Florida Knight (12 page)

“Have fun.” The ranger nodded, continued on down the sandy trail past the lighted building that housed their campsite’s wash house. The golf cart disappeared into the deep shadows under the canopy of trees.

Suddenly, it was very dark. The last of the torches had winked out. A couple wending their way toward the restrooms was briefly silhouetted by the spotlight outside the building. Raven turned in a slow circle? Where had everyone gone? Vanished inside their nylon igloos, their canvas squares and rectangles, he supposed. A soft glow filtered through screens here and there as some used lamplight to find their gear. Most, however, seemed to be undressing in the dark. Hastily, Raven surveyed the circle of tents. It wouldn’t do to go barging into the wrong one. He’d better give Cat time, go use the facilities, dawdle a bit.

As he entered the wash house, he could hear a shower running, accompanied by a cheerful baritone rendition of a Garth Brooks’ tune. Raven lips tilted into a thin smile. The Country and Western song—definitely not “period”—helped him feel less like a fish out of water. It wasn’t going to help him get through the night trying to sleep next to Catriona MacDuff, but any anchor to everyday reality was a step in the right direction.

The door banged. Two members of the Golden Beach Shire entered, nodded, spoke his name. Since he couldn’t remember their names, he should be returning their greeting, saying, “My lords,” but the words refused to roll off his tongue. Raven settled for a friendly nod to each. As he walked back toward the circle of tents, a group of three women was approaching the building. Raven cleared his throat, managed a nod, a mumbled, “My ladies.” There, he’d done it, and the sky hadn’t fallen in. There were no attitude police driving around in golf carts, checking on the more recalcitrant newcomers to LALOC.

Now for the Biggie. Another swift check to make sure he had the right tent. As Raven paused outside the mesh screen, a lamp snapped on inside. The glow escaped through the three screened sides of the tent, illuminating the interior as if it were center stage of a play.

“I’ve put the lamp between us,” Cat announced in rigid tones as he entered. Raven was uncertain whether she meant the lamp’s central position as a convenience or a barrier. He was too absorbed in what she was wearing. A long T-style nightshirt with cats on it. And nothing else. Even in the soft light he could see her nipples pushing the cotton knit into pointed peaks, jiggling a black cat and a green cat, as her breath came hard and fast.
Damn!
Since he was already bent nearly double under the low ceiling, Raven dropped into a sitting position on top of his sleeping bag, pulling his knees up in front of him. There! That took care of
that
problem. For the moment.

“Fortunately, it’s a cool night,” Cat declared, and stalked out.

Just what the hell had she meant by that remark? Raven wondered. Idle conversation? It
was
cool, a welcome contrast to the eighty degrees when they’d left
Golden
Beach
. Did Cat simply mean they’d be able to sleep inside their bags instead of lying exposed, side by side on top? Or had she actually noticed his state of arousal? The damned lantern had very strong batteries.

Fortunately, Raven had come equipped with a T-shirt himself. Black, extra long. He hadn’t been stupid enough to think he could sleep in the raw with a bunch of strangers. He’d been visualizing a cabin full of people, however. Not sharing a tent
not much bigger than a card table
with Catriona MacDuff. The situation was lethal. Two nights of torture with no way out unless he wanted to blow off the whole investigation.
Mark, if you only knew what I’m suffering for you . . .

After digging his oversize T out of his carry-all, Raven groped for the switch on the lantern. The tent plunged into darkness illuminated only by the faint wash of light from the bathhouse. He wiggled out of his tunic and full pants, left his briefs in place, then shimmied his way into the T. Changing clothes someplace you couldn’t stand up was definitely a diabolical punishment designed by a particularly nasty grinch.

Raven glanced up. Cat was nicely silhouetted against the glow from the wash house as she headed back toward the tent. He scrambled into his sleeping bag, somehow managing to keep his eyes on Cat.
Oh, yeah!
Nothing but a T-shirt became her. Particularly one intended for someone much shorter. It clung in all the right places, flopped enticingly above legs that seemed to go on forever. When she crawled into her sleeping bag, he just might be able to cop a peek of something more. Raven heaved a sigh. He bet she was wearing undies too. Probably armor-plated. Maybe one of those Medieval chastity belts.

The picture of innocence, he crossed his hands under his head, stared at the nylon ceiling as Cat bent down to enter the tent. He felt like a ten-year-old peeking through a crack in his parents’ bedroom door as his eyes shifted right, hoping she wasn’t looking at him. She wasn’t. She was, in fact, doing her best
not
to look at him as she inched her way into her bag, wiggling, tugging down her hemline, wiggling, tugging . . .

Oh, hell, she’d outfoxed him. And she was going to pretend she thought he was asleep. Too bad. He wasn’t through with her yet.

Chapter 8

“You don’t have to cringe, you know,” Raven said, his voice crossing the inches between them like a caress. “That wasn’t pea soup they were serving tonight.” A soft sigh. A hairline crack in the Viking façade?

“I-I’m sorry about that story,” Cat murmured. “Max just loves it, I’ve never figured out why.”

“It’s a virility tale. A Medieval Viagra joke. Max probably needs it. In a way it might have been easier for him if he’d been more severely injured. He’s still got enough smarts to understand he’s damaged.”

“That’s occurred to me a time or two,” Cat admitted. “Alys tells me he was hell on wheels for mischief and having fun, but always gentle. He only looked like a rough, tough biker. She says he was always the one who stepped in to break up fights. They called him Bubba the Bouncer.”

“There’s nothing that can be—?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Alys is a saint.”

“Right.” Cat tugged the sleeping bag up under her chin. “Hard to believe it was hot when we left home,” she murmured.

Weather. They were reduced to talking about the weather?

“Oh!” Cat exclaimed. “I forgot to tell you I signed you up for Newcomer Class. Nine to eleven in the morning in the Feast Hall.”

“Kate! Uh
–
Cat,” Raven groaned, “I didn’t join LALOC to go back to school.

“The teacher is great, you’ll love him. And you have to go. You can’t show a serious interest in LALOC and not take the Newcomer’s Class. You’re entering a whole new world here. You have to understand the rules.”

Raven shifted his body, trying to get comfortable. No way was he going to be able to sleep in his briefs. Now if LALOC had a class in how to prevent living in a continual state of arousal while sharing a tent with a celibate female . . .

“I signed us up for the
Lech
class too.”

“The what?” He couldn’t have heard correctly.

“The Fine Art of Lechery,” Cat quoted. “It’s a first-time class, so I have no idea what it’s about. But the title sounded intriguing, so I signed us up.”

“I thought LALOC was into fighting.”

“That’s just one aspect. There’s archery, leather-working, manuscript illumination, weaving, music, brewing, children’s activities. Not everything happens at every Event, but there’s always a variety.”

One word caught his attention. “Brewing?” Raven echoed.

“Mead. You wouldn’t believe the variety of flavors.
Magnifique!
”

Great. But puzzling over what the hell
mead
was wouldn’t ease his pain. And a cold shower had little appeal on a nippy
Florida
night.

“Uh, Cat?” He wasn’t just prolonging the conversation, Raven told himself. This was something that needed to be said. Had to be said. “I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for what you’re doing. I know this can’t be easy for you.”

Silence. Finally, a very soft, “No, it’s not. Goodnight, Raven.”

“Goodnight, Cat.”

Easy, Cat groaned.
Easy?
Dear God, it was torture. Even exhausted and surly as he’d been the night he’d tried on his garb, Michael Turco had exuded enough pheromones to saturate the air of her mobile home. The overpowering lure of sex—blatant lust—had filled her brain and body with dizzying thoughts and sensations she’d thought long shut away, like outgrown toys or games played once too often. And in a tent . . . in a tent he was devastating. Cat doubted she’d sleep a wink. She’d known this wouldn’t work. Couldn’t work. She
hated
being attracted to him. And if she gave in, let nature take its course, she’d hate him and herself as well.

Oh, lord, he was moving! Cat tensed, ready to whack him or run for it. Raven’s wiggling subsided. More rationally, Cat considered his contortions, decided Raven had removed his underwear. Boxers . . . briefs? Did it matter? She squeezed her eyes shut, ordered her heart to stop pounding. Why he’d done it was all too obvious.

She wasn’t exactly comfortable with her bikini panties either. But damned if she was going to take them off! She’d toss and turn and stay awake all night before she’d remove her panties. Which was, of course, perfectly ridiculous. Symbolism, that’s all it was. Stupid, ineffectual symbolism. She was trying to fool herself into thinking she was protected by a scrap of fabric that could be torn away in an instant. Cat squeezed her eyes tight shut, burrowed into her pillow. Raven’s aura was surrounding her, suffocating her.
Miserable man!
She wasn’t going to sleep a wink.

Raven was unsure of the time. Certainly well before dawn. He’d finally fallen asleep, and was as suddenly awake with no idea why. Then the distant sounds hit him. Screams, shouts, general commotion. Pausing only long enough to scrabble around inside the sleeping bag for his briefs and plunge his bare feet into his boots, he was off and running.

Ignoring the danger of ruts and wayward tree roots, he pounded down the sandy road toward the buildings in the center of the campground. The sounds which had echoed through the night diminished to an occasional short shriek. His well-honed cop’s instincts said this was no wild goose chase. He burst out onto the main camp road, skidded to a halt, his boots kicking up a shower of sand.
What the hell?
The area in front of the Feast Hall was alive with people, each silhouette moving at a frantic pace in some strange choreography that might have been a segment out of an early silent movie. A farce. Because every movement, every person, every booth, every tent was being deluged with fountains of water. Shimmering arcs of silver illuminated by the spotlights under the eaves of the Feast Hall.

Raven shut his open mouth, firmly told himself it wasn’t funny, before approaching the chaos at a trot. Obviously, the vendors needed to salvage their merchandise, but had anyone gone to the heart of the problem? Tried to find a way to turn off the automatic lawn sprinklers?

He shouted his question through the deluge. The answer came back in a chorus of
no
’s. The vendors had been so busy rescuing the crafts they had spent long hours creating that no one had tried to get the water turned off.

Raven surveyed the buildings along the main road. The Feast Hall, the Trading Post, the central restrooms were the only places he was sure of. The ranger had to live close by, but where? He turned away from the first building he approached when he saw the red cross on the door. Loping on down the camp’s main road, Raven pounded on the next door. A small building. No answer. He kept on going. Ah, a good-sized cabin—maybe this was it. He was hopeful when a light switched on, the door swung open.

“I’m looking for the ranger,” Raven declared.

A young man, garbed in a long brown tunic and matching rumpled curls, drew himself up, gave Raven a look which clearly said that anyone running around a campground in the middle of the night in T-shirt and briefs must be a sexual offender. “This,” he announced grandly, “is the royal enclosure. The abode of King Corwyn and Queen Eilis, Prince Marius and Princess Kiriana. We haven’t the slightest idea where the ranger is.” He slammed the door in Raven’s face.

The little prick—he’d like to tear him limb from limb.
Raven raised his fist, paused within a fraction of an inch of the door.
Not
the way to ingratiate himself with LALOC. And the vendors were still being deluged with water. After a glare which should have ignited the wooden door into spontaneous combustion, Raven jogged toward the next building, a solid, promising structure set back under a canopy of trees.

Cleve Johnson opened the door, surveyed his unexpected visitor from head to toe. “Nice outfit,” he intoned.

Michael could have sworn he hadn’t blushed since eighth grade, but something was flooding over his bronzed skin and up his neck that made him exceedingly grateful for the dim light. He supposed running around a campground in a black T that flirted with not quite covering the bikini briefs beneath wasn’t quite the accepted attire, particularly at a LALOC event. Quickly, he mumbled the reason for calling on the ranger in the wee hours of a Saturday morning.