A Hard Day's Knight Read online

  “It suits you.” Lance checked himself. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “I mean, it appears handmade, unlike the rest.”

  Her cheeks flushed, but she looked pleased. “Yes, my mother’s a seamstress. She embroidered the bodice and sleeves, too.”

  The bodice. It would be his downfall. “Lovely.” Had her mother intended to showcase her bosom so prominently? Her décolletage drove him to distraction, and maddening visions. He dragged his focus to Kurt, and Gwyn moved from his line of sight. He must’ve gawked like an idiot.

  Kurt mumbled, “Chill, man. You’ll scare her off.”

  “Good.” It would save him the pain of doing it later. He hadn’t been able to show true love to anyone in eons.

  A jerk of his arm halted him. “Don’t be an ass. Gwyn didn’t know about this setup either, so give her a break, will you? Or if you can’t stop being an ass, we’ll leave.”

  He stared after her, unable to break free of the enchantment of the gentle sway of her hips, the flow of her long, blonde hair. A silent siren’s song, overwhelming in its power. “She didn’t know?”

  “No, so make an effort to be nice, will you? It won’t kill you for a few hours.”

  Ah, but if he only knew—possibly, it could kill him. Still, he had no right to treat her ill if they’d made her another pawn in their love match. “I had no idea. I’ll put forth my best.”

  “That’s my man.” Kurt’s mouth formed a grim line.

  “But I’m still leaving tomorrow morning.” A reminder to them both.

  Kurt shrugged. “Maybe you’ll decide to stay and take up my offer of permanent employment.”

  “I’ve already given you my answer.” Tempting as it might grow to change that response, he wouldn’t.

  “Let’s go have a nice feast. Relax. Have a little fun.”

  Fun. That might be a nice change. But not something he should get used to.

  ***

  The trompe l’oeil painting on the ceiling of the wide hallway lent an air of dusk, with the last glint of the sun’s rays clinging to the billowing clouds. The foursome strolled toward the dinner hall, lit with faux torches. Gwen looked forward to the annual Pirate’s Feast every year. Now it would be tainted with Stuck-Up’s sour puss and even more sour conversation. She hoped the excellent food would help her stomach it.

  She glared at Darien and Kurt’s backs, the pair snuggled close, murmuring and laughing. If only she could find someone simpatico to share the evening. But no, here she was, stuck with Mr. High and Mighty. Not a knight to remember.

  The silence hung between them too thick. She asked, “So what do you do?”

  “I teach fencing.” He stared ahead as if blind. Or willing himself to be blind to her.

  She watched him as he spoke, not difficult to do, given he had a good six inches on her height. Thick eyelashes any woman would kill for. Hard blue eyes echoing his cold demeanor.

  Talkative bugger, too. “And you’re going to Sedona?”

  “I leave in the morning, yes.” His speech faltered, as if it pained him to speak to her.

  Oh let this night end soon. Maybe she’d set fire to a tablecloth to cut it short. “Sounds interesting.”

  His chest billowed as if he’d held in a deep breath. “I don’t mean to be rude.”

  “What a relief.” She smiled sweetly. No gentleman would intentionally treat someone so churlishly.

  “I had no idea Kurt had planned this.”

  As if she might have been in on it? “Fine. Let’s make this as painless as possible, shall we?” Desperation hadn’t set in so deeply she’d lower her sights to include him.

  “Wonderful.”

  Was that resignation in his voice? Disappointment? No way. “The resort has a winery. Not bad stuff.” Must be up to her to keep the conversation flowing. She stole a glance at him, and heat surged up when the corners of his mouth quirked into a smug smile.

  “I’m sure it’s delightful.”

  Ooh, what a jerk. She forced a pleasant tone. “Common folk like me appreciate it.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  She whirled to face him. Halting, his blue eyes flashed surprise, maybe a hint of indignation. Everything about him screamed high class, even his understated dress, as if he traveled incognito. Nose aquiline, yet the slight crook suggested a healed break. Probably well deserved.

  If his behavior warranted, she’d break his nose again. “Get one thing straight. I’m doing this for Darien because she’s my friend. If Kurt’s your friend, you’ll lower yourself to be nice for one night.”

  Mr. Stick-Up-His-Butt floundered for words. Somehow, he looked attractive even while socially awkward, which further irritated her. She’d rather remember his bastardly side.

  “I’m glad you’re leaving tomorrow.” She flounced ahead. Passing Kurt and Darien, she said, “I have to check something. Save me a seat.”

  “Okay.” They turned in unison to send a quizzical look back at Lance. Farther ahead, she glared long enough for him to see. The hurt on his face pinched her insides. She hurried on.

  How could Gwyn look so lovely? The flush of anger in her cheeks enhanced the torches’ glow against her skin, making everyone else dull in comparison. He’d meant to compliment her singing, but she’d blinked her green eyes at him and erased his thoughts. All but one. The very one forbidden to him.

  Better she consider him a cad than a date. Better for her, anyway.

  A wave of warning passed through him as they entered the cavernous room. All his senses heightened. His hand instinctively sought the blade that no longer hung at his side. Someone else had crashed the party. He scanned the gathering pirates, wenches, captains, and witches.

  There. Near the cash bar. The lusty wench whose long legs climbed from her heeled low boots in fishnet stockings to her short, ragged skirt, cinching her small waist. So fair a complexion, it might’ve been porcelain. Apple-red lips. Obsidian tresses flowing in perfect waves to her waist. Too perfect, like the rest of her. Yes, he’d keep a close watch on that one.

  “Let’s grab some grub.” Kurt’s intrusion roused him.

  He followed them to the buffet tables. “What about Gwyn?”

  After grabbing a plate, Kurt inspected the dishes laid out. “You blew it, man. Darien said she’ll probably wait as long as possible, then spend a few minutes at our table before making up a lame excuse to leave.”

  “No.” He strained to search through the throng then sensed Kurt’s stare. “I haven’t yet apologized for my bad behavior.” How many apologies would she rebuff? All, if her good sense prevailed.

  As he heaped ribs atop a baked potato, Kurt shrugged. “If she comes back, you better do it in a hurry, or you’ll lose your chance.”

  A flute’s spritely tune sounded across the room, joined by the strumming of a vielle and chiming bells.

  “Dancing already?” Kurt frowned in its direction. “Thought they waited ’til after dinner.”

  The disappointment on Darien’s face made Lance follow her gaze.

  At the other end of the tent, Gwyn swayed and spun across from a man in peasant costume.

  Lance’s fists clenched as hot anger surged up. “Who’s that?”

  Kurt squinted over the heads of onlookers. “The lute player from Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  More like nightmare. “She couldn’t possibly find him interesting.” He’d noticed a musician beside Gwyn, but beyond his general form, nothing else.

  Sweetness dripped from Darien’s voice. “Maybe he’s nice to her.”

  The smack of guilt silenced Lance. Yes, maybe. Anyone could offer Gwyn more than he could. Her graceful swirls and enticing laughter drew him across the room. Imagining her smiles aimed at him, he moved nearer, willing her to notice.

  She glanced over then held his gaze, still dancing. “Don’t tell me. The food’s not to your liking?” She twirled beneath her hand, held high by the lute player.

  The musician scowled and wrapped his arm around her
waist.

  A flash of heat urged Lance forward, but he contained it. He stepped closer and tapped the man on the shoulder.

  “Seriously, dude?” The musician gave a laugh of disbelief.

  Self-restraint killed any emotion in his voice. “I’d like to cut in.”

  “Fuck off.” He tightened his embrace and turned his back, hiding Gwyn from view.

  She shifted away. “Stop.” His grip still dug into her arm, so she demanded, “Stop,” and broke from the lute player’s hold.

  Mouth a line of ragged grimness, the musician glared. “Whatever.” With a huff, he stomped off.

  Nervousness made Lance uncertain. Inhaling a bracing breath, he asked, “May I have this dance?”

  Her wide-eyed hesitation made him gulp. Hard. He hadn’t suffered the sting of rejection in a long time. Most women fell into his arms, and his bed, without much convincing. And leaving them behind never made him think twice. Now his urge was to stay. Each day with Gwyn would bring a new surprise, he felt certain. Foolishly, he wished to experience them all.

  A succession of emotions flashed in her face: surprise, irritation, wonder. “Do you know how?”

  Good question. He forced his mind to the rhythm of the music and held out his hands, hoping his feet would follow.

  She tilted her head, mischief sparkling. “You will soon, I suppose.”

  Her palms slid across his, sending a coil of heat through him. Her grip tightened as she flounced to the side, dragging him along. Taking the lead.

  So she meant to show him up. He resumed the lead and whirled with a grace that surprised himself as much as her, if her open-mouthed smile provided any indication.

  Catching her hand beneath her ribs, he spun her, and her laughter buoyed him. His own laugh surprised him. It had been absent too long, like so many other essentials of life.

  Above the scent of roasted pork and a full complement of side dishes and desserts, the scent of apple curled through his senses like a whisper of warning.

  He blocked it. Tonight, he wished to forget everything except the warm fullness of Gwyn in his arms.

  Amazing. The guy moved with the grace of a dancer. At first, Gwyn flinched when his arms encircled her, but his light touch matched his light steps. Relaxing into the rhythm, she followed his movements with ease. And the heat in his eyes—wow. Its warmth melted her reservations.

  When she landed against his chest, she forced herself to keep a polite distance. “You dance very well. Where did you learn?”

  One of his broad shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “It’s all natural talent.”

  She resisted rolling her eyes. He’d said it in a self-mocking manner. “Really.” A giggle escaped.

  He leaned closer. “Really.”

  Holy shit. An actual smile. She couldn’t help returning it. “Maybe I should take up fencing.”

  “You’d do very well, I’m sure.”

  “Because of my natural grace?” If her probe dredged up his sourness, she’d know his change of heart was an act.

  His mouth quirked into a smile. “Yes, though you’d have to curb your temper.”

  She feigned a lighthearted tone. “You manage to curb yours.” A bit of haughtiness slipped in. Allowed, under the circumstances.

  “One of the benefits of learning the discipline. Because it requires exactitude, it’s an extremely effective method of self-defense.” The tension left his features as he spoke.

  So he loved his work, at least. How strange, such a gorgeous guy should prefer a solitary lifestyle, if Kurt read him right.

  “You’re a puzzle.” She bit her lip, embarrassed she’d voiced it, a giveaway her thoughts centered on him.

  His grip, like his gait, grew stiff. “Not at all.”

  Great, now she’d ruined the only pleasant moment they’d shared. The song ended, and she reluctantly withdrew from his embrace. They clapped, each staring pointedly at the medieval band.

  All too aware of his presence, Gwyn didn’t want to let him go so easily. “I’m starving. Have you eaten?”

  His uneasy frown disappeared when he glanced over. “Not yet.”

  His light tone encouraged her. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be a total loss. “Let’s go check out the buffet.”

  “Yes. I’m a bit hungry myself.”

  Such stilted speech. “Where are you from?” she wondered aloud.

  Pain crossed his face, but he remained pleasant. “Nowhere and everywhere.”

  “As I said, you’re a puzzle.” This time she meant to say it. Wanted to gauge his reaction.

  Whatever argument he might have made died when he focused somewhere beyond her. “Do you know that woman?”

  Turning, Gwyn searched the many faces. “Which?” An old girlfriend stalking him? The idea twisted her insides, and she flattened her palm against her belly to calm it.

  He leaned his head beside hers and pointed. She had trouble remembering to follow his gaze with his lips in kissing range.

  “The dark-haired beauty.” His deep voice erased every other noise in the room. “With the fishnet stockings.”

  Jealousy billowed within her like smoke, choking out reason. “You think she’s pretty?” Did he hope she’d introduce them, for Pete’s sake?

  “As pretty as a cobra.” Venom edged his voice as he straightened to his full height. “Who is she?”

  Why should Gwyn be relieved? And shaken? Her body felt adrift in the wake of his withdrawal, and she steadied herself from easing near him again. “No idea. She must be new.”

  Odd, no one had mentioned a new girl, but employees came and went sometimes in the same weekend. That was Vegas, baby. Its ephemeral hold on the world had grown tiresome. Medieval Merriment lent a grounding force to her life, otherwise too adrift as well. She’d always sensed she belonged in that time rather than the present.

  No more depressing thoughts. She linked her arm in his and tugged him toward the line of food tables, their steaming contents making her mouth water. “Come on, before there’s no food left for us.”

  Everyone else always snapped up the good things before she had a chance to sample them. Not tonight.

  Chapter Three

  Not even Kurt’s babble damped the evening. With Gwyn at his side, Lance felt strangely at home. His head warred with his heart, warning him not to get too comfortable, not to let the warmth of the evening lull him into complacency. Especially with the threat still lingering in the air, still buzzing along his nerve endings. He’d already stayed as long as possible in Las Vegas. Soon the buzz would sink into his veins like poison, and every part of him would scream for relief—only obtained when he took to the road.

  Kurt settled his elbows on the table. “I wish I could convince you to stay.”

  Sending an apologetic glance to Gwyn, Lance concentrated on the flickering candle on the table. “I’m obligated to leave.” In ways Kurt would never understand.

  “So do your gig in Sedona then come back. Teach fencing here full time. Or hey, join the cast. Your swordplay would liven up the medieval dinner.” Kurt tilted the goblet to his mouth, still watching.

  Expectation shimmered in Gwyn’s eyes. She stilled beside him, waiting for his answer.

  He’d make it as painless as possible. “Thanks for the offer, but I can’t.” Much as he’d love to. Good thing he hadn’t met Gwyn before tonight, or he might have fooled himself into thinking he had a chance at a normal life. One taste of her soft, full lips might make him drunk on love. Last time he’d made that mistake, it had ruined his existence. The morning-after hangovers never ended, and the pain of lost love still ripped at his heart.

  Gwyn’s slight slump told him she already suffered the ill effects. Hope was a dangerous mistress, one he wouldn’t court.

  She peered up at him. “Sounds like you have a terminal case of wanderlust.”

  An excellent choice of words. “It’s in my blood.” Literally.

  A week ago, its burn had urged him to move on. Strangely, the sting eased
tonight, Gwyn’s presence like a balm to his tortured soul.

  “Then I guess we should make the most of tonight.” She set her napkin atop her plate, rose, and held out her hand, regal as a queen. “Dance with me.”

  A command he’d not refuse. “Gladly.”

  A heeled boot stomped on the tabletop, startling them. The curve of a fishnet-stockinged knee ended at the black skirt’s edge, hitched thigh high. The black-haired wench leered at him. “Dance with me.”

  How the same words sounded like Heaven uttered by one woman, and Hell when spoken by another, confounded him. With the strong scent of apples suffusing the air, he knew exactly why she intruded. She came from the isle of apples: Avalon.

  “Tempting as your offer is, I’m promised to another.” He let his cold smile taunt her.

  Her dark eyes pierced his. “History repeats itself again?”

  “Inevitably.” He’d rather die than let it be otherwise.

  Gwyn pressed into his side. “Lance?”

  The wench’s harsh laughter raked against his skin and seeped to his veins like poison. “Enjoy tonight. Time’s so fleeting, isn’t it?”

  Except when it stretched to infinity. “I have no intention of wasting it.” He led Gwyn down the length of the table and toward the swirling couples. The music ended, and a slower song began as he took her in his arms.

  Gwyn’s green eyes filled with worry. “I thought you didn’t know her?”

  How to explain? “It was another lifetime.” He drew her closer and pressed his cheek to her hair.

  “An old lover?” Her mouth moved against his shoulder, where her fingers dug in with sudden tension.

  “No,” he blurted then softened his tone. “The witch wishes she were.”

  Jerking away, she searched his face. “She’s stalking you? How scary.”

  Her concern touched him deeper than it should. Deeper than he thought possible after so long. “Forget about her. Tonight is ours.” He tightened his embrace, losing himself in the moment. It would have to be enough.

  “Only tonight?” Her neck arched back, hooded eyes full of heat, lush lips within easy reach.