Florida Knight (16 page)

She started to get up, stifled a gasp as her abdominal muscles screamed in protest.
Lord, it was getting worse by the minute!
She gritted her teeth, continued moving. Strong hands grasped her under the elbows, levered her upward. “We have to dump our trash,” she murmured, giving no sign of how much s
he’d needed Raven’s assistance.

“Sure,” Raven muttered, gathering up the remains of both their lunches. “And a fine fair maiden you are, m’lady,” he added under his breath, though clear enough for Cat to hear him. “Too bad they don’t give classes on Feminine Fragility or Gracious Manners.”

That did it! Treacherous tears threatened to return, stinging her eyes, blurring her vision. The worst, of course, was that Raven was wholly right and she was in the wrong. A proper knight would apologize, Cat told herself sternly, but then she wasn’t a proper knight. She was Lady Knight, a LALOC warrior authorized to wear a long white sash and heavy gold chain around her neck. But in Medieval times she would have been chattel, a tool to be used in whatever power struggle her father or husband was indulging in at the moment. Unless her husband went off to war and left her in charge, her position was little more than a glorified housekeeper and brood mare. Yet that’s what Raven wanted, a meek and clinging Fair Maiden. Certainly not a swaggering warrior with none of the requisite macho body parts.

“Cat!” Alys called. “You’d better take off your leather. It’s hot out there.”

Cat kept going, waving away Alys’s suggestion away. She suspected the leather armor was the only thing that was keeping her upright.

Max lumbered to his feet, long legs covering the distance between them in seconds. “Alys’s right, Cat. You gotta take it easy. That leather’s no good ’cept on the field. I’ll take it back to the tent for you.” He held out his hand.

Raven joined him, their combined bulk barring her way to the door. Max looked concerned, Raven’s eyes flashed a challenge:
if you don’t take off the leather, you’re not fit to be anywhere but horizontal.
With a sigh Cat held out her arms, allowing them to skin off her surcoat, then remove the heavy studded leather. Suddenly, the Feast Hall’s air conditioning—incredibly, deliciously cool—rippled over her undertunic, touched the bruised flesh beneath. Chagrined, Cat scowled. If her wits weren’t scrambled, she would have let them take off the leather right along with her metal armor. The idea that she had made a wrong decision, then stubbornly insisted on living with the discomfort, did not sit well. Kate Knight—and her alternate persona Catriona MacDuff—were always in control.

Which was why she’d been so shaken by Raven’s concern, by her unaccountable willingness to let him fuss over her, comfort her.
Care
about her. A momentary weakness on her part that Cat was no longer willing to acknowledge. She and Raven were reluctant partners in a masquerade. Nothing more.
Feminine fragility and good manners
, indeed! Arrogant, overbearing men like Lieutenant Michael Turco she most certainly did not need.

Cat raised her arms, allowed Raven to drop the green surcoat back over her head. Then, without a word of thanks, she stalked out the door, the fire in her eye matching the brilliant midday sun. After consulting the Herald’s Board on the porch, she set off toward one of the small cabins nearby. No way was she going to turn around to see if Raven was following her.  Obviously, she’d been crazy to sign them up for this class.

Cat lowered herself cautiously into one of a semi-circle of chairs set up in the cabin. She refused to look when something large and solid slipped into the chair next to her. The teacher nodded to both of them. “M’lady, m’lord,” he murmured in greeting.

Several minutes later, when nearly all the chairs were full, the teacher expressed his regret that most of his students were female. He left no doubt his class was designed to educate the men of LALOC, particularly the fighters, in the difference between art of Lechery and blatantly “hitting on” a woman in a style not even acceptable by twenty-first century standards. Cat sneaked a peek at Raven, found him gazing intently at the instructor, actually nodding his head. Fine, so he was a gentleman. Wasn’t that what she wanted? Wasn’t that absolutely necessary if they were going to survive this disaster of a masquerade?

No foul language. Never lech when drunk. Never lech on a person who is drunk. Leching is for fun. If the Lechee is insulted or doesn’t understand the gesture— smile, bow and walk away. Never take your leching farther than the Lechee is willing to go. Honor any commitments made to the Lechee.  If you don’t mean it, don’t say it.

Okay, so they weren’t bad rules, Cat had to admit. Lechery, as defined by this class, was really the fine art of flirtation. The teacher did not hesitate to cite bad examples, including couples overdoing the physical delights of love in full view of the LALOC population. Suddenly, a fan was thrust into her hand. Stupefied, Cat stared at the fragile thing. Women, the instructor said, needed to understand how to initiate a flirtation, how to respond, how to remain gracious whether their answer was a refusal or an invitation to further lechery. Flirtation and gracious manners, it seemed, included not being insulted if a man opened a door, nor scorning other courteous gestures from men, whether in or out of LALOC. Cat could feel Raven’s smug look all the way down to her toes. In a gesture as old as time, she snapped open the fan and hid her hot cheeks behind it.

“Interesting class,” Raven pronounced as he held open the classroom door for his lady. Cat absolutely hated the sparkling lights dancing in the depths of those oh-so-dark eyes. “Since I’m not fighting this afternoon,” she announced, head high as she strode by him, “let’s go check out the Archery.” She wasn’t fighting because the Lyst Marshal had come by during lunch and ordered her not to fight again that day. Cat had to admit, though only to herself, she was grateful for the excuse. Her damnable pride might have forced her back on the Lyst Field when she knew perfectly well she wasn’t fit. Yet as she caught Raven’s nod of satisfaction at the marshal’s order, Cat ground her teeth. She was willing to bet that if she’d tried to fight, Raven would have removed her, bodily, from the field.

As if he had the right!

“Raven! Cat!” Max loped up to them, a green bag hanging over his shoulder. He was also clutching something in his arms. “I brought your chair, Cat,” he announced, thrusting the bag toward Raven, “and a blanket. You can sit down when you want.”

Cat almost groaned out loud. Max must have run all the way back to her tent with the leather breastplate, found the folding camp chair and the blanket, then run all the way back. She truly didn’t deserve such a loyal friend. She was an ungrateful beast.

As Raven slung the dark green nylon bag over his shoulder, Cat reached for the small woven blanket. She could, at least, be good for something. And of course the
Lech
class instructor was right. Good manners were the grease that kept the civilized world working smoothly. She had frequently been churlish, Cat knew, if not downright nasty. And not just in the past hour. And yet . . . being prickly—“difficult”—was her sole armor off the Lyst field. How else was a celibate female to survive, whether in the twelfth century or the twenty-first?

Clutching the blanket, Cat threw her arms around Max, hugged him tight. His aw-shucks grin was worth the sharp pain that cut through her as she stretched her arms around his massive chest. Raven clapped Max on the shoulder, then wrapped an arm around Cat. Side by side, they strolled down the sandy road leading to the Archery Field.

“What’s that?” Raven nodded toward a roped-off area behind the Feast Hall.

“Cavaliers. You know . . . the Three Musketeers types.” Cat swallowed a sigh as Raven neatly turned them both toward the fencing field.

“Where’re the big hats and swishy capes?” Raven demanded as they found an open space along the rope. “They look more like aliens from outer space than Musketeers.”

“I guess they’re required to use standard fencing gear,” Cat hissed, her voice low to keep from distracting the two fencers whose lithe maneuverings currently held center stage. Behind their black mesh masks and padded chest protectors, both fighters were completely anonymous. Androgynous. Only the well-filled curves of one fencer’s black tights betrayed the distinct possibility of femininity. “Nearly everyone’s wearing a Ren shirt and floppy-topped boots,” Cat pointed out. “And the Rapier Marshal is in full cavalier costume.” Cat leaned closer to Raven’s ear. “Counting the plume, I swear his hat must be a yard wide. And look at his boots.”

“No bet,” Raven murmured as he studied the Rapier Marshal who was fully intent on his job as referee, watching each fencer’s movements like a hawk about to strike his prey.  The man’s boots, Raven noted, were as exaggerated as his great black
chapeau
, the turnover at the top of the supple leather at least twice as wide as anyone else’s. “Who’s the guy over there telling everyone what to do?” he asked.

Cat had no trouble picking the object of Raven’s interest out of the group of people gathered around the outside of the roped-off square. Dressed in full cavalier regalia, including a lace-trimmed shirt, showy tabard, and full pants tucked into pirate-style boots, he paced up and down just outside the ropes, taking his attention from the action only long enough to chivvy the next contestants into place, and survey the audience as if he planned to put them into the ring as well. A thin figure of mid-height, with a narrow face, which she knew from past experience was set in a permanent frown, he looked as if he might have enjoyed work as a member of the Spanish Inquisition. Only the short dark hair beneath his broad hat proclaimed him a product of the
current era
. Cat grinned. “That,” she whispered, “is Don Antonio Felipe de Zaragosa.”

Raven raised one dark brow. “Okay. If you say so,” he deadpanned.

“Don Antonio is the Mr. Big of Cavaliers,” Cat explained, keeping her face equally blank. “He’s CEO of some successful start-up company and thinks he’s God’s gift to fencing. Not to mention LALOC. Doesn’t matter whether the Cavalier era is included in LALOC’s time period or not. He wants to fence like a swashbuckler and this, by God, is the only place tolerant enough to let him do it.”

“And, besides, he likes giving orders.”

“Oh, ye-ah!” Cat breathed. “If you’ll pardon the modern expression, he’s the
Man.
”

“And knows it.”

“Absolutely insufferable,” Cat agreed.

“Wish I knew one end of a rapier from another,” Raven said. “I’d sure like to take him on. There’s just something about how he looks at people . . . like we’re all some lower life form.”

“ You
do
have cop instincts,” Cat approved. “That’s Don Antonio in a nut shell. Mr. Egomaniac.”

“Suspect?”

Cat glanced back to Don Antonio, who was scowling at the Rapier Marshal as if about to protest the point he had just granted. The cavalier’s shoulders were stiff with agitation, his lips a thin straight line. A bantam cock challenging a larger rooster. “No,” Cat said at last. “I can’t think of any motive for a successful entrepreneur to risk everything to make mischief in the place that allows him his fantasies. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Um-m-m.” Raven took a last speculative look at Don Antonio, whose face was already imprinted on his memory banks. “Okay, time for Archery,” he declared. Let’s find you a place to sit.”

Cat didn’t even attempt to argue. The ring of pain had spread until she was gritting her teeth over the slightest movement, struggling to keep from wincing or sucking in her breath. But Raven knew. And she wasn’t fool enough to argue over the prospect of spending the next few hours sitting down.

The archery competition was held in a broad clearing surrounded on all sides by woods. At one end of the field stood the colorful concentric rings of four targets backed by stacks of hay bales. At the opposite end was a small white
canvas
pavilion similar to the one over the orange plastic jugs on the Lyst Field. A few watchers had squeezed their chairs under the shade of the canopy next to the single jug of liquid. There was no room left. Raven set up the camp chair under the shade of a live oak so old every branch dripped with Spanish moss and air plants dotted the surface of the bark. They were almost on a line with the archers, well out of the way of any stray arrows. Cat started to lower the blanket to the ground.

“Don’t bend over!” Raven snapped. Snatching the blanket from her hand, he spread it on the ground beside the chair. “M’lady,” he intoned, straight-faced, handing her into the chair. Cat accepted his help, but refused to look at him. A difficult feat as Raven had pulled one end of the afghan-sized blanket in front of her chair and was settling himself at her feet.  Good. Just where she wanted him. A slave groveling before her. Except the image simply refused to fit. Raven was too much his own man. He might bend his knee, but never his will.

Cat tried to look away. Her gaze stuck. Raven raised a knee, clasped his hands around it, leaned back. His left shoulder nestled against Cat’s lower right thigh. Heat burst through her, rocking her from the tips of her toes to the sparks skittering across her suddenly witless mind. The ache in her gut disappeared. The only bodily organ she was aware of was her heart, which seemed to be expanding to the size of a basketball . . . a hot air balloon. Swelling up until she choked, until there was nothing left of Catriona MacDuff, the woman called Kate Knight. Poe had nothing on her, she thought wildly.
The Telltale Heart
, that’s what she was. Just one great throbbing organ, semaphoring her lust across the Archery Field for all to see.