Stranger in Camelot (9 page)

“Let’s get on with fixing this fence.”

“Sure.”

Looking subdued and thoughtful, she retrieved her gloves from the ground. John watched her in worried silence. Suddenly, his plans were not nearly as simple or as selfish as he wanted them to be.

Aggie and John rocked in the ancient rocking chairs, whose joints creaked from many pleasant years of use, and drank iced tea from quart-sized plastic cups she’d collected at fast-food restaurants. Nothing fancy, nothing threatening. She was happy having a few mindless, pleasant moments with John before she had to make a decision about him.

But he wouldn’t give her the luxury. “I’ll have to be going, if I’m to find another campground.”

She laced her hands around the cartoon characters dancing on her tall cup. “You know it’s not that simple,” she muttered.

“Agnes?” When she lifted her head and looked at him defensively, she found regret in his eyes. “I’ll be blunt,
then. I hope you’ll change your mind and let me stay. There are a dozen sights I want to see in this part of Florida, and I can see them alone, while you’re working.” He paused, intense emotions flickering in his eyes as his gaze held hers. A quiver ran through her. “And I’ll take any of your free time you can give me.”

She set her cup on the floor and, feeling shaky, moved to the porch railing across from him. Leaning against it, she untied her sweaty bandanna, pulled it off, and ran a distracted hand through her tangled, damp hair. “I wish I had time to do all the tourist things with you. I’d love to. It’d be the kind of fun I haven’t had in years. But I don’t have the time, and I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed if you stay here.”

“Tell me what your days are like. Not unusual days, like this, but the ordinary ones.”

“Remember? I said I write a few articles for one of the neighborhood newspapers?”

“Yes. I’m impressed.”

“I’m no professional reporter. It’s simple writing, but I’m good at it. I interview local people, take a few photos, then write the articles. I get ten bucks a story from the
Matanzas Bay Weekly News.
” She smiled at the name and watched amusement gleam in his eyes too. “Tomorrow I’ll be interviewing a man who builds model trains.” She brightened suddenly. “John! Would you like to go with me when I see him? You can ask him questions that I’d never think of!”

“Model trains?” His blank look was puzzling. It disappeared before she could study it. He smiled quickly. “Yes, I’d love to help you. You see? You needn’t take time off to entertain me. I’m not a guest, I’m a friend.”

“A temporary friend,” she corrected somberly. “Who’ll be going back to England in a few weeks.”

“Agnes, live in the present!”

“That’s funny, coming from a man who loves medieval history.”

He bounded to his feet more quickly and gracefully than such a large man should, startling her. Plunking his cup on the porch rail, he grasped her hands warmly. His skin was burnished from the afternoon in the sun, and he smelled pleasantly earthy. His walnut-dark hair shagged over his forehead in an untamed way that tempted her fingers, and his smile flashed white in contrast. The vibrant joy in his eyes made them sparkle. “I love the past as well as the present,” he told her softly, “and you, fair lady, are taking command of both.”

“Oh, don’t start that ‘fair lady’ stuff again.” But her voice was airy and her knees weak. She couldn’t look away from him.

“You’re the kind of woman who inspired knights to great deeds.”

“Stop it.” She tried to pull away from his hands.

“Agnes.” He said her name with gruff rebuke, pulled her toward him swiftly, and put his arms around her. Then with an ease that gave her no time to think he lifted her so she leaned on tiptoe against his chest and clutched his arms for support. Then he kissed her, not forcing it, not having to, because she sighed with defeat and kissed him back.

Aggie delved into his mouth and was rewarded with his swift, hungry response. He was as hard and straight as a fence post against her belly, and his hands tightened on her rib cage then drew upward, lifting her higher. His palms squeezed the sides of her breasts, tantalizing her by not moving closer.

She tried to be neutral with her hands and body, keeping still, shivering with the fear that she was falling into a relationship more powerful than anything she’d ever known before, an affair that was already doomed.

He backed her up to one of the smooth, round porch supports. The wood pressed between her shoulder blades like his accomplice. His hands slid down her hips, cupped under them, and lifted her. Slowly he pressed
himself between her legs. She looked at him in a daze of sensation, her hands clenching his sweaty T-shirt at the shoulders but not pushing him away.

His face was ruddy with desire and his mouth looked harsh and tight with restraint. But his eyes reassured her with their gentleness, the incredible patience she’d never seen in a man’s passion before.

“Agnes, stop worrying,” he whispered. “You always have the power to end this. At any moment it becomes wrong for you.”

She nodded woodenly. “It’s not wrong to enjoy this.” Her voice was barely audible, but filled with the distress she felt. “But it’s wrong to take it too much further.”

“Only a little further,” he promised. Pressing closer, he dropped kisses on her upturned face. She hugged her thighs around his hips. The loose legs of her shorts let his hands slide up until his fingertips were on the soft pads of her buttocks. He held her carefully and flexed into the center of her tender ache. “We’re special together,” John whispered in the brief moment before his mouth settled on hers again.

Lost in pleasure, Agnes could barely think. What harm would it do to continue this? Her bedroom was so close. She could picture the two of them naked on the white sheets and hear the wicker bedstead creaking with their rhythm. Every feminine need cried out to have his hardness inside her. Her instincts told her he’d probably be as loving as he was lusty, that he wouldn’t break this spell.

This spell. She’d lost her common sense. She never wanted to be reckless again. “John, I have to stop,” she said softly.

He set her down inch by inch, kissing her face and hair as he did. If he was disappointed or upset there wasn’t any sign. He sighed deeply, but it was a happy sound. “That was fantastic, Agnes.”

She studied him anxiously. “When I was growing up,
I knew it was okay to kiss and have a little fun then stop. But the rules are different for adults. Kissing means full steam ahead, and nobody’s supposed to set limits once the train gets rolling.” Hesitating, she added flatly, “My train is happier running by the old rules.”

“Agnes,” he said as a wry smile curled one corner of his mouth, “you have a train fetish.” They both chuckled. She leaned her forehead against his jaw. He stroked her hair. “It’s perfectly fine for this train to move slowly.”

She curled her fingers into his shirt, liking the friendly feel of soft material and hard muscle beneath it. “I owe you an explanation.” She cleared her throat anxiously. “I haven’t slept with anyone since I left my husband. More than five years ago.”

He was silent for a moment. His hands paused on her hair. Then he said lightly, “Agnes, your train ran off the tracks.”

Hearing the humor in his voice made her relax. “I was afraid you’d think I’m weird.”

“No. But I’m sure your wheels are rusty.”

She choked on laughter. “They are.”

He stepped back and looked down at her with gleaming eyes. “No need to justify your good taste.”

“Good taste?”

“You waited for me all this time.”

He was so glib, she began laughing again. Slowly his fingertips touched her neck, then trailed down to the edge of her T-shirt. She gave a low sigh when he began stroking her breasts with the backs of his fingers. He was barely touching her, his fingers still, only his hands moving, so that the pressure was soft but thick. “Have a good night at your job, Agnes.”

He rubbed his fingers over the tips of her breasts, and the bra’s sturdy shield of fabric didn’t stop sensation from radiating through her. Because he’d reduced her to weak-kneed silence, she merely nodded.

“I’ll find my way through the woods to your campground,” he continued.

“Hmmm.”

“And set up my tent. I’ll introduce myself to any nervous senior citizens and assure them I’m a friend of the owner’s.”

“The Cranshaws. Here for the whole summer. In charge.”

“What time should I stop by tomorrow?”

“Noon.”

“Very good. I had a wonderful day today, Agnes. Thank you for the bandage on my thumb. I’ll treasure it.” He raised his softly swathed thumb to her chin, caressing her. She lifted her mouth to his one more time. When she looked into his eyes, they were amused and admiring. “Good evening,” he whispered.

“Evening.”

He moved away, went down the porch steps, and walked to his Jeep. Leaning on the porch post, Aggie watched him, feeling drained but greedy. Her mind was blank. He smiled at her as he started the Jeep, then put his fingertips to his lips for a moment as he drove out of the yard.

She slid down the porch post and sat on the steps, her hands limp in her lap. She was already half in love with John Bartholomew, and she’d only known him one day.

Her house was filled with small things that defined her. In the narrow beam of John’s flashlight they appeared in the darkness like still lifes from a slide show, illuminated brightly for a second, then lost again. Hanging from the back of the living-room door was an orange canvas tote bag with a bright African design. Stuffed in the bottom were the year’s receipts for horse feed and veterinary service, all stamped ‘Paid.’ Her record system struck him as creative but reckless.

Faded but sturdy old furniture filled the living room, and the walls were covered in flowered paper and framed photographs of quarter horses and ornate ribbons from breeders’ shows, many of them dating back twenty years. There were photos of her grandfather, Sam Hamilton, a redheaded, pug-nosed old man with a lined face, beaming at a prize horse in one picture; in another photo he was an earnest-looking younger man in an army uniform with captain’s insignia.

John looked at the photo with disgust. Here was Captain Samuel Hamilton, the thief who had stolen valuable heirlooms from a helpless English family during the war. This man had doomed John’s maternal grandparents and through them, his mother. But not him, not after he got the books back.

John swung the flashlight’s beam away. Agnes wouldn’t be home from her job for hours—what was he hesitating for?

Those manuscripts might be here, somewhere, and he hoped to find a clue.

He slipped down the back hall off the living room, his well-worn jogging shoes making very little noise on the old wood floor. The flashlight lit a large room with a four-poster brass bed and straight plaid curtains. One glance at the room’s masculine decor told John it had belonged to Aggie’s grandfather.

The room next to it was an office. Shelves lined the whitewashed walls, filled with show trophies, framed pictures, and books of all kinds. Under them in one corner was a rolltop desk scattered with unpaid bills and a chipped ceramic vase crowned with a dusty silk begonia. John scanned the books, noticing all the volumes on Latin and medieval history.

His heart pounded. He dropped his attention to books stacked on the desk. Tucked among them was a notepad. The writing was bold and feminine. Agnes’s.

He removed the notepad and studied it, reading
exactly what he’d hoped to find, notes about twelfth-century English history, knights, the Tower of London, and King Henry II.

The period was right. The details were perfect. John had no doubt that her grandfather had left her the medieval diary and prayer book. He hoped they were hidden in this room.

A night breeze suddenly cascaded through the sheer white curtains. John shut off his flashlight and straightened warily in the darkness, watching the luminous material billow. Goosebumps ran up his spine. He didn’t believe in omens, but shame washed over him.

He was so dishonorable sneaking around Agnes’s home this way! It was beneath him, beneath his code of—of what? Chivalry? He was no fantasy figure, except when he tried to charm Agnes.

John slapped the flashlight hard against his palm. He deserved those books! He didn’t give a tinker’s damn about the contents or the sentimental value, and he wouldn’t let them take over his imagination this way!

This is beneath my honor
, a stubborn inner voice insisted.

The thought stayed as though he’d stored it in some quiet alcove long ago. It had only been waiting for the right moment to slip free.

John slammed his hand against the desk. The vase bounced and made a rattling sound. Gritting his teeth, he quickly shoved the notepad back where it had been. He was careful not to leave anything out of place. In his career with Scotland Yard he’d been meticulous about details. Sorrow twisted his stomach as he recalled how proud he’d been of his work—and how good he’d been at it.

He strode out of the office and paused in the hallway, looking toward the back of the house. He wanted to see Agnes’s bedroom for reasons having nothing to do with finding the books.

It was across the hall, a small, neat room with a wicker bedstead painted white and covered in bright-white linens, with no quilt or blanket. The double bed sat among plain wooden furniture and braided throw rugs. Bottles of perfume and cosmetics were arranged on a dresser beside a stuffed alligator.

Gingham curtains rippled seductively at a large window near the head of the bed. A large bookcase contained a stereo and tape deck, a small portable television, a collection of quartz crystals, seashells, ordinary-looking rocks, and pine cones.

With a sense of wonder he touched the whimsical collection, the funny little alligator, the crisp white bed sheets. No matter how ugly her past was, it didn’t cling to her the way his clung to him. Her room was serene and wholesome, an ice-cream-parlor sort of place but filled with the provocative presence of a mature woman. The perfumes were spicy and exotic, and among her makeup selection was a tube of scorching red lipstick.