Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (26 page)

barefoot, he wore only jeans now. She’d never seen him shirtless. He looked good to her before

but tonight he looked disarmingly sexy. The air rushed from her lungs but she managed to

suppress the “wow,” which almost spilled out. Maybe it was the bare chest, or the wet hair, or the combination that triggered an uber mini fantasy of him standing in a steamy bathroom in just a

towel.

“Esme?”

“How did you know it was me?” she asked, grateful he couldn’t see how she’d scanned

him head to toe, toe to head. “You didn’t ask me to identify myself. I might’ve been a thief.”

“Your perfume. I can’t imagine any robber troubling himself to smell so sweet. Please,

come inside.”

She entered and as soon as he shut the door said, “Why don’t you turn on the lights?” The

question barely left her lips when she realized her stupid mistake. “I can’t believe I said that.

Duh.”

“Fret not. Had I expected company, I’d have turned them on.” He flipped on the light over

the entry. “Please turn on others as you see fit. Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Love one,” she said and lit the way as she moved toward the kitchen.

“I almost left but then I saw you by the fridge.”

She dropped her purse down and started for the cupboard where the glasses were kept.

Stephen set his wine on the counter. He grasped her upper arms in a gentle but firm hold and

eased her sidestep-style from in front of the cupboard.

“Allow me.” He removed a goblet from the shelf and found the wine bottle with no effort.

“I promise my finger is clean.” He hooked his finger to the second knuckle inside the glass

and began to pour. When the wine reached the tip of his finger, he stopped and handed the glass to her.

“I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here this late?” she asked.

“No. Only a fool questions good fortune.”

“Thank you. I’ve never been called ‘good fortune’ before.” She almost kissed him on the

cheek but thought better of it. He might misinterpret the gesture as more than appreciation for a compliment. And she still wasn’t sure how she’d feel about a relationship with him that went

beyond platonic.

At the sound of the BBC announcer, Esme looked over to see a program promo on the

television. Why, when he couldn’t watch? If anything, she thought he’d play his CDs. “Is there a reason you’ve the BBC on?”

“I was about to listen to a movie called
Gladiator.
It sounded interesting. An honorable Roman general is betrayed and enslaved as a gladiator. As he rises to fame in the arena, he seeks revenge against the man who destroyed his life and family. Would you care to watch it? If not, we can change the channel.”

“I love that movie. I’m a bit surprised you know about gladiators.”

His brows notched up. “We knew about gladiators in my time. Because I don’t know the

history of England after Poitiers does not mean I don’t know what went on prior.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend. You grew up here and knew about an old Roman Road

nearby. I should’ve realized you’d have learned of their practices when Britain was under the

thumb of their empire.”

“I even visited Hadrian’s Wall once. Wasn’t much of a wall in my opinion.”

He said it with such aplomb. A crinkle of humor touched the corners of his eyes as he

licked away a drop of wine that dotted his bottom lip. She always thought he had a well-shaped

mouth for a man, not mean-lipped or Mick Jagger big, but suitably in between.

In spite of her uncertainty as to what she wanted for their relationship, at this particular

moment, she wanted to know what he knew about kissing, because kissing is a big deal. If a guy

couldn’t get that right, sexually everything else went downhill from there, in
her
opinion.

“Kiss me.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me. Kiss me.”

Stephen didn’t bother to set his goblet down. He ran a light hand along her face, bent and

kissed her on the forehead.

She took his glass from him and set both hers and his on the counter. “No. I want a proper

kiss, on the lips.”

“As you wish, milady.”

He cupped the back of her head in one palm. In the other, he caressed then cradled her

cheek and pressed his lips to hers, tipping her head as he did.

Suddenly unsure of what to do with her hands, she rested them at his waist. The touch of

his lips turned from reverent to a warm exploration as his tongue parted her lips, granting him access.

The kiss was a leisurely journey touching here, and there, and everywhere, that deepened

without plundering, that gave without demanding more of her. She drew in a quick breath stealing his air as his fingers traveled down from cheek to jaw to collarbone, along her ribcage to her

waist.

Over her blouse his thumbs teased and rubbed the curve of her hips. She leaned into him,

her softer thighs pressed tight to his muscled ones in a hope he’d slip his hands under the cloth.

She wanted skin on skin. She wanted the kiss to go on and on and felt uncharacteristically bereft when he lifted his head and broke it.

He ran a knuckle the length of her jaw line that tickled when he reached the sensitive skin

under her ear. “Why did you wish my kiss?”

What to tell him? The truth? There’s a sticky business.
My libido went wild for a

moment. I needed to conduct an empirical
test of your kissing skill
. No. Telling the truth was off the table.

“I wondered if you’d kiss like a medieval man or a modern one.” That had to be in the top

three of lamest reasons to kiss someone ever given. Thank God he couldn’t see the face she

made in self-disgust.

He dropped his hand from her face and straightened. “You thought kissing has changed

over time? That people in this time made it better?”

“Not better—different.”

“Was it?”

“I’d say your kiss was a good as one can get.”

“Oh milady, I have better ones,” he said, wiggling his brows. “My repertoire is quite

sizeable if I say so myself.”

“Perhaps you’ll show me...” Uncertainty about the two of them flared again and she

added, “...Someday. We should go in the other room. The movie’s about to start.”

They sat side by side on the sofa. Stephen put his feet up on the coffee table and relaxed

back into the comfy cushion.

“I might ask you to describe some moments in the movie for me, if that’s all right.”

“Of course. It opens with an exciting battle scene, Ro—”

Stephen leaned over and placed a finger against her lips. “I know what battle looks like.

Hearing it is enough for me.”

#

When she woke, the television was off. The last thing she remembered was describing

Russell Crowe’s injured Maximus character standing tall as Commodus, the Joaquin Phoenix

character, entered the arena. Now, her head was on a pillow on Stephen’s lap. The green fleece

throw from the end of the sofa with embroidered lambs on the hem covered her. Her empty wine

glass sat next to Stephen’s on the coffee table. He slept with his head down and his chin resting against his chest. One hand cradled the top of her head, while his other arm lay protectively

across her ribcage.

She’d never seen him relaxed and at peace in sleep. After her hair cutting disaster, this

close view and shorter style showed the strands of blond here and there in his light brown hair.

When looking at him straight on, she always thought he had the beginnings of a cleft in his

chin. From this angle, she saw it was a scar but not a fresh one like those around his eyes. What had happened to leave a mark so deep? She raised her gaze to his eyes, not to the scars, but to his lashes. Dark brown lashes, thick and long and wasted on a man, she thought with a sigh.

Morning sun bathed the drawing room and dining area in light. She stopped her study of

Stephen, sat up, and checked her watch. Eight o’clock.

Stephen woke when she stirred. “Morning milady,” he said and moaned as he stretched.

“Do you know the time?”

“Eight.”

“Oh my, I haven’t slept that late in ages.” He stood and stretched again pressing his fists

into his lower back as he did. “I feel like a rug that’s been shaken repeatedly by an overzealous maid.”

“Are you sore from riding?”

“No. I had another judo lesson yesterday. Most of the time spent being flipped to and fro

onto the floor mat.”

“Wow, I didn’t know you were taking judo lessons. Pretty radical thing to take up,

considering...”

“I’m blind?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“It’s not really radical. My partner is a blind friend of Andrew’s who’s studied the defense

for years. He told me many blind students of the art go on to participate in competitions.”

“Still sounds like a dodgy thing for you to do when you’re getting acclimated to losing your

sight. Is there some compelling reason for you to want to do this?”

He smiled such a sly smile, it would raise suspicions in the Dalai Lama’s gentle soul. “You

never know what the future holds. I wish to be prepared.”

Ambiguous on the surface, the smile and answer held the undercurrent of something else

going on with him. For certain he left pertinent information out, but she doubted pressing him

would garner any more info.

“I should run home and change.”

“Why? You smelled divine when you arrived. We did nothing to soil your clothes or even

generate much of a wrinkle...sadly.”

His mischievous grin tempted her to give the dishy hunk a big hug. Why not? With the

wanker Tony out of her life, she was free to pursue her interests in other men.

Unwelcome thorny feelings toward Stephen bubbled up. Did she really want a man who

freaked out in a crowded pub or worried about when he crossed a busy road?

Self-reproach stirred as thoughts of the women who loved unconditionally. Women who

dealt with far worse illnesses and injuries than blindness in the men they loved. She was not a lesser woman than them. But the real snag, and it was not a small snag by anyone’s measure, the men they loved didn’t also claim to be time travelers.

“Esme?” His voice snapped her out of the chaos of her emotions. “Stay. You needn’t

change. You look lovely as always.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m without sight but not without imagination.”

“Thank you, but I do want to fix my hair and gargle with a little mouthwash.”

She’d just come out of the bathroom and into the drawing room, brushing her hair with his

brush when someone knocked.

“I’ll get it,” she said while he made coffee. She opened the door to Shakira, whose eyes

widened a fraction. “It’s not what it looks like,” Esme blurted.

Shakira raised her hands robbery victim style. “You needn’t explain to me. I’m here on a

completely unrelated...well, I think now it might not be unrelated matter.”

“Of course, come on in.” Esme stepped back.

“Morning Stephen,” Shakira said as she went into the kitchen. “Look at you, bustling about

the kitchen. You’re doing fairly well then?”

“Morning Lady Shakira. Yes, I’m progressing. I still have issues with some of the

equipment, but overall I do all right.”

“You don’t have to call me Lady Shakira anymore. Shakira will do. That aside, I’m here

for a reason. I very much enjoy my colorful driveway border. Planted the flowers myself. I’ve

noticed bald spots suddenly appearing. I also see a bunch of lovely pansies and lilies of the valley gracing your table.”

Esme glanced at the cluster of flowers he’d tucked into a mug. Every day she worked,

she’d seen fresh flowers on the table but never thought to ask the source. She should’ve guessed after seeing the Lancaster’s driveway.

“Sorry, I won’t do it again,” Stephen said.

“I have a bed with roses and other pretty flowers to grace your table behind the cottage.

Clip as many of those as you wish.”

“Thank you.”

“Esme, a word.” Shakira tipped her head toward the door. “Outside.”

Esme followed as Shakira closed the trailer door and walked to the bottom of the ramp.

“I swear, it’s not what it looks like,” Esme stressed again. “We didn’t sleep together. We

fell asleep on the sofa.”

“Stop. You’re both adults. What goes on between you is your business. However, as his

friend, I’d ask don’t lead him on, don’t hurt him. He’s had so much to adjust to and a broken heart doesn’t need to be added into the mix.”

Esme’s emotions were such a muddle regarding Stephen. She wanted to give Shakira an

honest response but didn’t know the answer herself.

“I’m not sure how to interpret your silence,” Shakira said. “Let me add Stephen is brave

and honorable and one of the finest men I’ve ever known.”

“He’s a wonderful man. I enjoy being with him.”

“Are you attracted to him physically?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“You said that like there was a qualifier involved—a yes—but. Is it the medieval knight

business? Yes, it makes him sound a bit potty? But who does he hurt by thinking that? No one.

He’s not cruel or malicious or selfish, which is why I’m not troubled by his belief. I’ve met too many mean spirited, hurtful so-called sane people to not appreciate all the good things about

Stephen.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“Let’s go back to the original point. You don’t want me to hurt him when we haven’t even

dated yet. If we do, we may find we’re totally unsuited for each other. You’re already putting the mantle of potential villain on me when nothing’s happened.”

“Oh, my dear Esme, something happened. You spent the night together.” She raised her