Stranger in Camelot (10 page)

He liked her contradictions. He wanted to believe that if she knew why he’d come here she’d turn over the books with an innocent apology for her grandfather’s crime. And then what?

John stood in the center of her room, squinting thoughtfully into space. Then he’d sell the books for the fortune they’d bring, buy Agnes wonderful gifts and whisk her off to someplace luxurious, where the two of them could concentrate on becoming lovers.

Unless she hated him for the lies he’d let her believe so far.

Abruptly he headed back to the front of the house. Agnes would understand. He’d explain. He wouldn’t let doubts close in on him.

He’d gotten inside her front door easily, jimmying the lock. He relocked the door and absentmindedly patted Agnes’s dogs, who crowded around his legs. His affection for animals was as natural as the instinct to
breathe. Tonight he’d have to yell at the friendly mutts or they’d follow him back to the campground.

But as he crossed the yard they began barking and ran toward the barn. He followed them behind it to the pasture fence. There, near the gate to the corral, stood one of the mares by herself. She had her head down and was sniffing the ground, while her hooves shifted restlessly.

John went to her, crooning under his breath. He examined her and stroked her distended stomach. “Looks as though you’re about to drop a bun from that oven.” Her ears twitched. She seemed to appreciate the coarse slang and the bawdy accent in his voice.

He slapped her rump. “Haul your muffins to the maternity ward.” Taking her by the forelock, he led her into the barn. Here was a way to make up to Agnes for roaming about her house uninvited. He’d play midwife.

Aggie was frightened when she drove into her yard at two-thirty in the morning and found the barn lights blazing. Her dogs nearly tripped her with their welcome, licking her white jeans legs, stepping on her white sneakers, and bouncing up to nip at the hem of the flowered shirt she wore over a pink tank top. They weren’t nervous, she thought, and they would be if a stranger were in the barn.

She stopped cautiously in the barn’s hall, seeing nothing above the stalls’ head-high partitions. “Who’s here?”

No answer. Only a stall door at the hall’s far end was shut. She strode to it, her heart hammering in her chest, and peered over the door. A long, slow sigh of tenderness and amazement slipped from her throat. Curled up on a fresh bed of wood shavings was her bay mare, Dottie.

Dottie’s eyelashes fluttered as her head nodded drowsily.
John was asleep beside her, looking grimy, disheveled, but very appealing in rumpled old trousers and no shirt. His head rested on Dottie’s plump shoulder.

And stretched out beside him, snoring, with its tiny bay head on his bare stomach, was Dottie’s newborn foal. John had draped one arm around its neck. The foal’s stubby black tail twitched with contentment.

Aggie propped her arms on the door and rested her chin on them. She knew she had a giddy smile on her face as she studied the scene in front of her.

John Bartholomew was wonderful.

Five

She hoped he liked oatmeal. Bustling around her small, bright kitchen, Aggie dropped utensils, bumped into the old Formica-topped table, and nearly stirred sugar instead of salt into the bubbling pot on the stove. Her attention was distracted by listening for any sound of John moving around in her grandfather’s room, where he’d spent what was left of the night after they stopped baby-sitting the new foal.

As she began quartering oranges on a cutting board by the sink, she heard his footsteps on the bedroom floor and almost poked her finger with the paring knife. Exasperated, she leaned close to the open window over the sink, pulled the tail of her floppy blue tank top out of her cutoffs, and fanned herself.

The creak of the bedroom door made her tuck the top into her shorts hurriedly and smooth the fine curly tendrils escaping from her hair, which she’d braided loosely down her back. She didn’t want to look like a woman who wanted to impress a man—but she was.

His long, solid strides on the hall’s wooden floor made her hands tremble. She grabbed a piece of orange and fiddled with the peel as if removing it were an art that required concentration.

“You’re a very pleasant sight to see first thing in the morning,” John said from the doorway.

She smiled over her shoulder and kept working. “Hi. Hope you like hot mushy food.”

“Hmmm.” He went to the stove and lifted the lid on the oatmeal. “Gruel. My favorite.”

Aggie glanced toward him, trying not to stare happily. His ruffled hair and sleepy expression were very sensual. He wore loose white trousers and a white tank top similar to her own—except that it was tight and what it revealed of his hard, darkly haired chest was more interesting than looking at herself. His expression as he sniffed the pot of oatmeal made her burst into laughter. “Don’t call my oatmeal ‘gruel.’ ”

His attention flickered down her body for a moment, but politely. She was as soft and hot inside as the oatmeal by the time he met her gaze again. “Good morning.”

She managed a jaunty nod. “Morning.”

“I didn’t mean to sleep late.”

“You didn’t. It’s only seven.”

“I didn’t want to miss anything.”

“I only got up thirty minutes ago. I checked on Dottie and the little guy. They’re fine.”

“He’s got the look of a winner to me.”

“I hope some buyer agrees with you in about ten months.”

“You won’t consider keeping him?”

She shook her head, feeling a surge of regret. “I’ve got no time to train and show weanlings, even the best ones. I’d like to show my own horses someday, but I can’t right now.”

“You need a partner.”

Her hands fumbled with the orange slice.
A prosperous English businessman, maybe?
But she’d never bring that subject up with him. She had too much
pride. And she was cautious where her ranch was concerned. It was all she had.

Was it smart to be cautious about the ranch but reckless about falling in love with him? Aggie frowned at the irony.

“You’re thinking about something awfully hard, Agnes,” he said lightly. “I can almost see a vein throbbing in your forehead.”

“Aw, that’s just the soft spot.”

He reached out and touched his fingertips to the bruise near her hairline. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah. How about you?” She lifted his left hand and examined the bruised thumb.

“First rate. I like comparing injuries with you. We have a lot in common.”

“Bruises don’t count.” She released his hand and looked at him wistfully. “They heal, and you forget about them.”

“Don’t be practical, Agnes. Perhaps I wasn’t talking about heads and thumbs.”

“Oh? Well, I wish all my problems got better so fast.”

“Tell me your problems. I’ll be the doctor.”

She grinned. “Oh, no, I’m not ready to play doctor with you.”

“Don’t I look professional?” He waved a hand at his white trousers and tank top.

“You look like the lead in an Italian art film. All you need is a scarf around your neck and a cigarette hanging out of your mouth. Come on, gimme a sultry look and say
ciao.
”

He gave her a slit-eyed smile. “Ciao,
seducente.
”

The look wasn’t just sultry, it had a knowing, predatory edge that seemed to belong to some other man, a less lighthearted one. Feeling nervous, she turned her attention back to the overworked orange. “No fair ad-libbing.”

“Agnes?” he said, sounding concerned. “
Seducente
means ‘gorgeous.’ It’s a compliment.”

“Oh, I know. When I was living in California I had an Italian housekeeper. She taught me a few naughty words to impress my, uh, husband.” She winced inwardly and thought,
Smart, Hamilton
. John had complimented her, and in reply she’d brought up her intimacy with another man.

John leaned, hip-shot, against the countertop and propped a hand on the old blue tiles. “Ah-hah. So he was obviously
seducente
. The lady reveals a bit of her carefully guarded history. Tell me more.” His casual stance was as deceptive as her relaxed smile. She saw the glitter of intense emotion in his eyes and the hardness in his mouth.

“Tell me about all the women you’ve loved,” she countered, still smiling.

“Loved? That narrows the field. Love is when you dote on the idea of sharing another person’s life, warts and all, for every day of the rest of
your
life. I’ve been infatuated with a person here and there, but I’ve never loved anyone, by my definition of the word.”

“You and your definitions,” she said dryly. “I’d like to have a copy of the dictionary you use.”

He laughed but bowed his head to her with a gallantry that made her catch her breath. “It’s all stored in my heart.”

“Must be crowded, your heart. Wouldn’t want you to clog a valve.”

“Agnes, the heart is as big as a person’s spirit.” His voice dropped to a teasing, seductive level. “And as eternal as a person’s true desires.”

Her hands trembled. She couldn’t let her imagination get the best of her. “I’ll tell you what eternity is,” she replied lightly. “It’s waiting for oatmeal to finish cooking when you’re hungry.”

“Whatever you say, Agnes.”

She picked up her paring knife and jabbed an orange with it. “Don’t sound smug.”

“I’m glad I’m not an orange.”

Aggie pointed the impaled fruit toward a percolator plugged into an electrical outlet above the countertop. “You’re in luck. I calm down after I have my morning cup of coffee. Grab those two mugs and pour us some. We’ve got things to do.”

“Such as?”

“Go to the beach. I owe you some fun for all you did yesterday.”
Not to mention the wonderful things you did to me on the porch
, she added silently.

“You don’t owe me, Agnes,” he said, frowning.

“I want to, okay?” They were silent, sharing a quiet look. He searched her eyes and she stood still, mesmerized. Slowly he smiled. “I’d love it, then. Very much.”

John told himself he was building character. Yes, if he could lie on the warm sand next to Agnes without putting a hand on her, he had more character than he’d ever guessed he had.

“Spring is the perfect time of year to be here,” she told him. “The weather’s still a little cool.” She chuckled. “Eighty-five degrees instead of ninety-five.” Her fair complexion was tinted a warm pink by the sunlight filtering through the enormous red beach umbrella they’d rented. They lay on their stomachs on a colorful blanket, chins propped on their arms. “And on a weekday morning like this, there isn’t much of a crowd.”

“It’s wonderful.” John gazed at her as he said that. “Not crowded at all.”

Her lips pursed in a mild taunt. “Not where you’re looking.”

“You’re looking back.”

“I like the scenery.”

“Hmmm. I like your honesty.”

She fluttered her lashes at him. “I’m looking at the dunes behind you. The sea oats are so pretty.”

“Then you must have incredible side vision, because those eccentric blue eyes haven’t strayed from my handsome self one bit.”

“Eccentric eyes? What a description! You want me to drop a jellyfish on your back?”

“They’re odd in a lovely way, Agnes. They fade inward, as if you’d splashed silver paint into a bucket of blue.”

“You’re getting poetic on me. I’ll blush.”

“We’ll make each other blush.”

“This is a public beach.”

He grinned at her, silently cursed the fact that it was a public beach, and turned his face forward before he was tempted to kiss her. He was aching for much more than a kiss. The soft sand was a welcome cushion for his arousal.

John focused his attention on the panorama of wide white beach and blue-green ocean. A few couples strolled near the tide line, and children squatted in the surf, picking up shells. It was peaceful scenery, he thought, and ought to soothe him.

But he shut his eyes and pictured the ocean breeze stroking a loose strand of Agnes’s hair, the umbrella’s fringe making little shadows across the bridge of her tilted nose, highlighting the scattered freckles there. He smelled her suntan lotion and thought how good her oiled skin would feel under his hands.

“Where in the world did you get that old-fashioned swimsuit?” he asked abruptly. He rolled over on his back and latched his hands under his head, then stared casually
up
at the umbrella. Her two-piece suit was bright red too.

She chuckled. “A rummage sale. It must have been made back in the fifties. It was faded, so I dyed it. Otherwise, it’s good as new.”

She rolled onto her back, too, then tucked a towel
under her head as a pillow. John allowed himself a glance at the swimsuit’s bottom piece. It covered her flat belly and full hips in snug red pleats. The suit might as well have been one-piece.

It hid her from thighs to waist and let only a narrow band of skin show between the bottom and top pieces. The top was similarly pleated and modest, anchoring her full, ripe breasts with its wide shoulder bands and sturdy gathers in the center.

But no matter how modest the swimsuit was, Agnes filled it with the kind of bounce and sway that gave men eye strain. “I like it,” he told her. “But what made you choose an old style?”

“I got tired of bikinis. Every time I went in the ocean all I did was hold the top half down and the bottom half up. I nearly drowned once, trying to keep my dignity.”

He would have paid for the privilege of rescuing her from
that
predicament. “Why not buy a one-piece, then?”

“Too see-through for my taste. Last one I owned was so sheer when it got wet I swore I could see my tattoos through it.”

Smiling at her nonsense, he turned on his side and rose on an elbow. “Tattoos? Really? Where?” She’d given him a perfect excuse to study her. He scanned her torso with solemn innocence.

She laughed. “No tattoos. But if I’d had some, you could have seen them. So I bought this little red dinosaur, and it works just fine. It’s a nineteen-fifties suit, and I’ve got a nineteen-fifties body. Lots of padding and no sharp angles. I’m a throwback.”

“You’re perfect.” He gestured from her neck to her thighs, skimming his fingertips just above her body. “This sort of body made Marilyn Monroe a star.”