrapped his free arm around her shoulders. Carefully steering them around sandy ruts and tree roots, he guided Cat toward a picnic table under tall oaks and pines near the lake. By the time he’d seated her on the narrow wooden bench and sat down beside her, his fury refused to reignite. How could he yell at his magnificent Valkyrie when she was so pale, so uncharacteristically fragile? He also sensed she was upset with herself for letting it happen, for being forced to admit she was vulnerable. Human. Female.

  He wanted to yell. Rant and rave. Pace up and down and demand to know why the hell she thought she could fight with the big boys. Instead, he moved closer, hip to hip. Once again, his arm clamped around her shoulders. He leaned over, brushed a kiss over her cheek. “Cat . . .” Raven sighed, followed the flight of a blue heron as it skimmed across the lake. “Look, Cat, I’m not scolding, but . . . well, what the hell did you think you were doing out there fighting guys twice your size? You’re crazy, woman. Certifiable.”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m bigger than a lot of the men here.”

  “Taller, not bigger. And you’ve got more vulnerable parts.”

  “Nothing I’ve got is as vulnerable as—”

  “That’s why the guys wear cups,” Raven supplied. Was that a hitch he caught in her breath, a shake in the shoulders? “And that’s just one spot, while girls have lots of soft—”

  “I’m not soft!”

  Raven hugged her. “Yes, you are,” he whispered in her ear.

  “The crowd’s over there, lieutenant. You played them just fine, but we’re alone now. You can cut the act.” Cat’s fingers tightened around the mug Raven had placed in front of her.

  One beat . . . two. Raven rejected a succession of swift protests. What to say to this prickly pear of a woman who was looking away, presenting him with little more than her back. “You think I don’t care you got the stuffing knocked out of you?” he demanded, his voice rising with each word. You actually think my being nice to you is an act? Are you nuts? I’d care about anyone who took the low blow you did. But I like you, you idiot woman. I care what happens to you.”

  There was an audible sniff. Raven shifted his grip. A hand on each shoulder, he turned Cat to face him. “My God, you’re crying.”

  “So?” Cat jerked away, fixing her gaze out over the lake.

  Whether Catriona MacDuff or Kate Knight, she was the last woman on earth from whom he expected tears. Raven hated to see a woman cry. A pushover for tears, he usually got up and walked away when a woman cried, slamming the door behind him. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any door, and no SUV to jump into and roar away. He was stuck with his responsibility for those tears. Obligated to find out what he’d done wrong and attempt to fix it.

  “Cat, whatever I said, I’m sorry. Really sorry. I never meant to make you cry.” Silence. “Come on, Cat, give me a clue so I can avoid doing it again.” Raven squirmed on the bench. The role of supplicant didn’t suit him. “Cat . . . please look at me.”

  Surcoats, studded leather and tights didn’t come with pockets. Cat wiped her tears on the long black sleeve of her undertunic. Dear God, how she hated her weakness! She, LALOC’s Lady Knight, was crying. She had allowed this rough, tough cop to see her tears. How could she have been such a fragile flower? She was Lady Knight, Wonder Woman of LALOC’s Florida Kingdom, the vanquisher of all comers. Not that she won all the time, Cat conceded, but she’d always acquitted herself well. She’d been granted an Award of Arms to the ringing cheers of the entire LALOC court. She’d persevered, literally fighting her way to knighthood, kneeling before the throne in triumph to receive the traditional taps on the shoulder from the king’s sword.

  Now here she was, collapsed on a picnic bench like some silly feeble female, sniveling over . . . what? She supposed Raven had a right to ask why she was crying. But what was her answer going to be? Did she know what had reduced her to tears? Could she admit it if she did?

  Once again, Cat wiped her eyes. She was a LALOC knight. The truth shouldn’t hurt. It was, after all, one of the obligations of knighthood. Though the thought flashed through her mind that it was unlikely knights were anywhere near as honorable as those in the dream world of ancient chivalry expounded by Sir Arthur Mallory and re-created by LALOC.
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br />   Cat compromised by turning her head far enough toward Raven so he could see her profile. Her eyes were still fixed on the blue depths of the lake. “I’ve been alone a long time,” she said. “Barbara Falk, Bubba, and Mona are the only people I’ve let get close. I’m not going to go into why, that’s just the way it is.” She sensed Raven was leaning close, almost cheek to cheek, so he wouldn’t miss a word.

  “They’re the only people who care what happens to me. I haven’t had, well . . . anyone else”—Cat took a deep breath—“anyone who was mine. Not that you are,” she added hastily, but here, in LALOC, they think so, and—“

  Raven took pity on her. “It’s okay, Cat. In LALOC we’re a pair. And at home we still belong to each other because we’re partners. Right?”

  “Right.” The word was little more than a muffled choke.

  “Let me get this straight,” Raven ventured. “You’re crying because Max and I were there for you when you needed us.”

  A small nod.

  “You’re crying because you’re pleased with us?”

  Another nod.

  “You’re crying because I’m being nice to you?”

  A gulp. A quiver.

  Raven gathered her into his arms, she buried her head in his chest. My God, what had happened to this beautiful gallant girl that she cried when someone was kind to her? What had her life been like? Everything in his own life had been solid middle class dependable. Classic American ideal childhood. Two parents, two siblings, Boy Scouts, high school football, college, the FHP. Everything by the book. He hadn’t known what horror was until he’d found it on the highway. Until he’d seen carnage and venality from behind a badge. As cynical as he’d become, he’d never forgotten that solid, good-hearted citizens still existed. He suspected that Kate Knight had.

  A picnic bench wasn’t the easiest, or softest, place to cuddle. Nor a chestful of studded leather the most comfortable armful Raven had ever held. Yet it was a long time before either of them moved. Raven’s best intentions lapsed into visions of soft sleeping bags in a dark tent. He could only hope that enticingly erotic thought was occurring to Cat as well.

  Gradually, reality prevailed. Raven realized the distant thud of sword on shield had ceased. He raised his head; the Lyst Field was deserted. “I think it’s lunch time,” he whispered to the top of Cat’s blond head. “Think your stomach can take some food?”

  He was pleased when she seemed reluctant to move. Okay, so he’d sit on the damned bench all afternoon if she wanted. After he peeled her out of the leather.

  Cat straightened, betraying a wince as she pulled away and began to swing her legs off the bench.

  “It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better,” Raven murmured.

  “I know.” Cat paused, lower lip bulging into a stubborn grimace. “I’ve taken a lot of blows. I thought I was tough. But this one was different. Vicious.” Cat shook her head. “I never thought he’d do that.”

  “Jealousy can drive a man mad.”

  “Jealousy?” Cat’s chin shot up, blue eyes questioning, incredulous.

  “That’s what I’d call it. Though I wish he’d taken it out on me.”

  Cat ignored the hand Raven was holding out to help her up. “You actually think Brocc lost it because he was jealous?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Cat blinked, then put her hand in his, rising like a queen from her throne, head high, shoulders back. Raven was willing to bet standing up had hurt like hell, but her face was set in stone. No pain, no passion, no sorrow, no emotion of any kind. Vulnerability behind her, she was Lady Knight, accepting the escort of her captive slave to the Feast Hall where lunch awaited.

  Chapter 10

  “Time for Lech Class,” Cat announced, carefully avoiding the cynical amusement that lit Raven’s dark eyes every time the lechery class was mentioned. Blast the man! She’d explained that the class was new, she was curious. That she wanted him to understand there was more to LALOC than a bunch of fighter jocks trying to beat each other’s brains out. But what if he hadn’t believed her? What if he thought she was . . . well, hinting? One of those women who sent out mixed signals, her mouth saying no while her eyes signaled come hither?

  Panic gripped her. She was hurt. Confused. Miserable. Lieutenant Michael Turco was turning her life upside down and she hated it. What a fool she’d been to get herself into this situation in the first place. She didn’t want to be touched, not in body or in mind. Most certainly not in the heart.

  Cat squared her shoulders. She was a LALOC knight. She could handle an hour in Lech Class—even with a leering Raven at her side. Sternly, she put her qualms aside, focused on Max and Alys, who were sitting on the other side of the lunch table. “Are you two going to Lech Class?” she asked.

  “Naw.” Shoulders hunched, Max squirmed in his chair. “Alys says I don’t need it.”

  Alys leaned across the table, eyes sparking. “We went to the Courtly Love class once. The teacher said Courtly Love was invariably adulterous. I decided Max and I don’t need any of that nonsense.”

  Cat opened her mouth to say, But you’re not married, then snapped her jaws tight. Max and Alys were never among the couples who practiced the fine art of Courtly Love or indulged in Lechery. Making a joke of their devotion was wholly out of line. “I’m just going as a voyeur,” Cat said. ‘The Fine Art of Lechery’ is an intriguing title. I want to see what it’s about.” And, let’s face it, she wanted to plunge Raven into yet another oddball situation. Shake him up a bit.

  Give him ideas.

  Absolutely not! She only wanted to tease him.

  Bad choice of words. She wanted to tease him about LALOC. Jiggle his preconceived notions. Keep the cool cop off balance, never quite sure what was going to happen next. Unfortunately, it was she herself who was shaken, while Raven sailed through the unexpected as if the rough waters weren’t there. Cat scowled, tucked the thought away for future reference. Lech Class was waiting.

  She started to get up, stifled a gasp as her abdominal muscles screamed in protest. Lord, it was getting worse by the minute! She gritted her teeth, continued moving. Strong hands grasped her under the elbows, levered her upward. “We have to dump our trash,” she murmured, giving no sign of how much she’d needed Raven’s assistance.

  “Sure,” Raven muttered, gathering up the remains of both their lunches. “And a fine fair maiden you are, m’lady,” he added under his breath, though clear enough for Cat to hear him. “Too bad they don’t give classes on Feminine Fragility or Gracious Manners.”

  That did it! Treacherous tears threatened to return, stinging her eyes, blurring her vision. The worst, of course, was that Raven was wholly right and she was in the wrong. A proper knight would apologize, Cat told herself sternly, but then she wasn’t a proper knight. She was Lady Knight, a LALOC warrior authorized to wear a long white sash and heavy gold chain around her neck. But in Medieval times she would have been chattel, a tool to be used in whatever power struggle her father or husband was indulging in at the moment. Unless her husband went off to war and left her in charge, her position was little more than a glorified housekeeper and brood mare. Yet that’s what Raven wanted, a meek and clinging Fair Maiden. Certainly not a swaggering warrior with none of the requisite macho body parts.

  “Cat!” Alys called. “You’d better take off your leather. It’s hot out there.”

  Cat kept going, waving away Alys’s suggestion away. She suspected the leather armor was the only thing that was keeping her upright.

  Max lumbered to his feet, long legs covering the distance between them in seconds. “Alys’s right, Cat. You gotta take it easy. That leather’s no good ’cept on the field. I’ll take it back to the tent for you.” He held out his hand.

  Raven joined him, their combined bulk barring her way to the door. Max looked concerned, Raven’s eyes flashed a challenge: if you don’t take off the leather, you’re not fit to be anywhere but horizontal. With a sigh Cat held out her arms, allo
wing them to skin off her surcoat, then remove the heavy studded leather. Suddenly, the Feast Hall’s air conditioning—incredibly, deliciously cool—rippled over her undertunic, touched the bruised flesh beneath. Chagrined, Cat scowled. If her wits weren’t scrambled, she would have let them take off the leather right along with her metal armor. The idea that she had made a wrong decision, then stubbornly insisted on living with the discomfort, did not sit well. Kate Knight—and her alternate persona Catriona MacDuff—were always in control.

  Which was why she’d been so shaken by Raven’s concern, by her unaccountable willingness to let him fuss over her, comfort her. Care about her. A momentary weakness on her part that Cat was no longer willing to acknowledge. She and Raven were reluctant partners in a masquerade. Nothing more. Feminine fragility and good manners, indeed! Arrogant, overbearing men like Lieutenant Michael Turco she most certainly did not need.

  Cat raised her arms, allowed Raven to drop the green surcoat back over her head. Then, without a word of thanks, she stalked out the door, the fire in her eye matching the brilliant midday sun. After consulting the Herald’s Board on the porch, she set off toward one of the small cabins nearby. No way was she going to turn around to see if Raven was following her. Obviously, she’d been crazy to sign them up for this class.

  Cat lowered herself cautiously into one of a semi-circle of chairs set up in the cabin. She refused to look when something large and solid slipped into the chair next to her. The teacher nodded to both of them. “M’lady, m’lord,” he murmured in greeting.

  Several minutes later, when nearly all the chairs were full, the teacher expressed his regret that most of his students were female. He left no doubt his class was designed to educate the men of LALOC, particularly the fighters, in the difference between art of Lechery and blatantly “hitting on” a woman in a style not even acceptable by twenty-first century standards. Cat sneaked a peek at Raven, found him gazing intently at the instructor, actually nodding his head. Fine, so he was a gentleman. Wasn’t that what she wanted? Wasn’t that absolutely necessary if they were going to survive this disaster of a masquerade?