Stranger in Camelot

  “But I’m very serious about my playing. My work is play, you know. Model airplanes, model cars—toys for grown-ups. I could teach you to play as if it were a business. You wouldn’t have to feel guilty.” She kept walking, shaking her head at his nonsense, and laughing. “Wait!” he called in an exasperated voice. “I’ll change clothes and come with you.”

  “I don’t know where the gals are this morning. They’re usually standing out here looking hungry by now.”

  While he went back in the barn she stood by the pasture gate, staring across the flat, grassy expanse bordered by the forest of pines. Their conversation had left her breathless. Maybe there wouldn’t be any harm in getting to know John Bartholomew better. Maybe those medieval manuscripts were making her too cautious. Why push a terrific man away without good reason?

  But what if she missed him and felt miserable when he went back to England? No, thanks.

  He returned wearing a blue T-shirt, wrinkled white shorts, and hiking boots similar to hers. “Onward, Lady Agnes,” he said, opening the gate arid sweeping a hand toward the pasture.

  As they walked side by side down a path that skirted the woods, he mentioned his stranded Jeep. “If you’ll drop me off at one of the rental-car places in town I’ll take care of it.” He cut his eyes at her mischievously. “Now here’s an offer you can’t refuse. Breakfast in town. Even Wonder Woman must stop occasionally to nibble an egg and some muffins.”

  “Breakfast. Okay.” She’d tell him good-bye afterward, and they’d go separate ways.

  “Eureka! I’ve found the key to her heart!”

  Aggie couldn’t help laughing again. “It takes more than breakfast.”

  “Surely a lucky man or two has unlocked it.”

  Her humor faded. Shrugging, she said, “Well, I was married for a few years.”

  “Hmmm. I would have thought you’d have waited for someone irresistible.”

  “What makes you think I didn’t?”

  He flashed her a smile, but there was an edge to his dark gaze. “You’d still be married, if he were irresistible.”

  “Could be that he was irresistible at first, you know.”

  “No, by definition, ‘irresistible’ doesn’t fade away.”

  She made an amused sound of disgust. “I have my doubts about your definition. It sounds convenient.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “Okay, wise guy, then he wasn’t irresistible. Satisfied?” She bent down as they talked, wrenched a sharp frond off a palmetto plant, and poked him in the arm. “Take that.”

  He sighed. “I don’t joust with ladies. Go ahead, wound me. I suffer gallantly.”

  “Courage, thy name is Bartholomew.” She tossed away the frond and shoved her hands in her shorts pockets. It was too easy to like his laid-back teasing. He was so comfortable with himself that he made her feel comfortable too.

  “What did you do before you came here to live?” he asked, reaching out to take her elbow for a moment when she stumbled on a rock. He performed the little service without looking at her, then let go of her elbow as if such niceties were commonplace.

  Aggie glanced at him anxiously. His gentlemanly attentions were so formal that she ought to make fun of him. Get real, she ought to say. Don’t you know that chivalry is a joke?

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Hmmm?” He looked at her as if he couldn’t imagine what was worth thanking him for. Aggie smiled at him while a warm sense of pleasure rose in her chest. She shook her head. “You were asking me a question. What I did before I came here. Well, I was married, as I said.”

  “That’s not something you do, that’s something you are. ‘When a match has equal partners, then I fear not.’ Aeschylus. Fifth century.”

  “Greek philosophers ought to watch a little Divorce Court on TV. They wouldn’t be so sure, then.”

  John clucked his tongue. “What a stubborn woman you are!”

  “Okay, so here are the facts. I was married, and I was an actress. I pretended I was happy.”

  “An actress? Really?”

  “No, not really. I was a child actress who grew up and grew out.” She gestured toward her breasts. “And I lost my career. Not that it was a brilliant career, anyway.”

  “Tell me more!”

  She shrugged. “I was a cute baby, a cute kid, a cute tomboy, and a cute teenager. My specialty was playing rebellious little sisters. But then I hit adulthood. Nobody wants a twenty-year-old tomboy with more curves than an hourglass. I never said I was much of an actress, but dammit, I made a great TV kid.”

  “What kind of work did you do?”

  She broke her stride long enough to give him a small curtsy before going on. “I was Meg for three years on The Jones Family and Sally for five years on Pop’s World. These weren’t classics. Every TV critic in the country made fun of them, but they were hits.”

  “Critics have no taste.”

  “Oh, in this case, they were right.” She clasped her chest dramatically. “But my real claim to fame was commercials. Even my baby behind was captured on film for all time. I was the Sweetheart Shampoo baby.” She made her voice wicked. “I was a show-off at an early age.”

  “You’re making it all sound too easy. It takes talent to be that successful.”

  “No, it takes having the right ‘look’ and very greedy parents.”

  Before he could ask for more on that subject, she trotted off the path and into the pasture, then put two fingers in her mouth and gave an ear-piercing whistle. She called to John, “We’ll either get horses or taxis!”

  He walked through the tall grass toward her, smiling. The morning sunshine backlit him with golden light, playing beautifully on the olive tone of his skin. There must be an exotic-looking Moor or two in his ancestry, Aggie thought, groaning silently at such whimsy. A Moorish ancestor. Right. Only about seven centuries ago.

  She’d been doing too much research on medieval history. Her mind wouldn’t let go of it. Of Sir Miles of Norcross. Of John Bartholomew. They were tangled in her thoughts.

  “Show me how you do that,” he ordered, stopping in front of her. “That whistle could call spirits from their sleep. Or at least give them an earache.”

  Call spirits from their sleep. Why did he always say things that unnerved her? It was uncanny because of her ridiculous, overstimulated imagination.

  “Like this. Make a circle, and leave a little space between your thumb and forefinger. Put them between your lips and clamp down.” She showed him. “Pwull tight and bwow.”

  He tucked his chin and leaned forward, studying her lips intently. “I beg your pardon? What?”

  Aggie’s stomach tingled. She felt silly, but more than that she felt reckless. Suddenly she was aware of the undercurrent of arousal in her body, the sensitivity of her breasts, the delicious pressure deep in her belly, the tenderness of her lips as she scrubbed a finger across them.

  “Pull tight and blow,” she repeated, her breath short. She put her finger and thumb back into her mouth, turned her head, and demonstrated. The whistle was an airy, weak imitation of the first one. “Damn.”

  “Problems?” he inquired.

  “Temporary loss of air pressure. You try.” She touched her lips, showing him the exact placement.

  His dark brows raised in watchful study, he copied her. His fingertips were large and the skin coarse-looking, the kind that could tantalize a woman’s skin. He rubbed his thumb and finger over the cleft in his lips. “Right here?”

  “Put them inside.”

  “Here?”

  “That’s fantastic … fine. That’s fine.”

  “I doubt I have your sense of touch. Too much thick skin.”

  “That’s what happens when you work with airplane glue all the time, I guess.

  “Blow,” she instructed shakily. “Go ahead.”

  He turned his head and made a loud but inarticulate sound. Grinning, he faced her again. “I sound like an air hose with a kink in it.”

>   “Your pucker’s all wrong. You need practice.”

  “Are you saying that my lips are out of condition?”

  “Oh, I’m sure they get plenty of exercise. Maybe the wrong kind, though.”

  “You’ll have to be specific. I’m confused.”

  “Uh-huh. I can see how confused you are.”

  “Could you mean this sort of exercise?” He stepped closer and angled his head downward, so that his mouth was near hers. His voice dropped to a throaty tease. “The kind where sincerity is more important than skill?”

  Some devilish impulse took control of her voice. “You’ll have to be more specific,” she mimicked in an English accent. “I’m confused.”

  “You’re a coy one, my lady.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “Let’s stop talking all together.”

  He kissed her and she couldn’t move, couldn’t raise a hand to push him away or a foot to step backward. He enchanted her with only the taste and firmness of his mouth, and she clasped her hands behind her to keep from reaching for him.

  So he reached for her. While his mouth played slowly over hers, tugging at her lips and opening them only enough to provoke her, he carefully slid one arm around her waist. She was stiff with resistance until his hand fanned across her lower back, rubbing circles on her spine through the soft T-shirt. Aggie sighed and her body relaxed on some natural inner cue that she couldn’t control.

  Sometimes she forgot how lonely she was, and how much she wanted a man in her life. Now John made all that emptiness gather into a glowing center as hot as the Florida sun.

  “Agnes, it’s all right to play,” he whispered. “One second more, please. Would you mind if I held you closer?”

  Did men still ask permission for these things? She couldn’t remember any in her experience. She looked into his patient eyes and knew this was a first for her. And suddenly, she didn’t want to ruin it.

  “Yes, I’d like that,” she whispered.

  She stepped into the tightening circle of his arm and slowly raised her hands to his shoulders. The feel of his hard chest and stomach merging with hers was as delightful as she’d expected. A warm morning breeze curled around them, and she couldn’t tell if she was swaying with it or dizzy from emotion.

  She touched his lips with the tip of her tongue and he tickled hers in return. Aggie half expected him to crush her mouth and slide deep inside; after the invitation she’d given, most men would take charge. Instead he began to kiss her face. One of his hands rose to her hair, pulled the bandanna down, and stroked the tangled strands. He cupped her head so that his thumb lay against her cheek, then caressed it.

  Holding her that way, he kissed her nose, her chin, her cheeks, and finally her forehead, even feathering her lips over the swollen spot.

  “I’ve never been married,” he told her, putting his head beside hers so that he could kiss her ear. “Because I’ve never met a woman who was irresistible. Until you. I hardly know you, but I know that you’re unique.”

  Distrust and surprise surged through her. She drew her head back. “Why do men think that women will do anything at the mention of the M word?”

  “The M word?”

  “Marriage. Do men think it’s some kind of aphrodisiac? Is mentioning it supposed to make women feel flattered? Is hinting about it supposed to change a casual kiss into something serious? Or maybe give a gal an excuse to let her guard down?” She looked over his shoulder as if addressing someone else. “ ‘But mother, he was so nice! Before he turned into a jerk, he mentioned marriage!’ ” She shot a cold look at John. “There was no need for you to overdo your flattery. Be honest.”

  He stepped back just enough to glare down at her easily. “What ugly suspicions you have.” His voice was hard. “Your husband must have hurt you terribly for you to be so cruel to me.”

  “So cruel to you?”

  “Yes. Isn’t it possible that men get hurt as easily as women do? Did I deserve that painful little whipping? It would have done no harm for you to accept my compliments and keep your doubts to yourself, then give me a chance to prove my sincerity.”

  Her mouth open, she gazed at him in surprise. He was genuinely hurt. But he didn’t retreat behind pride and anger, he admitted that he was wounded. “Oh, come on, you’re no kid, and I’m sure you have a long history with women. Don’t tell me you haven’t used that marriage’ line before.”

  “Why is it that women think they’re the only romantic ones?” He let go of her but took her hands, holding them firmly. Because he didn’t stalk away with masculine arrogance, he made her even sorrier she’d upset him.

  “Women have more to lose,” she countered, jerking his hands a little.

  “Nonsense. Don’t play feminine games, and I won’t play masculine ones. Your accusation was directed straight at me. Admit it.”

  She trembled. “Okay. You say I’m unique. Well, I say you’re unique. I don’t know how to deal with you. If I’m suspicious and mean, it’s because you scare the hell out of me.”

  “Good enough. That announces the problem boldly, and I approve. Be frightened of me, if you must, but don’t accuse me of sins I’ve never committed.”

  “Let’s pretend this kiss didn’t happen. And I apologize for my ugly attitude. Good enough? Now we’re back where we started—two strangers who don’t have as much in common as you think. But you’re a nice man. I mean that.”

  “Nice” was an understatement. She moved back and squeezed his hands to signal that she wanted him to release her. His expression somber, he opened his fingers and let her hands slip away. His dignity gave him power and made her feel foolish. “We have a great deal in common, Agnes. And if you think I can forget the feel of you in my arms or the sweetness of your mouth, you sadly underestimate yourself. Even if it was centuries ago that I’d kissed you, I’d still remember how lovely it was.”

  Her knees turned to rubber. Something was going on here that she didn’t understand. I could have kissed you centuries ago.

  “Thank you for the compliment,” she said weakly. “Now if you don’t mind, I have horses to feed, if I can find them.”

  He nodded. “Practical matters first. Yes, you’re right.”

  As they hunted for the mares she covered her troubled thoughts by telling him the horses’ bloodlines and the cost of breeding each to a quality stallion. Her grandfather had worked for decades to build up his stock, and with enough hard work of her own, Aggie hoped to make the little ranch a big name among quarter-horse patrons.

  John asked pleasant questions and acted as though the scene in the pasture had never occurred. Aggie knew she’d never forget it.

  As they rounded the peninsula of forest that hid the rest of the pasture from view, John suddenly grasped her arm. Aggie whirled toward him, ready to fight another of his invasions on her common sense.

  But his face was grim, and he pointed toward a distant stretch of fence. The solitary oak that had been a favorite shade spot for Hamilton livestock over the years now lay in the jumble of boards and hog wire that had been a good thirty-foot section of fence.

  “This explains why the mares didn’t come up this morning,” he noted.

  Aggie groaned. She suspected where the mares had gone, and she knew she was going to need John’s help to get them back.

  She needed him too much now.

  Three

  Okay, there were good reasons to have John Bartholomew around, Aggie admitted. The man could probably charm sand crabs out of the sand. With any luck, he’d make Ida Roberts act nearly human. On the other hand, if Ida was as cranky as ever, she would at least divert Aggie’s attention from the awkward problem of having John Bartholomew around.

  She steered her truck down a two-lane road bordered by gnarled live oaks and scrub pine. John seemed to relish this new opportunity to make himself indispensable. His patience was seductive.

  “I can’t imagine why this lady would dislike you,” he said abruptly, as if he’d been pond
ering the question for some time. He had his head up and his eyes half shut. The wind ruffled his thick, chocolate-colored hair. He looked content. “You don’t seem to dislike her. And you’re very good-natured.”

  “You weren’t thinking that back in the pasture.”

  “I was thinking that you’re too cautious, but that’s no crime. Even if it’s misdirected, in my case.”

  “We met less than twenty-four hours ago. I think I’m being reckless, not cautious.”

  “For kissing me? No. Deep down you know I’m wonderful and we’re going to have a wonderful time together.”

  She laughed to take the edge off her next words. “This isn’t a beach movie and we’re not having a summer romance. So don’t expect any clambakes.”

  “You can’t insult me,” he insisted, his tone droll, “because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Now come on, you can’t tell me you never saw a Frankie and Annette flick. What are you—thirty-something years old, right? And you never saw Beach Blanket Bingo when you were a kid? Even an English kid oughta know about Frankie and Annette.”

  “I had an unusual upbringing.”

  He spoke with a hard edge in his voice. She glanced at him curiously, but couldn’t analyze his shuttered expression. She pondered what she knew about him. He’d attended one of England’s most pretigious colleges, been an alternate on the Olympic equestrian team, and was the heir to a successful family business. That spelled big money and blue blood.

  “You must have gone to private schools,” she prodded. “Pretty strict and traditional, from what I’ve heard. Nobody wasted time watching TV or going to silly movies.”

  He was silent for so long that she wondered if he’d heard her. “Something like that,” he said finally.

  His voice was so subdued, she felt protective of him. Aggie gritted her teeth. He was two hundred-plus pounds of muscular, rugged handsomeness, with a face that looked as if it had been molded by intense passions. He was educated and successful. Protection was the last thing he needed. So she’d treat him like a testy stallion with a sore leg—she’d be sympathetic, but watch out for his kick.