Hard Day''s Knight

  “Why are you staring at me?” he asked, the low voice rubbing against me like the softest silk. It took me a minute to stop fantasizing about nibbling on his neck to realize what he had said.

  “Oh . . . uh . . . am I?”

  His brows pulled together in a frown. “Yes, you are. I’d like to know why.”

  I gave him my best smile. “I like looking at you.”

  His eyes got huge at that, and I would have said more, I would have told him about how I liked the shape of his jaw and chin, but CJ was trying to get my attention.

  “Pepper, this is my lamb. Isn’t he the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen?” CJ, petite little five-foot-two CJ, hung off the arm of a huge man. He had to be at least six-foot-six, and if I was built like a brick oven, he was an entire bakery. His face was pitted from a severe case of acne in his youth, and somewhere along the line he’d had his nose broken and never set quite right. He held out a huge hand for me to shake. It wasn’t until I looked into his soft brown eyes that I saw the gentle man inside him that had attracted my cousin.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” he said in a low bass rumble that was just as deep as Walker’s, but had none of the latter’s goose-bump factor. “Ceej has told me a lot about you. Glad you could join us this year.”

  “Thanks, I’m looking forward to watching the competition. I’ve never seen jousting before, but it looks like a blast. Is it hard to learn?”

  “Not hard, but it takes practice,” Butcher said with a smile that turned his face from gruesome to delightful. “A lot of practice, if you’d be noticing all the falls we took today.”

  “I just assumed that was because you were riding horses you weren’t used to.”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly; that’s what we keep telling Granddad here, but will he listen to us? No,” Vandal said as he emerged from a tent, giving the Moth-clad Walker a wide berth as he took my hand in his, indulging in a little palm tickling before he kissed my knuckles.

  “That’s because it’s not true,” Walker said, one hand absently scratching Moth’s chest. The big cat’s eyes were closed in sheer delight, his purr throbbing in the soft air of the summer evening. “The horses are fine; it’s you lot who need the practice.”

  “Granddad?” I asked Vandal.

  “Vandal,” Walker said with an obvious warning in his voice.

  Vandal nodded to Walker. “Our fearless leader. We call him that because he’s so—”

  “Vandal!”

  “—cautious,” he finished with an insolent grin. “But enough of that knavish one. How charming you look with the fire of the sun dancing in your . . . erm . . . fiery locks.”

  “You’re really good,” I told him. “Do you have to practice at that roguish smile, or does it come naturally?”

  Everyone around us laughed. Vandal waggled his eyebrows at me and made a pretty bow to everyone else.

  “I think you’ve met just about everyone,” CJ said, looking around. “That’s Bosworth Bale over there by the stable, and the guy with the water bucket is his partner, Geoff. Fenice you know, and talking to her are Gary and Ben. They’re from Whadda Knight, a jousting and steel combat troupe out of Oregon.”

  The two men sitting in close conversation with the pink-haired Fenice were in chain mail, each clutching a bottle of beer. They nodded a greeting, then went back to their quiet conversation.

  “The others you’ll meet as they show up. We usually have a lot of fun at night. Kind of a potluck picnic thing, where everyone brings a few bottles and some steaks and hamburgers,” CJ said. She rustled around the barbecue grill, chatting brightly with the people who strolled by, most of whom stopped to say hello, a few who dropped into chairs and joined the conversation. Everyone was very friendly and included me in their conversations, but I couldn’t help feeling like an outsider. I didn’t know the in jokes, and I didn’t understand the terminology, who the people were they were discussing, or even what the past tournaments signified in discussion. From time to time I was aware of Walker’s silver-eyed gaze on me, his attention itching my skin like an irritating sunburn.

  “Do you ride?” Butcher asked me suddenly.

  I was standing on the outskirts of the circle, watching everyone laugh and talk and joke, while CJ and Vandal manned the grill, turning out copious quantities of hamburgers and hot dogs. Fenice and her two attendant Americans went out and returned with big tubs of potato salad, beans, and pasta salads, which they were now arranging on a couple of card tables that someone had produced. My stomach grumbled as I turned to face Butcher. “Do I ride? I used to. I was raised with horses—my mother was crazy about them. I haven’t ridden in a while, though. Mom had to sell her horses when she moved to Belize to take care of underprivileged animals.”

  “Ah. So she’s one of those charity workers?”

  I gave him a wry smile. “No, just a vet who likes to help the underdogs. Literally.”

  “World needs more people like that,” he said with an answering smile, and I thought to myself how lucky CJ was to have found him. “We ought to put you up on a horse. You have the look of a jouster.”

  Instantly my hackles went up. “Why, because I look sturdy?”

  Evidently Butcher missed both my glare and the way I spit out the last word. “That, and you look like you could take a hit and not lose your seat. Walker! What do you say we get Pepper up on Cassiopeia after supper? She rides, and she’s interested in jousting.”

  Who, me? Ack! “No, I—”

  Walker turned to give me a thin-lipped look. “She’s afraid of horses.”

  It was the scorn in his voice that had me nipping my protest in the bud. “Oh! I am not!”

  “You are, too. You screamed earlier.”

  “Well, of course I screamed! I was strung out between two horses, one of which was clearly planning to eat me for lunch.”

  “Horses don’t eat people; they’re herbivores,” he said patiently, just like I was too stupid to know that.

  “Most horses are, but that white monster Lancelot is the exception to the rule,” I snapped back.

  One glossy black eyebrow rose. “There are no bad horses, only bad owners.”

  “Oh, that is such bull!”

  “You’re not a good enough horsewoman to joust,” he added with a self-righteous cock to his eyebrows.

  Now, that really got my goat. I might not be horse crazy like everyone else at the Faire, but I had been riding for as long as I could remember. “It just so happens that I’m a very good rider. My grandfather rode on the Olympic team in 1952, and he taught my mother and me how to ride. So you can just take that ‘not a good enough horsewoman’ crap and shove it up your—”

  “Pepper!” CJ yelled, waving a spatula at me. “Honestly, can’t I leave you alone for two minutes without you picking a fight with Walker?”

  I pointed at him. “He started it. He said I didn’t know how to ride.”

  “That’s not what I said. I simply pointed out that a woman who screams around horses and falls off them when they’re standing still is not a person who should be thinking about jousting.”

  I whirled around to face him, the urge to wrap Moth’s tail around his throat until his face turned red making my fingers twitch. “I fell because you dropped me when that big black monster bucked. He was not standing still.”

  “Marley bucked because your cat attacked him,” Walker said, his gorgeous eyes narrowing. He took a step closer to me, probably thinking he could intimidate me with the sheer power of his size. Ha! Little did he know that sturdy old built-like-a-brick-oven Pepper didn’t intimidate easily. I took two steps forward until we were standing toe-to-toe, madly squelching the part of my mind that was telling me to lean into him and just taste those thinned lips of his.

  “Moth isn’t my cat, and if your horse is so high-strung that he doesn’t allow cats near him—”

  “He’s not high-strung in the least. He’s a very well-mannered horse. It’s my experience that horses—all horses—don’t
appreciate strange cats using them as a perch.”

  “Oh, so now you’re an expert on everything to do with horses as well as jousting?”

  He leaned forward, his breath fanning across my cheeks, Moth’s slitted yellow eyes glaring at me as his body was slung up against the back of Walker’s head. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am an expert on horses as well as jousting. I’m a farrier. I have a great deal of experience with horses of all types, and unlike some people I could name, am not afraid to be around them.”

  “Really?” I crossed my arms under my bosom shelf and put on my best knowing smile. “For a man who couldn’t control his mount, you’re awfully cocksure. Tell me this—if you’re such an expert, why wasn’t that you out there jousting today?”

  Everyone, and I mean everyone in the Three Dog Knights camp, went absolutely silent at my words. The jokers stopped in midjest, the chatters stopped with words caught on their tongues, Vandal stopped flirting in the middle of telling a pretty passing girl about the fire in his loins. Every single person there turned to statues. It was as if someone had flipped a switch and turned off all animation. The only sound was that of fat hissing as it dripped down onto the coals.

  Walker’s eyes glittered a silvery fury at me as everyone stared at the two of us standing close enough to be in an embrace. His body was rigid and tight with anger, and I regretted my hasty words. For some reason I didn’t understand, they obviously cut him deeply.

  “Yes, Walker, please do tell us all why it is you weren’t out jousting with the rest of your so-called team,” an amused voice drawled from behind me. Heads swiveled as Farrell strolled out from the shadow of a nearby tent. He was all in black: black doublet, black hose, black thigh-high pirate boots, and a black shirt with ruffly neckline and matching ruffles at the sleeves, a dearth of color that highlighted the brightness of his eyes and his sun-bleached long blond hair. He strolled forward, the setting sun turning his hair to molten gold. “The lady is curious, and I for one I would love to hear you admit the truth behind your cowardice.”

  “Don’t you have something else to do, Farrell?” Walker asked in a tired voice. “Like waxing your body hair? Practicing your smile in front of a mirror? Giving yourself yet another meaningless championship title in an attempt to cover yourself in glory?”

  The smug smile on Farrell’s face held until Walker got to the last bit; then it cracked and anger flooded his eyes. “As a matter of fact, I do have something better to do than waste my time on a bunch of hasbeens.” He turned to me and flashed me the full wattage of his smile. “I have a damsel to rescue from tedium and mediocrity. My lady, if you will do me the honor of joining me for dinner, I would be happy to escort you from these drab surroundings to more convivial company and cuisine.”

  “Oh,” I said, more than a little flattered by the offer. It wasn’t often I had a handsome, dashing blond knight asking me to dinner. “Um . . . that’s nice of you, but we were going to have dinner here.”

  “I’m sure your friends won’t mind if I borrow you for a few hours,” Farrell said politely.

  Everyone in the Three Dog Knights camp stood as silent as statues, their eyes flickering between me and Farrell. No one said a word, but I was very much aware of a wall of hostility that had gone up at Farrell’s arrival. He was not one of them, their wary expressions said. He was not welcome there. Despite his bravado, Farrell looked uncomfortable, no doubt aware that his presence had put a damper on things. In a way, I empathized with him—I was a stranger among them, too. But it was the look in Walker’s eyes that left me with a clammy, cold feeling deep in my stomach.

  “By all means, go with him,” Walker said, his beautiful silver eyes positively glacial with scorn. “We wouldn’t want to be accused of forcing you to rough it with us when you could be dining in splendor, courtesy of Farrell’s many sponsors.”

  “It really galls you that so many companies have come forward to sponsor my troupe, doesn’t it? Oh, but I forget, you’ve left such crass commercial concerns behind in your new career as a . . . failure, isn’t it? Tsk,” Farrell said, holding up his hand to stop Walker’s protest before he could speak. “My mistake, the word is farrier, not failure, although the two can be so alike, can’t they?”

  “Do you think you two could have your pissing contest somewhere else? Our dinner is getting cold,” CJ said in a deceptively mild tone of voice. Her eyes were angry, and Butcher stood next to her with a hand on her arm, as if he were holding her back. I thought she was angry at Farrell until her frown hit me. She glared as if I had done something wrong.

  “Hey, I’m innocent here, I didn’t do anything—” I started to tell her.

  “Oh, just go have dinner with him,” she said abruptly, then turned her back to me and poked at the hamburgers grilling on the portable grill, her shoulders twitching angrily.

  I glanced around. Everyone’s faces were closed, polite masks of disinterest. Obviously none of them cared what I did. They probably wouldn’t even blink if I were to drop down dead right at their feet.

  “Fine, if that’s the way you want it . . .” I reached for Moth. Walker stepped backward so I was out of his reach before he plucked Moth from his shoulders and held the cat out to me, his eyes refusing to meet mine. I had a sudden urge to cry at the implied rejection, but I swallowed back the lump of tears as I set Moth on the ground and gave Farrell a watery smile. “Looks like I’m all yours.”

  Goose bumps went up my back at the flow of icy chill that emanated from Walker. Farrell flashed him a triumphant look before waving a graceful hand toward the opposite end of the tent city. “My team’s rigs are this way.”

  “I’ll see you later, Ceej?” I asked over my shoulder as I followed Farrell.

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” she muttered without even turning around to face me.

  The last sight I had of the camp as I left was of Walker’s eyes glittering in the dying sun, his long face as unmoving as if it had been hewn out of rock. The lump of tears tightened my throat painfully until I reminded myself that I wasn’t really interested in Walker, not that way, so his willingness to get me off his hands wasn’t really a rejection.

  It sure felt like one, though.

  Chapter Four

  “So what exactly is the story on Walker?” I asked Farrell a short while later. We were seated in an air-conditioned black-and-red RV, one of four RVs, all with California plates and the word Joust! written in fancy gold script along the sides. Farrell had told me that his sponsors paid for the team’s RVs, so they could travel around the country in style and comfort. The sponsorship I didn’t doubt for a moment—not only were the squires and varlets (the ground crew) wearing matching garb with sponsor patches on their arms, but the saddle that was sitting on a chair next to where Moth was flaked out also had sponsor emblems on it. I suppose if they could do it to race cars, a horse’s tack was fair game as well.

  “My sweet, I’m sure if we put our minds to it, we can come up with all sorts of other interesting topics of conversation. No, Claude, not that one, the iced champagne. And bring the salad before the scallops. How is your duck, Pepper?”

  Claude shot Farrell an anguished look as he turned and retreated to the rear part of the RV, assumedly where Farrell kept his portable wine cellar. I glanced down at the smoked Muscovy duck appetizer on the hand-painted plate before me. “It’s good. I’ve never had duck with a maple vinaigrette before. You really don’t believe in roughing it, do you? And I’m sure that there are all sorts of things that we can talk about, but what I’d really like to know is why you keep taunting Walker about being a failure and a loser and all that.”

  “You’ll like the salad, as well. It’s yellow tomato and buffalo mozzarella with Nicoise olives and a delightful herb vinaigrette from my own recipe,” Farrell said with a knowing smile. “After that, we’ll have tian of grilled scallops—you do like scallops, don’t you?—and Parmesan risotto. As for roughing it, why should I dine off charred-on-the-outside, undercooked-on-the-ins
ide hamburgers and canned beans when I can have a romantic, well-cooked dinner for two?”

  Farrell’s RV was just as elegant as he was, done in shades of black and gold. The dining area held a small linen-covered table with real china and crystal wine-glasses, embraced by a half-moon curved black suede seat. Ice clinked in the back of the RV as Claude, evidently Farrell’s body servant as well as squire, hunted for the champagne.

  “I don’t think dinner with the Three Dog Knights would have been as bad as all that, and yes, I like scallops, and this table is gorgeous, as is the food, but why are you so anti-Walker? Have you known him for long? And why are you guys always sniping at each other?” I kept my tone light to deemphasize the fact that I was grilling him.

  He laughed and raised his hands in surrender, nodding when Claude thumped back with a bottle of champagne covered in beads of water. “I can see I will be unable to steer you to more interesting topics until your curiosity is satisfied. Very good, Claude, you may pour it. Salad next, when you are through.”

  I quickly stuffed a piece of Muscovy duck into my mouth after Farrell raised his eyebrows at the untouched plate before me. “Delicious.”

  “Mmm. Shall we have a little toast?” He waited until I lifted my glass. “I believe it is traditional to toast a lady’s beauty when one is dining in such a manner, but in this instance I’m going to toast the winner of the tournament, for surely the lady in question will bestow him with the warmth of her smile and the charm of her presence in such a way that he will not fail to appreciate her beauty.”

  He clicked his glass against mine, sipping the champagne as I said, “Very nicely done, but you’re assuming two things that well may not happen.”