The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (17 page)

“Who gets on top?” he dropped her chin
abruptly and asked the question in a disinterested tone instead. He
had to get away from her and since he could not, he had to make her
get away from him, but he didn’t really want her to get away from
him. Not really.

She kicked her foot at the desk and toppled
them both to the floor. He pushed the chair off him and grabbed for
her foot as she crawled away from him. He pulled her back across
the polished wood floor, flipped her onto her back, and pinned her
beneath him. It was just so easy. Too easy. Too wrong.

He looked down at her and she glared at up at
him and tried to push him off. Not like before. She was truly angry
this time. It was not a game this time.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he told
her.

“You really are a bastard,” she said through
clenched teeth. “Get off of me.”

“You really don’t know what you want, do
you?” he countered and then raised up on one knee. He released her
arms and she kicked away from him.

He got up slowly, righted the chair and sat
down again while she stood by the door, wringing her hands again,
looking tearful and hurt. His stomach took the opportunity to
attack him again.

“Didn’t she tell you that I’m dangerous?” he
asked her and picked up the wine bottle again. The wine was
revolting in the emptiness. Already the alcohol was warming his
neck and his face.

“You’re not dangerous.” Her face changed
expressions yet again, to something entirely different, as if she
had just made some remarkable discovery. “You’re just
uncivilized.”

“Uncivilized. Aye, that’s the word.” He
nodded in agreement and smiled as anger replaced the
self-recriminations. “Uncivilized.” He turned his attention on the
steak and tore it apart without the advantage of a fork or a knife
or a napkin. It took less than five minutes to put away the whole
thing in the old style. The old style? She stood by the door
unmoving and silent. He really wished she would go away. He was
beginning to like her in spite of everything. She was persistent if
nothing else. When he had finished the cake, he turned toward her
with a quizzical look. What was she waiting for?

“She was lying wasn’t she?” Merry asked him
suddenly.

“Uh, huh.” He nodded. “She was lying.”

“I told her that I had taken advantage of
your weakness at the dinner table, but that we hadn’t actually… you
know…” she admitted and made an apologetic face.

“Uh, huh.” He nodded again. “And what did she
say to that?”

“She was mad.”

“Oh, aye. She's mad alright. She’s insane.
What is she planning to do with me now?”

“I don’t know. I really am glad to hear that
she was lying. It would have been… well, it would have been awful.
I mean what I did and what you did, if you weren’t who I thought
you were.”

“What difference would it make?”

“You just don’t understand.” She looked down
at the floor.

Was she for real?

“How long have you known her?”

“A long time.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“How old is she?”

“Thirty-five. How old are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Close to a thousand,” she supplied. “Doesn’t
that make you feel weird?”

He raised one eyebrow. Perhaps the word
reality had not been precise.

“Yeah.” He smiled. “It would.”

“Do you look like your mother or your
father?”

“I don’t know.” He actually laughed at the
question. He had no recollection of either father or mother and
wondered if he had ever known them. She was totally innocent now,
back to the Pixie he had made her into in his mind. “And you… who
do you look like?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “My mother and
father died a long time ago. I’ve seen pictures, but I don’t think
I look like either of them. I was an orphan.”

“What?” He frowned. She did not have the
appearance of one abandoned. He had thought she had somehow sprung
full grown from the head of her father, Zeus. He shook his head. No
that was not the right goddess. Who was it that had come from the
sea in a seashell? Aphrodite? Venus? Weren’t they the same? But
these were pagan gods and he was obliged to kill the enemies of
Christ. What was he thinking? He turned up the bottle and stared at
her. She was talking again, telling him some story about her
childhood, but it did not interest him. He was only interested in
the here and now and she was here and it was now. He stood up and
set the empty bottle on the desk. Enemies of Christ? She stopped
talking and stared at him.

“You would not do that again, would you?” she
asked after a few seconds.

“What? Do what again?” He frowned. Something
else was clouding his mind. The wine. The wine was making it hard
to focus on her voice. She fidgeted with something in her hand. A
key. The key. The key to his door. “You have the key and I need the
key.”

“No, you do,” she said and frowned at him,
missing the meaning of his words. “You have the key.”

“You would give it to me, if I wanted it,” he
said and took a step toward her. She did not flinch away from
him.

“I would give you whatever you want… as long
as you truly want it,” she continued to look at him with a peculiar
look in her clear blue eyes. “As long as you love me.”

“Love you?” He stopped. “Why would I love
you? What do you know of love, lassie? Ye’re naught but a
choild.”

“You tell me,” she shrugged and held up the
key.

“I don’t know what love is and I asked you
first.” He regained his composure.

He took another step toward her. She took a
step back and leaned against the door, holding the key behind
her.

“Yes, you do,” she objected.

One more step and he was in front her,
holding her hands, looking down at the key. He wrapped one hand
over the key in her hand and pulled her close. The key was crushed
between them.

“I want the key,” he said into her hair and
then kissed her forehead. “Will you give me the key?”

“I told you I would give you anything you
want.” He leaned into him and he felt another overwhelming desire
to take her down on the floor, right there in front of the door.
Why? The key was important and he had it in his hand. “You will
have to decide whether to stay or go.”

She kissed his chin and then raised up
slightly, kissing his mouth. He closed his eyes and almost forgot
about the key. He let go of her hands and ran his hands up her back
and then down, slipping the loose dress from her shoulders. The key
fell to the floor along with the light summer dress. Did she never
wear anything under those gossamer gowns other than a few strings
and a bit of fluff? This was much worse than before and he felt a
sense of guilt as he pressed her against the door. She wrapped her
legs around him and he carried her to the bed instead. The key
bounced on the carpet. Surely he could find the key soon enough. In
a while… and a bit. His stomach was forgotten again.

They were lying in his bed some time later
when the door suddenly opened and the overhead light came on
abruptly. Mark threw one arm over the Pixie and shaded his eyes
against the glare. He had the distinct impression that this had
never happened to him before.

“Show’s over!” Maxie announced as he picked
up the key and Merry’s dress from the floor. “Come on, Chevaliere
Discretion.” He used her honorary title with just the proper amount
of scorn. “I should have known where to find you. Miss Cecile wants
you downstairs.”

Merry sat up in the bed with the sheet
clutched to her neck, frowning at the ugly man. Mark looked at him
in amazement. His hatred for the man inched up another notch.
Didn’t anyone ever knock in America?

“Hand over the dress,” Mark Andrew growled as
he pushed himself up in the bed wearily. He should never have
stopped to dally with this woman again. A little of his strength
had returned after the meal, but he had spent it in amorous
pursuits. How many men had been killed in just such a sorry state?
It was no wonder he was required to sleep fully clothed with his
boots on… He cursed himself mentally. She would certainly be the
death of him and he felt that he deserved it for being so
weak-willed and stupid.

“I don’t think it will fit you, dickweed.”
Maxie laughed and held the dress up a little higher to look at it.
“Nope. Too little, though I might say the color would go good with
your hair.”

“Give her the damned dress, sir,” Mark set
his jaw and raised his voice just a bit. He was hardly in any
position to make demands, but he didn’t really care. If he was
going to die here, it might as well be now.

Maxie raised the barrel of the shotgun and
draped the dress across the barrel sight.

“Miss Cecile is waiting for you, sister.” He
grinned at Merry. “Come and get it.”

Merry started out of the bed and Mark caught
her arm. “Stay where you are. I’ll get it,” he told her without
taking his eyes off the man with the gun. When Maxie made no
further move, Mark let out a sigh and climbed out of the bed to
retrieve the dress under Maxie’s appraising gaze. It didn’t seem to
matter to him which of them came after it. He appreciated one just
as much as the other.

Mark tossed the dress to Merry and she pulled
it over her head quickly, before slipping from the bed to find her
shoes. Mark Andrew stood facing the sneering man, dressed only in
his intense hatred. Maxie did not flinch as Mark looked at him with
deadly intent in his eyes. Merry passed behind him and he caught
her arm again, pulling her back in front of him. He then kissed her
long and hard while Maxie stood his ground in the open door. “I’m
going to kill him for you,” Mark whispered in her ear and let her
go. “Before I leave, I’m going to kill him for you.”

She looked into his eyes briefly and then
backed away. Maxie snatched at her arm and flung her toward the
door.

Merry disappeared through the door behind the
big man and he heard her footsteps hurrying away down the hall.
Maxie did not follow her immediately, but remained where he was as
if he would say or do more.

“If you would care to lay your weapon aside,
we could take care of this business, here and now,” Mark told him
evenly. He’d never fought anyone without the benefit of some bit of
clothing or armor, but if it had been good enough for the
Highlanders, it was good enough for him. All he needed was a bit of
blue face-paint.

Maxie seemed to consider the possibility
seriously for several seconds before he found his voice again. “I
would like nothing better than to wrestle with you, my friend, but
I’ll have to take a raincheck on it right now.” He winked at Mark
and quickly backed out the door, closing and locking it.

Mark stood frozen in the middle of the room.
He was definitely going to have to kill the man. His promise to the
Pixie he would keep. There was no doubt in his mind now. He placed
one hand on his forehead and the other on his hip. Highlanders?
Blue paint? Armor? He had to be some kind of history buff. He
looked down at himself and then dropped his head. Buff, indeed. If
things went well, he would regain his strength in the night and
make good his escape in the morning, after killing Maxie, of
course. He crawled back under the covers and was soon fast
asleep.

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

Sometime just before dawn, a sudden summer
storm broke against the house, shaking the foundations with intense
lightening strikes all around the grounds. The roof groaned and the
wind beat the rain against the windows. Mark Andrew awoke with a
start from another nightmare about war and horses and dust and
blood. He pressed his hand against his forehead and then sat up
suddenly as he became aware of the fact that he was not alone.

This just could not go on! He was now afraid
for Merry. The Pixie was living in a very dangerous situation and
he didn’t even think she realized it. She was slowly, but surely
working her way into his mind so that his every thought started and
ended with her. If she continued to creep into his room, sooner or
later, she was going to find herself in serious trouble. And,
furthermore, regardless of his inability to remember details, he
was positive that he should not be carrying on this licentious
relationship with a virtual stranger. It was against everything he
felt was right. He was making a big mistake and compounding it by
allowing it to continue. Valentino was insane. He knew, or thought
he knew what she had in mind for him, but he also felt that she
might be capable of killing Merry as well. He had seen the insanity
in her eyes when she had spoken to him about Merry. She was
extremely jealous of the Pixie and jealousy, especially in women,
was a very deadly thing. The best he could make out about the
peculiar relationship they seemed to share was that Merry had
somehow gained permission to seduce him and sleep with him, but it
made no sense. It was almost as if Valentino had imprisoned him
here as a gift for Merry in addition to extracting ancient secrets
from him. Insanity. He could understand Valentino’s motivation as
far as the immortality thing went. That would be an acceptable, if
not logical, reason to hold him. But there was more to it than
that. He seemed to be serving a two-fold purpose here and both were
beyond his comprehension.

When he swung his feet to the floor, a hand
gripped his shoulder. The storm had knocked out the
electricity.

“Where are you going?” she whispered. Her
voice was slightly hoarse. She’d been crying again and drinking as
well. He could smell it on her breath. Depression complicated by
the consumption of alcohol. A dangerous and often deadly
combination.

“I had a nightmare.” He lay back beside her.
“What are you doing here?”

“How could I stay away?”

She pressed her lips to his ear and reached
under the quilt to find what she was looking for and he sighed
audibly before lying down again and allowing her to slip under the
cover with him. He would have to take the key this time and leave
her.