Mojitos with Merry Men (14 page)

"Thank you, kind lord. I owe you a life someday, and I, Duncan of Carlisle, always repay me debts."

"Then you owe it to young Christian here, not to me," Robin growls. He clearly doesn't like being seen as kind. "For surely I would slash you down without a moment's regret were it not for his merciful heart."

The guard bows his head in my direction. "To Christian, then," he says.

"Um, thanks," I reply, smiling at him. "I appreciate that. Hope your head feels better." Wish I had some aspirin for the guy or something.

I look back at Robin, who's giving me an impatient stare. Once satisfied he has my attention, he turns to the castle gate and makes a sweeping gesture. "I welcome you, young Christian," he says, "to the Castle Locksley."

I step through the open door and into a low-ceilinged, dark stone hallway. Small slits in the walls offer just enough sunlight to see spiders wandering through their dusty webs.

"This way," Robin says, coming up behind me, his hot breath in my ear. He takes me by my shoulders and turns me so I'm headed down a side corridor. It's spooky. Eerily silent. And weirdly intimate, too. I've really got to shake this feeling that we're on a date in Adventureland.

"You, um, don't think there are more guards around, do you?" I ask worriedly. The last thing we need is to be ambushed or something.

"Nay. Prince John is very stingy in all matters," Robin says. "He would not waste paying too many men to guard an outlaw's sacked castle. There is no benefit to it, and 'twould merely serve to drain his purse. Duncan there was likely just a scout."

"Such a shame to let the whole castle just go to pot," I say, stepping into a large open chamber. There's a blackened fire pit in the center of the room, and sunlight streams down from a skylight window. Grandly woven but now moth-eaten floor-to-ceiling tapestries hang from the walls, depicting brave knights on black chargers, flaxen-haired maidens, fire-breathing dragons, and snow-white unicorns.

"This was our great hall," Robin explains, walking to the far end of the room and stepping up on a dais. "My mother's and father's thrones sat here. Prince John must have deemed them valuable when he looted the place. Bastard." He reaches down and picks up an old discarded leather ball. He examines it, a wistful expression on his face, then tosses it up in the air and catches it.

"When I was young, I would play at my parents' feet while my father heard the petitions of the serfs and peasants." He smiles. "He used to kick me with his boot if I got unruly, and I'd run to hide in my mother's skirts."

I smile at his memory, completely able to picture a small boy's innocent play while the politics of the land were argued by chancellors and priests. I can imagine the hall as it must have once been, filled with courtiers and ladies-in-waiting. Court jesters juggling, bards strumming harps. Tables piled high with meats and fruits and cheeses. Knights swigging mead and laughing as the pretty maids batted their eyelashes at them, hoping to gain their favor. A court of the first class—swirling, glittering, noisy, alive.

Now it's just an aching echo of what it once was, painfully quiet, with each word resonating off the vast cobwebbed ceiling, the smell of death and decay replacing that of a fine feast or lady's perfume. The colorful sights are now but a dismal gray.

Robin sinks to the ground, head in his hands. He's reliving it all, overwhelmed by the past and swallowed up by the emptiness of present-day reality. I've got to snap him out of it before he gets lost in his despair.

"Did you have dances here?" I ask.

He looks up, swallowing hard before answering. "Aye," he says, forcing a smile to his lips. "Wonderful banquets with plates overflowing with food and goblets brimming with wine. My mother loved song, and we'd have the most famous minstrels of the land come to our castle to perform. And we'd dance till the sun peeked over the hillside."

"Sounds like fun," I say, examining a particularly cool tapestry of a maiden surrounded by unicorns. I think I've seen something similar in the Met gift shop. It's amazing someone could weave this with a loom or whatever it was they used, to reveal such an intricate picture one strand at a time. "I love to dance."

My second foster mother was a ballroom instructor, and she taught me ballet, jazz, tap, the waltz, and the tango. You name it, I learned it from Jeanine. And I loved each one. The magic of the dance, the feeling inside when the music takes over your body and soul. Living in the moment and not worrying about the past or obsessing about the future…

"Forsooth? I did not know the church would permit you to dance."

My face heats. Oops, I forgot who I'm supposed to be again. I really need to focus. "Oh sure," I say carelessly. "My church was pretty modern. We danced all the time."

He nods. "Of which dances are you most fond?"

Okay, I've really got to stop opening my big mouth. I don't think saying I dug "Gangnam Style" (not that I did!) would work here, and I certainly don't know the names of any traditional medieval dances.

"Um, I never remember the names," I say with a shrug.

"Then show me. For I feel nostalgic in this ruined hall," Robin says, twirling around as if recalling its former beauty. "I want one more happy moment here."

"Um, okay." Hm, what the hell am I going to show him? The Electric Slide is so not going to work. Nor is the "Boot Scootin' Boogie."

Then a brainstorm hits me. One day, a few years back, Danny had gone on a "finding himself" weekend trip to the Poconos. (Though thinking back, now I wonder if he managed to
find
himself
some female company as well.) Anyway, I was stuck at home bored. I rented
A Knight's Tale
and fell in love with it. So much so, I taught myself the Dance of Gelder that Heath Ledger invents to impress Lady Jocelyn. Silly and pointless, I know, but hey, I was really bored. And now it seems like the perfect option. A real fake medieval dance.

"Okay, then. Here's a traditional dance of my homeland of…Hoboken. First you…bow," I instruct, demonstrating as I go. "Then you throw your hands to your hips and step several times. Um, then you clap left and bow again."

Robin tries to follow my instructions. It's awkward, but then again, it was an awkward made-up dance to begin with.

"Then you hop, hands out, palms up. No, no—like this!" I grab his hands to put them in position.

Robin laughs. "This dance is bloody terrible!" he cries.

I shake my head, dropping his hands. "Okay, fine. Give up then," I say in mock disapproval.

"No, no!" he insists. "I will get this! No mere dance can best the great Robin of Locksley."

Bow, step, clap. Bow, step clap. Bow, step—

"Oh, this is silly!" I cry. "Let's just dance freestyle."

"Freestyle?" Robin cocks his head in question.

"Like, make up your own dance. Let the music take you where it will. Well, I guess we don't have any music. Maybe that's our problem." If only I had my iPhone with portable speakers. I could pull up David Bowie's "Golden Years," and we'd really be reliving
A Knight's Tale.

Though, whipping out a device containing a magical melody of modern music might just possibly freak out the 12th-century outlaw a tad, I suppose. Guess I'll have to sing.

"'Golden Years, wup, wup, wup!!'" I croon, admittedly more than a bit out of tune. I twirl around the makeshift dance floor, grabbing Robin's hand and dragging him with me while singing the first lines of the Bowie tune.

"You're mad, Christian! Absolutely stark raving mad!"

"Boo! Don't be a sore sport! Just dance!"

And so he does. Together we whirl around the great hall, Robin's hand in mine, his arm around my waist. It feels so good. So right. I start getting silly (okay, maybe "start" is the wrong word since I've been belting out Bowie for the last couple minutes) and exaggerate the dance steps. I dip myself backward, allowing him to catch me. He fumbles the catch, almost dropping me, and I manage to slam my foot down on his as I step backward to steady myself.

"Oops," I say, consumed by giggles at this point.

"If you step on my feet one more time…" Robin threatens with a laugh.

"You'll what?" I challenge, whirling to face him.

"I shall…sentence you to death," he says sternly. "As Lord of Locksley, 'tis perfectly within my rights."

"Death," I say coyly, batting my eyelashes at him. "My good sir, how do you plan to kill me? Poor, innocent, defenseless me."

"Defenseless? Ha! Those feet are a deadly weapon."

I stick out my foot and point my toes, then flex them. "These?" I ask, all innocent. "How could these"—I pretend to slam my foot down on his once more—"hurt you?"

"That's it, now you're dead!" he cries.

Laughing, I turn tail and run across the Great Hall's floor. He pursues me, chasing me down the hall. I come to a set of stairs and scramble up, trying to outrun the footsteps that I hear closing in behind me. At the top, I push open a wooden door and find myself in a tower room. It's empty, save a bale of hay in one corner—probably a makeshift bed for prisoners. Problem is, because of that prisoner thing, there's no escape route.

Robin bursts into the room, his eyes lighting up as he sees I'm trapped. He grabs me by the shoulders and shoves me back into the hay, jumping on top of me and tickling me with relentless fingers.

"Death by tickle!" he cries through his laughter.

"Uncle! Uncle!" I cry, knowing he won't understand my plea. "I surrender! I surrender! No one can withstand tickle torture!"

He stops. His hair has come undone from its ponytail and has fallen into his face as he stares down at me. His laughter fades, and his look is dead serious. Dead sexy. I can feel his hot breath on my face, strands of hair tickling my cheeks. Before I can do anything, say anything, he leans down and presses his mouth hard against mine.

Oh my God. What is he doing? I mean, it's very apparent what he's doing, crushing me with a kiss, stealing my breath, pinning me to the straw bed. But he thinks I'm a boy. Doesn't he?

What am I to do? His lips feel amazing. His tongue demands entrance. I can't help it. It's been so long since I had a first kiss. I submit. I open my mouth and allow him to take control. His tongue ravages mine, devours me as if I'm some sort of vital nourishment, and he hasn't eaten in a year.

Then, just as suddenly as he began, he stops. Robin scrambles off me to his feet and retreats to the other side of the room. He leans down, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Looking everywhere but at me.

"Robin—" I start, realizing this is the perfect time to tell him the truth.
Don't worry, dude. You're not gay. Or whatever they call it in Sherwood Forest. I'm a chick. One hundred percent woman.
But he waves a hand at me, cutting off my words.

"Don't say anything!" he growls, his eyes fierce with anger. "Just leave."

"But—"

"Begone!" he bellows.

I'm half afraid he's going to hit me—kill me, even—so I don't address the fact that he, in his mind, just made out with a guy. I pick up my skirts and flee the tower, running down the stairs, through the passage, out the door, and into the courtyard. Tears stream down my face as I pass the guard and run into the field. I don't know where I'm going. I can barely see. I trip again, falling to my knees in the dirt. Unable to run any more, I allow sobs to overtake me, wracking my body, tearing at my soul.

What have I done? How did I let this happen? I hope the gypsy's not looking down on me now, shaking her head, unbelieving that someone could possibly make such a mess of a simple time-travel trip. I mean, really! How did a quest to save my coworker turn into a drama of
As the World Turns
proportions? All I wanted to do was find the Holy Grail. I never expected to lose my heart in the process.

At this moment, on my knees in the middle of a 12th-century English moor, I don't care much about my mission. Or about my 21st-century life, for that matter. All I can focus on, all I can wrap my head around, is the rejection slamming into my stomach with the force of a championship boxer's fist. Rejection from a man I've totally fallen for.

Why didn't I just tell him the truth from the start? Well, okay, maybe not the whole truth and nothing but the time-traveling truth. But I could have at least shared the fact that I have female body parts.

Stupid, Chrissie. Truly stupid.

I stumble back to my feet, my eyes too bleary from my tears to focus on which direction I should walk. I've got to get out of here. Somewhere, anywhere. Alone. Away from this place.

"Christian, wait!"

I turn and see Robin running after me. I know I must look a total sight. Tear-stained face and red nose… I never look glamorous when I cry, like the heroines in movies always seem to do without any effort. They cry, and they take on a beautiful sorrow—pale face, delicate tears. Me? I start looking like a waterlogged Bozo the Clown.

I sink back to my knees, realizing I can't escape, can't run away anymore. I have to face this. I have to tell him the truth.

Robin stands above me for a moment, hands on his hips, then sighs and scrambles down on the ground next to me. He puts a hesitant arm around my shoulder, patting me gently. It's awkward, for sure, but I can't help but lean into him a little, a desperate attempt to absorb some of his strength.

"I apologize, Christian," he says in a soothing voice. "'Twill not happen again, I swear it. After all, I am not the sort of man who lies with boys. I just—you just—oh Mary, mother of God!" he cries, running a hand through his loose hair. "I am so sorry if I frightened you."

"I'm a girl!" I cry, unable to keep the secret a second longer. I rip out of his embrace and gesture to my body. "I'm not a boy or a man or a eunuch or anything that has even remotely to do with a Y chromosome. I'm female through and through and always have been."

"What?" he asks, disbelieving and incredulous. "What are you going on about?"

"Don't you get it?" I ask, tears in my eyes, a lump in my throat. "I just pretended I was a boy so you wouldn't kick me out of camp. Like you did with Much the Miller's wife. You say women aren't welcome, and I didn't have anyplace else to go. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lie. It's just—"