Into Thin Air (28 page)

"Can I have a little time by myself?" she said. Really, she felt like crying, even though she thought tears weren't a cheap commodity in her real, truly alive self's armory. And when she looked at Gawan's face, especially now, after the asking for time alone, crying seemed more and more like a good thing to do. Perfect, even.

And she'd do it alone.

She stood, hands still linked. "I just ... I'll be back in a little bit."

And with Gawan still crouching, he let her hand slide out of his as she walked to the door.

And left.

A knock sounded against the door Ellie had just closed. Rising from his crouched position, a loud popping noise coming from his knees, he shoved his hand into his hair. "Aye. 'Tis open."

Jason walked through, closing the door behind him.

He simply stood there.

Wiping his face with his hand, Gawan moved to the massive window across the chamber and looked into the darkness. "Aye, pup, what is it?"

"She won't remember any of us, sir?"

Over his shoulder, Gawan skewed the young knight with a glare. "You were listening?"

Jason, damn his overconfident self, moved closer. "Aye, of course I was. I'm her guardsman, after all."

"Hmm." Gawan turned and sat on the sill. "Why aren't you trailing her now, then?"

With a forefinger, the lad scratched his head. "She begged me to let her take her leave, just for a while."

"Couldn't say her nay, aye?"

"Not when she has her mind set, nay," Jason said. "Would you care for a go at the blades, then?

Mayhap 'twill remove that foul look from upon your face?"

"Aye," Gawan said, thinking that the best thing he could do presently would be to work off some of the anger and frustration he had building. "Meet me in the lists in fifteen minutes."

"What about Lady Ellie?" Jason asked from the doorway.

"When she's ready, she'll come to me. Now off with you, and don't be late."

Jason disappeared into the passageway.

And Gawan could only pray Ellie would indeed come to him. He'd give her just so much alone time before he went in search of her.

With that, he walked to the wardrobe, flung open the door, and pulled out his sword.

Less than a bloody fortnight before either Ellie or he would have even a glimmer of a memory of each other. And only that amount of time if he didn't find her live self before then.

A fierce energy, a power of sorts built inside him—one akin to the feeling that used to come over him just before battle.

He hoped mightily young Jason of Dreadmoor could withstand the burden of his fury.

"By the saints!" Jason ground out, deflecting a hearty swing Gawan had just taken at his head.

Jason, ever the fighter, no matter how sweet the maids all thought he was, came back at Gawan full force.

The steel of their swords echoed through the bailey.

Gawan relished the struggle. Relished the burn in his muscles, the icy-cold wind blasting across his sweat-soaked tunic—relished anything that gave him some measure of pain.

No pain even came close to that of not remembering Ellie.

Thrusting hard, he gave Jason all he thought the boy could handle, until finally, after nearly two hours, the lad waved off.

"Enough!" Jason cried and stumbled backward at the last hacking swing Gawan took at him, which caused the boy's blade to go flying. "I yield!"

Gawan shoved the tip of his blade into the dirt and leaned on the hilt, breathing hard, and watched Jason throw himself to the ground beside his sword and sprawl out. The outdoor floodlights caused shadows to streak across his lanky form.

"The legends are bloody true," Jason said, then picked his head up from the dirt and looked at Gawan. "You do fight like a caged animal."

Wiping his brow with the back of his arm, Gawan nodded at the boy. "Sorry, mate."

"Lord Grimm, we find your skill with your rather
large
sword exhilarating. In fact, could you promise another showing for us, say, on the morrow?"

Gawan cocked his head and stared at the dozen or so ghostly maids of all ages and centuries perched high upon the wall walk overlooking the bailey. Lady Beauchamp waved a lacy something toward him. "What say you?" she asked.

A dozen or more
pleases
sounded from the other ladies.

"Mayhap, then," he said. "On the morrow."

They all giggled and disappeared, chatting noisily.

Jason sat up, tore off his gloves, and rested his forearms on his bent knees. The light was to his back, casting his face into shadows. "Whatever are you going to do, my lord?"

Gawan pierced him with a look. "About?"

"Lady Ellie." Jason picked up a stone and tossed it. "It cannot end the way you say."

Sheathing his sword, Gawan walked over and gave Jason a hand up. "Aye, boy, I fear it does. 'Tis the way of things."

Jason, too, sheathed his blade, and looked at Gawan. "I know this sounds powerfully selfish, but it pains me to know she won't remember me, either. I've grown rather fond of her."

Gawan knew the feeling well. "I know, lad." And he truly didn't know what else to say about it. It was written in the laws of all law, from the Higher-Ups of the Order. He couldn't change things, not at all, and it bloody well killed him to admit it. Even to himself.

He inclined his head toward the hall. "Let's get inside before we turn to icicles, aye?"

With a solemn expression, young Jason of Dreadmoor gave a nod. "Aye, then." He looked at Gawan. "You are, by far, the fiercest warrior I've ever seen. But please refrain from telling Sir Tristan. He'd never let me hear the end of it." He worked his arm, at the socket, a time or two. "I know my poor limbs will ache this eve."

"As will mine. You're a strong knight, boy, and a fine swordsman, in truth." He clapped Jason's back. "Tristan has trained you well."

"Thank you, sir."

As they entered the great hall, Jason stopped so suddenly, Gawan plowed into the back of him.

The great hall was filled with countless ladies and lords of yesteryear. They lined the walls, they sat in chairs, they crowded the staircase, and in the center of the room, they danced.
Waltzed.
The chattering was so loud, 'twas nigh onto deafening. Somewhere in the corner, a spirited gentleman with a top hat pounded a frolicking tune on a piano Gawan knew wasn't there earlier. Torches that hadn't been lit for years were flickering. A massive fire blazed in the hearth.

And then the crowd of ghostly revelers parted, ever so slowly, and the music came to a halt. In the center of the hall, looking a bit more solid than everyone else, thank the saints, was Ellie of Aquitaine.

And Gawan's mouth went dry as a bone.

Dressed in a long black gown that clung to her very shapely curves, her beautiful mass of hair swept up, she was truly the most breathtaking woman he'd ever laid eyes on.

Across the hall, their gazes met, melded, held steady. And then she smiled.

"By the saints," said Jason, mostly under his breath.

"Aye," Gawan managed, although not knowing how.

Just as he began to move, Nicklesby hurried from the crowd, and rushed up to Gawan. "My good sir, as you can see, the lady has something special planned for you, and I vow 'twouldn't seem right to attend said something"—he leaned his skinny self forward and sniffed—"smelling like that." He waved a hand. "Do hurry, for you know how the girl vanishes without warning."

So Gawan did what any sane man would do. He hurried.

Chapter Twenty-Four

As Gawan rushed through a shower, a thousand thoughts crossed his mind. What, by the saints, was that girl up to? And mainly, where had she acquired such a gown? Since Nicklesby was the only mortal in the castle, besides himself and Jason, he could only guess that the wiry man was behind it.

He'd thank Nicklesby graciously later.

After rinsing the suds from his hair, he stepped out, dripping wet, and ran the towel about him as fast as possible. He tied the cloth about his hips, then brushed his teeth, combed his hair, ran a razor over his stubble, and made plenty of passes to the pits of both arms with the deodorant stick. That done, he moved to his chambers.

Someone had laid out one of his black suits. Certainly, he didn't need to truss up thusly?

"Aye, boy, put the bloody thing on and be done wi' it!" Godfrey said, materializing through the wall.

"In case ye didn't notice, yer Intended has on a fine silk gown, indeed. You'd look plum dim-witted in yon denim breeches."

"What's going on, Godfrey?" Gawan said, dropping the towel and pulling on his boxers. "And of course I noticed she was wearing a bloody gown."

"Well, then, chop chop! Ye don't want to keep the lass waitin'! She could bloody well disappear at any time."

With deft fingers, for he'd had to wear such suits countless times whilst on a mission, Gawan threw on his trousers and tunic, pulled on socks and black shoes, cinched his belt, tied his tie, and pulled on his jacket.

"There! Aye, boy, ye look halfway decent, I'd say!" Sir Godfrey cocked his head, that ridiculous plume atop his hat all but impaling Gawan's eye. "Too bad ye don't have a bit of lace to go just here." He pointed a long finger at Gawan's neck.

"Will you cease?" Gawan said. He cleared his throat. "How do I look? In truth."

Sir Godfrey walked a slow circle around Gawan—irritatingly slow. Finally, he nodded. "Well done.

Except why don't you squirt a bit of that perfume on yourself?"

"Good idea." Gawan stepped into the garderobe, sprayed one squirt of cologne, then looked in the mirror. "Damnation, what about my blasted hair? 'Tis damp."

"Me hears the ladies talk, and wind is the lass fancies your hair pulled back, just so she can free it from yon garter," Godfrey said, pointing to the leather thong on the sink.

Gawan banked
that
to memory, tied his damp hair back, and left the chamber.

Down the passageway he strode, not knowing what he was about to walk into. With Ellie involved, one could never predict.

As he managed the staircase, he found the hall completely dimmed and empty of the spirit folk who'd occupied it earlier. Godfrey had disappeared behind him. Jason was nowhere to be seen, nor was Nicklesby.

Candles lit every surface of the great hall, and the hearth's blaze had burned down but not out, giving an orange glow to the place. He blinked. A Yuletide tree, nearly reaching the rafters, sat in one corner, tiny candles lighting the piney branches. Where had that come from? As he took each step, he looked for Ellie, but it wasn't until he got a few steps from the bottom that he saw her.

When he realized what she was doing, he froze, wishing mightily that he could keep this particular memory of her, if any at all, long into forever.

She'd kicked off whatever footwear she'd worn and was standing barefoot on a chair near the hall entrance, staring into a large oval mirror. With the hem of her dress held tightly in one hand, she had the other probing at the corner of her mouth as she stared at herself. With a slight clearing of throat, she lifted her chin, met her own gaze, and then, by all of the saints in satin robes, she spoke.

To the mirror.

Barely more than a whisper, yet Gawan heard the words as though they'd been shouted into his ear and traveled straight to his heart. He stood there, mesmerized by the quirky, intimate charm of hearing his Intended lady practice three little words.

"I love you," she said, pulling herself closer to the mirror. "I
looove
you. In truth," she said, with a decidedly mocked medieval accent. "Oy, I love ye." She giggled at herself and then cleared her throat once more, as though trying to force herself to be serious. "Saint's toes, I love you." She snorted. "Okay, okay." She took a deep breath, and Gawan dared not move for this was the grandest experience he'd ever experienced in nearly a thousand years. Her expression turned seductive, with one brow raised high, her lush lips puckered. "I want you. Now." This time, she laughed, slapped a hand over her mouth, then straightened, and let out a hearty sigh. She shrugged her shoulders, worked her head side to side a time or two, inhaled and exhaled, and then stared at the mirror, long and hard. "God I love you, Gawan of Con ... wyk ..."

Then their eyes met in the mirror.

And they stared.

Please, Lord Almighty, keep me from falling off the back of this chair.
Ellie thought, dropping her hem and bracing herself with a hand to the wall. She closed her eyes, which probably wasn't the best thing to do to keep her balance, but at least it helped lower her mortification factor.

Which was relatively high at the moment.

Gawan had caught her practicing
I love yous
in the bloody mirror!

"Ell, open your eyes."

That sexy, raspy voice washed over her, close—as in right behind her—and sent a shiver down her spine. "I'd rather keep them closed for now, if you don't mind," she said, keeping her eyes closed.

"I'm not finished being mortified."

Gawan chuckled, and the next thing she knew his hands were around her waist, and her feet left the chair as he picked her up and set her on the floor in front of him, her back to his front. She kept her eyes closed, yet the heat from his body crowding hers all but made her feel like a drunken, dopey fool. With one of his hands on her hip, and the other splayed against her flat stomach, she nearly teetered, and with the scent of his freshly bathed self and the dampness of his hair closing in on her, she thought if he hadn't kept a solid hold on her, she'd have keeled right over.

He was
that
intoxicating.

She lifted her hands and set them on his. As she stood there, with him behind her, and her eyes squeezed shut, her breathing became difficult, and her heart pounded against her chest, fast. For once, and she knew it had to be a milestone for her, she couldn't say a single word.

Why bother with a single one, she thought, since she'd already said three of them. And he'd
caught
her.

Then his chin nudged her neck, and his warm, sensual lips found a spot close to her earlobe only an Intended could possibly know about. Not quite a kiss, but something more erotic. It caused goose bumps when the words, spoken in a raspy medieval whisper rushed against her skin.