Florida Knight (11 page)

He took a deep breath, nodded to the woman filling her bowl ahead of him. “My lord,” she murmured, bobbing her head, offering him a look he could only call
appraising
.
Damn!

Raven slammed his bowl onto the table so hard the contents slopped over the edges. Cat jumped up, rushed to the kitchen. Did they have paper towels? Or was that among the forbidden? Evidently, this particular anachronism—like stainless steel pots and plastic-lined trash barrels—was allowed. Cat mopped up the spill, never saying a word as he mumbled an apology. Maybe there was something to living by medieval customs after all. Women were there to serve. Hell, that had a nice ring to it.

Max leaned toward Cat, his soup spoon poised in mid-air. “Tell Raven the pea soup story,” he said.

“I don’t think he’d be interested,” Cat declared, head bent low over her soup bowl.

“But it’s a good story,” Max insisted. “I like it.”

“This is beef stew, Max, not pea soup,” Alys reminded him gently.

“I know, but I want to hear the story about the pea soup.”

Raven hadn’t realized Max could be so stubborn. If he weren’t so gentle, that could almost be frightening.

Raven watched Cat closely as she squared her shoulders, lifted her head. Catriona MacDuff, conceding the course of least resistance was the best way to handle a stubborn giant.

“Okay, Max, but I don’t think Raven will find it as funny as you do.” Cat finished her last swallow of soup, took a sip from her pewter mug of iced tea. Looking at Raven, she said, “This is based on a World War II story my grandfather told me, supposedly about a
village
of
French Canadians
. It might be true, it might be apocryphal.” She shrugged. “I changed the tale to Medieval times so I could tell it around a campfire. Back when we could have campfires, that is.”

Before Cat could begin her story, two men strode up to their table. Each slapped Max on the shoulder, greeted Cat and Alys with boisterous affection. “Brocc, Thor,” Cat said, “this is Raven.”

Fighter jocks, Raven speculated, as he returned their crushing handshakes full measure, absorbed their quickly cloaked flashes of surprise. Each was wearing pants similar to his, gathered at the ankles over motorcycle boots. One wore a Ren shirt; the other, a tunic. Brocc, though not as large as Max, was built like a fullback. A buzz cut with a hint of blond topped a rough-cut moon face, the shoulders of an ox, the swagger of a bully. As he played “uncle” with Raven’s hand, something close to anger flared in his eyes. Was Brocc one of those who had put the moves on Cat and failed? Raven wondered. Yet, after a second swift appraisal, the jock’s anger seemed to melt into scorn.

Odd. Why scorn? Unless . . . No time now for speculation. Raven greeted Thor, whose long dark hair was confined in a single hank down his back by a leather thong. Lean and mean, that’s what this one was. Outwardly friendly, but watch-your-back in a fight. Not that it mattered.
he
was here as an observer, not a fighter.

“Sit down,” Max invited with a broad sweep of his hand. “Cat’s gonna tell us the pea soup story.”

“Sure.” Both jocks grinned good naturedly, reversed a couple of chairs. They
sat, leaning forward to
cross their arms over the chair backs. The one called Brocc waggled his eyebrows. “So tell us about pea soup,” he invited.

Cat looked around the table, examined each face, gave a slight nod. The storyteller making sure of her audience’s attention. Yet another facet to the personality of Kate Knight, a.k.a. Catriona MacDuff. Raven filed the information away for future reference.

“There once was a king,” Cat said, “who was having trouble with a neighboring kingdom. Deciding he needed more warriors for his army, he sent out a band of men to recruit peasants from villages high in the mountains. It was well known that some of these villagers were experts with the bow and arrow. Others excelled with the pike. All was going well until they came to one particular village nestled into a lovely valley. The men of the village listened, nodded, conferred among themselves. The village elder then announced
that
his men were unable to help the king.

“‘Why not?’ the king’s emissary demanded.

“The elder shook his head. ‘They cannot go.’”

Raven never took his eyes off Cat, amazed as she acted out the story, changing her voice from storyteller to arrogant emissary to wise headman of the village.

“‘You have sworn fealty to your king,’ the emissary reminded them. ‘It is your duty to send men for the army.’

“‘You don’t understand,’ the elder said. ‘They would like to go, but . . .’ He paused, obviously uncomfortable. ‘The matter is of some delicacy, you see.’

“‘No, I don’t see,’ roared the king’s emissary. ‘I’m asking them to fight for their king. What’s delicate about that?’

“The elder looked at the men of the village. The group shuffled their feet, ducked their heads. Finally, one of the men made a waving motion, what might be termed
aw-go-ahead-and-tell-him.
”

Cat leaned forward, dropped into the gentle rumble of the village elder. “‘Well, you see,’ the headman confided, ‘all but the youngest of these men have at least a dozen children. Some as many as eighteen or twenty.’

“‘So?’ the king’s emissary snapped.

“‘They eat pea soup every day.’

“‘So?’ The emissary’s tone
became
ominous. He was being delayed in his duty and suspected he was being given the run-around. His dignity was offended.

“The village elder sighed. He had hoped he wouldn’t have to define the details, but the king’s emissary seemed to be quite dim. ‘They um—believe pea soup is the source of their virility,’ he muttered.

“The emissary exchanged a guffaw with his men, turned back to the headman of the village. Laughing at these people was not going to get the king his much-needed soldiers. ‘They actually believe they have so many children because they eat pea soup every day?’

“The village elder gave an emphatic nod. ‘Absolutely.’

“‘Ah . . .’ The emissary gave the matter careful thought. “‘And if we agree that the men shall have their pea soup every day they are in the king’s service?’

“A murmur rose from the village men. Heads bobbed up and down. The village elder smiled. “We are agreed. Pea soup every day.’

“The king’s emissary breathed a sigh of relief. Then, as the headman started back toward the group of villagers, he added, ‘Good sir, I have an additional request.’

“The village elder paused, stricken by fear of what new demand the king’s man was about to make.

“‘Is it possible? . . . do you think my men and I might have pea soup for supper?’”

General laughter spilled over the table as Cat finished her tale. Raven had to admit he enjoyed it. Not just the story, but Cat’s telling of it. One more quality to admire in this enigma of a woman. One more nail in his coffin as he struggled to remember she was celibate. That their weekend as lovers was a sham. A bit of playacting, like the characters she played while telling the tale of villagers and their beloved pea soup.

“We rinse our dishes in the kitchen.”

“Huh?”

“Follow me,” Kate instructed, with a roll of her eyes.

There was a general scraping of chairs, shuffling of feet as everyone rose. Brocc and Thor executed flourishing bows, murmuring, “M’Ladies, M’Lords.” An assessing look tossed at Raven, a curl of Brocc’s lip. They turned and ambled toward the door. Raven stared after them, shaking his head. He suspected Brocc’s ego wouldn’t let him accept that Raven had succeeded where he himself had failed. So what the hell
did
the blasted jock think?

“Raven!” Kate nudged him in the back with her soup bowl. Deciding he’d definitely passed through the looking glass, he followed her toward the kitchen.

“Well, hello, girl!” Raven reached out to scratch behind the ears of an eager beagle patrolling the grounds in front of the campground’s Trading Post where Cat and Alys were buying bags of ice. “What happened to you, babe?” Raven asked the dog as he saw the broad scar banding her muzzle.

“Got dropped off here with her muzzle tied shut.” A middle-aged man, seated at one of the round cement picnic tables outside the Trading Post, spoke up.

“Aw, hell,” Max muttered, dropping to his knees beside the beagle.

“So tight she’s permanently scarred?” Raven asked.

“That’s right,” the man confirmed. “Happened last fall. Fortunately, someone spotted her, and we took her in. Named her Lady. Seemed the right name now your group is holding their meetings here. I’m the ranger, by the way. Cleve Johnson.” He held out his hand.

“Michael Gibbs, called Raven.” The two men shook hands, each instantly recognizing the competency, the aura of authority in the other.

Max lumbered to his feet, stuck out his hand. “I’m Max.”

“Max, Raven,” the ranger nodded. “Pleased to have you with us. If you’ll excuse me, I have to drive the camp now, do a fire check. I’m told there’ll be a thousand or more people here by midnight. With the fire danger so high, I have to keep an eye on things.” The ranger climbed into a golf cart, the back piled high with a variety of items from cleaning equipment to branch loppers. After a friendly wave of his hand, Ranger Johnson drove off on his rounds of the vast campground.

“Hi there, Lady,” Cat exclaimed, chucking a bag of ice onto the cement table so she could pet the beagle.

“I guess the scar isn’t going to get any better.” Alys sighed, looking down at the broad black band scarring Lady’s muzzle.

Cat rose to her feet, found herself almost shoulder to shoulder with Raven. Ducking away, she frowned down at the wounded dog. “I look at Lady,” she murmured, fishing for words, “and I’m reminded what LALOC is all about. We try to take the best from the Age of Chivalry while shutting out the worst. Cruelty, prejudice, bigotry. We make an effort to be gracious to each other, to our children, our pets. We confine our violence to rattan poles padded with duct tape. We can fight all we want as long as we obey the rules and no one gets hurt.”

Raven looked down at the scarred beagle. “Isn’t that pretty unrealistic?” he challenged.

“Why do people watch football, boxing, all the other sports? It’s a battle, letting us satisfy some atavistic urge for violence. The vicarious enjoyment of knocking each other around. Other people suffer the aches and pains while we sit snugly in our seats and watch.”

The lights from inside the Trading Post illuminated all five feet ten inches of Catriona MacDuff, standing tall in the flowing green dress, the shimmer of her blond hair drifting over her gown, over her breasts. Raven swallowed hard, was grateful for the fullness of his black harem pants. “You realize I may never be able to enjoy an NFL game in the same old way,” he grumbled.

“Good,” Cat snapped.

“I’ll take that.” As Cat reached for the bag of ice, Raven’s hand closed over hers. What surged through her should have been the pain of freezing cold. Instead, Cat burned. Ice burn, she told herself. That’s all it was.

Raven stepped back as if he too had been scorched. Cat jerked her tingling fingers behind her back. Each stared blindly at the plastic bag of ice chunks lying so innocently on the table. Gingerly, Raven grabbed the bag above the stapled closure. He waved Cat ahead of him down the path to the sandy road. With a toss of her head, she swept by him like a princess giving the cut direct to a wayward knight. Raven bent to offer Lady a last pat, then followed his own lady home.

Raven glanced at his leather-banded watch. He’d be damned if he’d give up this modern-day anachronism, though he’d turned the watchface to the inside of his wrist. Ten o’clock. He’d been introduced to the last stragglers arriving at their campsite, been looked over by six more pairs of eyes. He might as well have been wearing a placard reading, “Cat’s Man.” For some mysterious reason, he kept getting the impression the others looked on him as a prize Cat had brought back from battle. As if she were the warrior and he the captive. Raven couldn’t explain why he felt that’s what people were thinking, he simply knew it was true. In spite of her oh-so-feminine green gown, it was Catriona MacDuff who was the knight, he the slave. For Michael Turco, who had never quite mastered politically correct, the sensation was unsettling. Made all the more so by trying to follow the LALOC rules of gallantry. If he tried to please Cat, he only looked all the more like . . . Raven groaned at the old expression which leaped to mind.
Cat’s paw.
There was a more modern term he liked even less.
Toy boy.
He was swept by a strong urge to prove his virility. No pea soup needed.

Headlights . . . the soft rumble of tires bumping over sandy ruts and tree roots. Raven walked over as the ranger stopped his golf cart. “All quiet?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow to Cleve Johnson.

“Only one fire, not counting the torches. And it was in a container surrounded by six buckets of water.” The ranger grinned. “A responsible group, LALOC. Are you fighting tomorrow?” Johnson added.

“Uh, no. I’m new,” Raven admitted. God, how he hated to be a novice at anything, particularly in the midst of all these macho jocks who seemed to be torn between thinking he must be a super stud and those who had decided he must be gay. And all because the nun-like Catriona MacDuff had taken him into her tent. Hell, he was wearing eunuch pants. What did he expect?