Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (34 page)

He entered her, withdrew, entered again deeper and harder with each stroke. And with

each stroke, her muscles gripped him, milking him, demanding more. And with each demand, he

groaned, thrilling her when he whispered her name, his lips skimming her skin.

The power built within her. Her legs squeezed hard around him, she cried his name as

relief surged through her.

Stephen held back until she’d found her release. His came on the last wave of hers.

He rolled onto his back. Esme shifted to lie on her side. She rested her head on his chest

and listened to his heart that still thundered while hers hammered against her ribs.

They lay quiet. She absently ran her fingers across his belly. He absently ran his hand

along her spine, his fingers danced at the dimples above her buttocks before moving up and

retracing the path he took going down.

“What do you look like?” Stephen asked after a while. “Start with your hair.” He drew a

lock out and brought it to his nose. “I like the smell. I am reminded of lavender.”

“My shampoo does have a touch of lavender in the scent. My hair is coppery red but with

a lot of gold mixed with it. The color is commonly called, strawberry blonde.”

“I like strawberries,” he said with a smile. “I know the red with gold you speak of. A fair

number of ladies at court had this color. Is it straight or curly? It feels straight.”

“It’s straight.”

“And a palm’s width past your shoulders.”

He dropped the lock of hair and laid three fingers across her forehead. “You have a nice

forehead, not too broad, yet not too narrow.

He shifted onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow.

Esme turned onto her back. She trailed a finger along the scar under his chin. “Did you get

this at Crecy?”

“Yes,” he said, confirming the accuracy of the Canterbury painting. “With the intense

fighting, the bodies of horses and men quickly littered the battlefield. Those of us on foot had little space to wield a sword. An enemy soldier and I fought with our knives. He managed to slash me

before losing our fight.”

“It still bled when the prince knighted you, didn’t it?” She had to ask, had to hear him give

voice to her improbable suspicion. She’d opened a Pandora’s Box of strange questions with

stranger answers when she decided to investigate Stephen’s claims. Time travel was in a

category by itself.

“Yes. After the knighting, I washed off in the nearby river and saw to the stitching.”

The sticky issue of the painting with Stephen’s face faded for a brief second while the

cringe-worthy thought of getting stitches without anesthetic passed through her imagination. When the wild possibility the painting presented returned, Esme forced it to the back of her mind.

Stephen’s forgiveness was what mattered for the moment. Besides, time travel was more than

she cared to deal with right now.

“My turn.” Stephen ran an index finger the length of her nose and back up to rub the tip of

his finger over the bridge. “Where did you get the bump?”

“Playing volleyball ten years ago. My partner went to return the ball and hit me when she

brought her elbow down. She broke my nose. It hurt like the devil and bled like crazy. I was left with the bump when it healed.”

“I don’t know what volleyball is. Doesn’t matter.” He moved to her cheeks and caressed

them with the back of his fingers. “High and elegant.”

The hands that so aptly wielded a sword were so eloquent when they touched her. Did he

pay homage to her as Stephen the man or as Stephen the knight? Every young girl imagines

somehow a knight’s touch is magical. How funny the distinction popped into her head now. She

smiled, glad he couldn’t see the grin. If he didn’t see it, he wouldn’t ask why. She wouldn’t have to explain it didn’t matter who he made love to her as, man or knight, only that he made love to her as though she alone was the one he wished to please.

“Thank you. They’re covered with a spray of freckles as is my nose.”

“Freckles?”

“Little dots of brown from the sun.”

“Ah, I know these spots too. Go on, what color are your eyes?”

“Hazel.” He looked a tad baffled. “A mix of brownish-green,” she explained.

“In my eyes, they are a perfect green. You’ll not convince me otherwise,” he said and

touched the tip of his nose to hers.

Next, he traced the outline of her lips with a fingertip. “Nice lips, milady: A pillow for the

lower and a well-crafted Welshman’s bow for an upper, a delight for the man parting them.”

“A Welshman’s bow?”

“Here is the upper and lower curve of the bow’s shaft.” With his finger, he showed how

from the middle indent each side bent. When he pointed it out, she understood that part of the

comparison.

“Here.” He placed a fingertip on the indent between the curves. “This is the part where

the bowman grips and draws back. It’s not quite flush with the rest of the bow.”

“Ah, I see. Thank you.”

“Yours is far more well-defined. A dishy dip perfect for the tip of a finger—”

“Or the tip of a tongue.”

“I believe you’re right but I shall test the theory.” He touched his tongue to the arrow

shaped dip and then down to kiss her lips individually. He drew each into his mouth before parting her lips to kiss her like his life depended on how well he plundered.

“Now milady,” he said after breaking off the kiss. “I still need a shower and I was

promised to have my back washed.” He rolled to the other side of the bed and off, coming around to where she lay. “As I am a fair man, I shall wash the front of you,” he said, wiggling his brows and extending his hand to help her up.

“A fair trade, milord. A fair trade indeed.”

Chapter Thirty-One

“Have fun,” Esme said as she and Stephen walked to the base of the trailer’s ramp. Alex

had come a few minutes earlier to take him for another judo lesson.

“I wouldn’t call it fun, although I do like learning the art. When I finally master a move, I

take pride in it, in myself,” Stephen told her and then kissed her goodbye.

Once Alex’s car was out of sight, Esme knocked on the Lancaster’s cottage door.

Shakira opened it and the welcoming smell of fresh baked bread wafted out. “Hi.”

Esme took a deep breath and let the rich, warm air fill her lungs. She let the breath out

slowly, then asked. “Are you in the middle of baking? I don’t want to interrupt.”

In truth, she wasn’t all that concerned about interrupting. She was far more concerned

with getting answers to her questions.

“You’re not. I’m done. You’re smelling the shepherd’s bread I made earlier for dinner.

Come in.”

“Baking bread has to be one of the ten best smells in the world,” Esme said, stepping

inside.

“Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m not much of a cook. That’s Alex’s bailiwick.

He’s far more creative and capable with food than me. But even I can run a bread machine.”

Shakira closed the door and gave Esme a crooked grin. “Don’t you look exceptionally

chipper? I don’t suppose your mood has anything to do with the fact I saw your car parked

outside Stephen’s last night and still there this morning.”

“It does,” Esme confirmed with a big grin of her own.

“All is forgiven then?”

Esme nodded.

“Great. Come tell me all about your victory.”

“Not much to tell, really. He didn’t admit it, but I think he missed me,” Esme said. “Electra

made him a wind chime. I used the chime as an ice breaker. One thing led to another and voila,

here I am.”

“You bought him off with a wind chime?”

“Not just the chime. There
was
charm involved.”

Shakira crossed into the kitchen. “Good for him and good for you. Coffee?”

“I’d love some, black please.” Esme followed and sat in one of the two pine chairs at the

tiny table.

Esme blew on the hot coffee but didn’t take a sip. The real reason she knocked on

Shakira’s door wasn’t easily broached. Where to start? What could she open the conversation

with that didn’t sound looney, or accusatory, or both? No sneaky or clever roundabout way came

to her, so she went with the obvious and pulled her cell phone from her sweater pocket. “I have several photos of a painting I saw recently. I’d like to show them to you,” she said, scrolling through her gallery. “I’m interested in your opinion of the subject matter.”

She laid the phone down in front of Shakira. “The painting is in Canterbury. If you’d like a

bigger version than what’s on my phone, we can go there.”

Shakira picked up the phone and quietly scrolled through the series of photos. She stared

at the small screen and after the last one, went through the series again. “The young, kneeling knight bears a strong resemblance to Stephen,” she said, her gaze lifting to Esme’s.

“They could be twins as could the knight standing behind him be your husband’s double.”

Shakira handed Esme the phone. “Yes, uncanny. What’s this a painting of exactly? The

center figure looks like the Black Prince.”

“He is.” Esme explained how she found out about the painting and that the original

drawing the painting was taken from dated to the time of Crecy. “I went to see it for myself. My cell pictures don’t do the resemblance between the men justice.”

Esme hesitated but only for a moment. She’d push the envelope as the saying goes. “Have

you told me everything about Stephen?”

Shakira eyed her hard, without blinking. “Yes. What makes you ask?” The expression in

her eyes softened but unmistakable wariness laced her tone.

Did Shakira fear a secret might be revealed? Esme thought...maybe so. Dare she confess

she’d begun to believe Stephen told the truth about what he was? She had to give answers to get answers. “I find the longer I know him, more and more questions about his past arise.”

“Like?”

“This painting for one. The indent on Stephen’s chin that looks like a cleft is really a scar.

When I asked about the scar, he told me he got it from a dagger slash at Crecy. As you can see, the young man being knighted is bleeding from the chin.

Shakira listened without comment. Esme went on. “Dirt clung to the hilt of Stephen’s

sword when he showed it to me. He said he dropped it when the French knight struck him and

unhorsed him. I sent soil scrapings to a lab. The test samples don’t match those the lab has from modern day French provinces. Nor are they from any English shires.”

“So?”

“When I say it doesn’t match, I mean the lab confirmed the samples contain nothing

commonly found in the soils of today.” Esme slid the phone over to Shakira again. “Stephen claims he served Baron Guiscard, a noble who fought at Crecy and Poitiers. I researched him. You and

Alex just happen to live on what was Guiscard land. The nearby ruins are of the baron’s castle.

I’ve been to the cemetery there and seen three new headstones. Two were of the baron’s parents

and one of a knight who Stephen claims was his dear friend. Since it’s your land now, who else

would provide new headstones?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“To most people it looks like you and Alex feel...shall I say...an unusual connection to the

Guiscard family and to a knight who served them.”

When Shakira didn’t respond, Esme leaned in. “I’m begging you, if there’s something

you’re not telling me about Stephen, please don’t hold it back. I won’t care for him any less.”

With a trembling hand, Esme sipped her coffee, half-relieved she had the courage to ask Shakira for answers and half-worried she would call her bonkers and kick her out of the cottage. “I need the truth.”

“What do you think is the truth?”

“He hasn’t suffered a psychotic break. I can’t even begin to explain how or why but some

way the real medieval knight, Stephen Palmer, has come forward in time.”

Shakira stared at the phone, took a deep breath and sighed. When she finally looked up,

she fixed her gaze on the wall. After a long minute Shakira turned to Esme. “I will tell you what you need to know about Stephen. As to the rest regarding the Baron Guiscard, our living here, and the knight in the picture who resembles Alex, that’s personal and not open to discussion.”

Shakira got up, removed the coffee cups, poured two glasses of wine, and handed Esme a

goblet. “Some truths go better with a drink.”

“That means I’m right.”

Shakira nodded. “He’s the medieval Stephen Palmer.”

They both took a large swallow of wine. Esme let the information settle into her mind. She

didn’t say anything because she couldn’t. There’s no easy response to the impossible becoming a reality.

“Are you all right?” Shakira asked.

“As all right as I can be.”

“Quite the shock. It’s a lot to take in.”

“That it is. I’ve harbored a suspicion for a while. The painting added fuel to my suspicions

but to hear them actually confirmed...wow.”

Shakira spent the next few minutes talking about the news article that mentioned Stephen

was a patient at a French hospital. She told of Alex and Ian returning with him. Information Esme knew.

“No, no. You need to tell me the medieval part. He claimed Alex is Guy Guiscard, the

baron he served. Is it for the reason I think?” Esme prodded, confident Shakira knew what she

meant. She threw the question out in hopes Shakira might have a change of heart and fill in the gaps regarding her own situation. She was tempted to say,
I know at some point you went back
in
time. Stephen spoke of the songs you had him sing for Guy’s
birthday
.

“You asked about Stephen. As I told you, Alex and I, are off the table.”