Hard Day's Knight (8 page)

“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.

“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-inside 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.”

He raised his chin in a practiced hair flip that had his golden hair shimmering down his shoulders. “Really? What might those two assumptions be?”

“First, that a man will be the tournament champion. From what I’ve heard, there are several women jousters.”

“True, and although some of them are very good, very good indeed, none have ever won the title of tourney champion when the world’s top male jousters are competing.”

Such complacency rankled. “You may find yourself surprised.”

“Why, do you intend to joust against me?” The amusement in his eyes did a lot to dampen any interest I might have had in him as a prospective mate.
Besides,
the honest little voice in my mind pointed out,
he’s much too handsome for the likes of you
.

“No, certainly not. I don’t even know how to joust, but I have met Veronica and Bliss, and they both seem to be very confident.”

“They might have confidence, but they lack in other areas,” Farrell said as he waved the subject of women jousters away. “What is the second assumption?”

I smiled. “That this lady you are referring to gives a hoot who wins the tournament. She may not wish to bestow anything on the champion.”

“Ladies always love a winner.” He nipped delicately at a bit of duck.

“Unless they’re in love with a loser,” I retorted before realizing just how stupid that sounded. “Uh . . . that is, the person who didn’t win the tournament, not loser in the sense of a
loser
loser. The nonwinner is what I meant.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” he answered with a great deal of amusement in his eyes. “But I remain unconcerned that anything so ridiculous could happen.”

“You’re that sure of yourself?” I asked, leaning back as Claude clumped back into the RV with two plates of salad on a tray.

“Absolutely. Confidence is of much importance to a jouster. One moment of self-doubt, one moment of fear or worry or distraction, and you might as well throw your lance away, because it’ll all be over.”

“Is that what happened to Walker?”