Teresa Medeiros (9 page)

As they dragged her past a tonsured priest filling out what she assumed was a medieval coroner’s report, she craned her neck to peer over the bobbing feather of his quill. Her glasses were still tucked away in her pajama pocket so she had to squint to make out the date etched in his flowery script—
Year of Our Lord Twelve Hundred and Fifty-Four
.

“Twelve Fifty-Four. Twelve Fifty-Four,” she muttered.

There was something naggingly familiar about that particular sequence of numbers. One. Two. Five. Four. She groaned as she remembered magnifying the amulet’s image within those precise parameters. Why couldn’t she have chosen one, nine, seven, and six? Then she wouldn’t have had to face any challenge more daunting than the advent of disco.

As they thrust her into the chair next to Brisbane’s throne, Lucy’s plaintive mew sounded from somewhere behind her.

She leveled a steely glare at her assailants. “Let go of me, you bullying cows, or I’ll … I’ll …”

Sue for assault?

Dial 911?

Give you a verbal reprimand?

Tabitha sputtered to a frustrated halt.

“You can’t blame the wench for being vexed,” crooned one of the women as she forced a coronet of flowers over Tabitha’s tousled hair. “After all, she’ll soon be losing more than her temper.” Clucking in mock sympathy, she ran a finger across Tabitha’s throat.

Another woman fanned herself with her pudgy hand.
“One night with Ravenshaw may cost her both her head and her virtue.” She offered her companions an impish wink. “ ’Twas well worth it, no doubt. The rogue’s prowess in bed surely exceeds even his prowess on the battlefield.”

The women tittered. Tabitha stiffened. They’d have probably been laughing louder had they known she’d failed to incite even the most perfunctory lust in Sir Colin. At least while he was conscious.

Her tormentors put the finishing touches on her humiliation by draping an ermine-trimmed cloak over her shoulders. She was beginning to feel like Miss America—without the scholarships. Still whispering and giggling among themselves, the women withdrew to their benches. Tabitha barely had time to steal a breath of fresh air before Brisbane drifted back to his throne on a cloud of tart fragrance that smelled vaguely like Lemon Pledge.

“Shouldn’t you be down on the field?” Tabitha snapped. “Defending your honor … or your lack of it.”

Brisbane’s nonchalant shrug was enhanced by the ripple of his robe. “Every man and woman has the right to choose their own champion. I’ve chosen mine and ah … here’s yours now.”

Malice oozed from his voice, but Tabitha still couldn’t resist leaning forward and gripping the rail that encircled the gallery.

Jeers and hoots of derision assailed her ears as Colin was led onto the field riding a shaggy pony. They’d stripped him of both armor and shirt, leaving him wearing nothing but his boots and a pair of loose black breeches. He should have looked ridiculous, but even half-horsed and half-naked, he still looked like a man capable of slaying a dragon or two. Robbing him of his
shirt only revealed the powerful ripple of muscles honed by warfare and bronzed by the Egyptian sun.

As one of Brisbane’s smirking squires paraded him past the platform, the knight’s indomitable dignity shamed the crowd to silence.

Tabitha was relieved to note that his wound still showed no sign of fresh bleeding. She’d learned from experience never to discount the restorative powers of a Big Mac. And Colin had wolfed down three of them.

She expected Brisbane to hurl a taunt, but it was the priest who rose from his bench, raised his arms, and piously intoned, “Go with God, my son, and—”

“I’ve no need of your blessing, Father,” Colin called out, his voice ringing in the shocked silence. “The Church may have failed to protect my property and family as they vowed to do while I was on Crusade, but God always fights on the side of right.”

The priest retreated, muttering something about arrogant whelps and heresy. Tabitha covered her mouth with her hand, both touched and horrified by Colin’s naivete.

“Cocky bastard,” Brisbane muttered. “Let the priest save his blessing for the wretch’s burial.”

Tabitha slanted him a rueful glance. If this man called Colin “friend,” she would hate to meet his enemies.

She gasped in unison with the crowd as a monstrous ogre of a man appeared at the far end of the field, his chain mail glinting in the sunlight. He wore a metal helm molded to resemble the snout of a mighty boar. Steel plates protected his elbows and knees, making Colin look painfully vulnerable in contrast.

“Scot-Killer! Scot-Killer!” the crowd chanted with renewed vigor.

Brisbane leaned over and whispered, “King Henry knighted Sir Orrick for valor after he killed over thirty
Scots during a border skirmish. He brought their heads home in a bloody sack and piked them on his bailey walls like rotten melons.”

She refused to give him the satisfaction of glancing up at the jagged spikes adorning his own castle walls. “Did he also strip them of their armor first? Or were they defenseless women and children?”

Brisbane settled back in his chair, a pout pinching his lips. “I can assure you, my lady, that Colin has never been defenseless.”

Tabitha found that difficult to believe as Sir Orrick’s squire led his master toward the platform. Orrick’s magnificent sable stallion dwarfed Sir Colin’s pony. She sucked in a breath as she realized Brisbane had added insult to injury by giving Colin’s own horse to his opponent. The stallion shied sideways, unaccustomed to the bulk of his new rider. The Scot-Killer drew back his golden-spurred heels and drove them into the horse’s flanks, laughing heartily when the squire’s tenacious grip on the reins kept the terrified horse from bolting.

It was the first time Tabitha had ever seen Colin flinch.

After the horse had stopped bucking and stood trembling in submission, Sir Orrick bowed his head and humbly accepted the priest’s blessing. The crowd murmured its approval. Tabitha watched with mounting horror as the ham-handed knight was outfitted with an iron-studded shield and an enormous lance. Delicate ribbons laced its length, but not even their festive splash of purple and yellow could disguise the deadly point at its tip. She feared the ribbons would soon be stained with Colin’s blood.

The crowd burst into laughter as Brisbane’s squire handed Colin a lance that was little more than a tree branch whittled to a blunt tip. He accepted the crude
weapon without complaint, handling it with the same care Arthur would have given Excalibur. He was not offered a shield.

Tabitha sprang to her feet. “You should be ashamed of yourself. This isn’t a joust. It’s a joke.”

Brisbane’s lips curved in a feral grin. “One I’m sure Colin will appreciate. He always did have a droll sense of humor.”

She found it hard to imagine the dour Scot having any sense of humor at all.

“I should think you’d be flattered,” her host crooned. “ ’Tis an honor to be crowned Queen of the Tournament.”

“In that dress you’re wearing, you should have crowned yourself Queen,” Tabitha retorted. The effect of her jibe was spoiled when her makeshift crown slid over one eye. Two of Brisbane’s women clapped their hands on her shoulders, shoving her back into her seat.

The combatants were led to opposite ends of the field. A fat little man who looked as if he’d just waddled off the back of a deck of playing cards lifted a golden trumpet and blew a flourish of brassy notes, signaling the riders to commence battle.

As the armored giant bore down on Sir Colin, the stallion taking two strides to every one of the pony’s, the crowd roared their approval. Tabitha clapped a hand over her eyes, but couldn’t resist peeking through her fingers.

Colin used the giant’s size against him, ducking neatly beneath the lance’s first thrust. The gallant effort coaxed a smattering of applause from the audience, but it was quickly quelled by Brisbane’s sullen glare.

Sir Orrick howled with rage inside his helm. Tabitha feared Colin would not be so lucky on the next pass. The Scot-Killer reached the end of the field and wheeled
the stallion in a taut circle. He seemed to be having more trouble controlling the unruly beast. Perhaps the horse had caught a whiff of his master’s scent.

Brisbane clutched the rail with white-knuckled anticipation as he prepared to give the signal for the second pass.

Determined to win Colin a few precious seconds to recover, Tabitha leaned forward. “I gather that you and Sir Colin were once friends. What turned you into such bitter enemies?”

He cast her a contemptuous glance. “You should ask my twin sister Regan.”

“And what would she tell me?”

Brisbane snorted. “That her precious Colin could do no wrong. Regan was content to spend hours listening to him boast about winning his spurs, encouraging him to prattle on and on about his eagerness to serve both God and king.” His voice rose to a shout. “ ’Twas disgusting!”

The priest cleared his throat. Brisbane recovered from his bout of jealousy only to realize that all eyes were gaping at him. He cast Tabitha a furious look before shooting to his feet.

“To the death,” he shouted, sealing both Colin’s fate and her own.

Tabitha’s breath lodged in her throat as the Scot-Killer came thundering down the stretch, leveling his lance at Colin’s unprotected heart. Colin never blinked, never faltered, and Tabitha discovered she couldn’t dishonor him by burying her own face in her hands. As death raced toward him in the guise of a monstrous boar, she grabbed the amulet from her pajama shirt.

“I wish …” she whispered.

Brisbane shot her a look, his sharp gaze tracing the length of the chain to her clenched fist.

“I wish …” she repeated fiercely.

But she’d spent too much of her life biting back her wishes. Now, when she needed the words the most, they wouldn’t come soon enough. Her cowardice was going to cost this courageous young knight his life.

But Sir Colin of Ravenshaw had no need of magic, only might.

As the stallion bore down on him, he stood up in the stirrups—his broad chest glistening with sweat, his dark hair flying behind him—and roared a battle cry that made every hair on Tabitha’s nape stand up. Sir Orrick struck low, missing his target completely. Colin struck high, ramming his own stunted lance into the vulnerable gap between chain mail and helm. The Scot-Killer collapsed in the sand, the soft tissue beneath his jaw gushing blood.

The onlookers surged to their feet as Colin emitted a shrill whistle. The stallion wheeled from its mad flight, heeding his master’s irresistible summons. Colin easily vaulted from pony to stallion, then swooped low to snatch Sir Orrick’s dagger from its sheath. The horse reared, its nostrils flaring at the scent of blood, but Colin calmed the terrified beast with a stroke of its satiny neck and a soothing murmur.

He shoved the dagger into his waistband and nudged the stallion into a gallop. Brisbane pounded on the rail and howled, “Stop him, you imbeciles!”

His guards either stood gaping, paralyzed with shock, or ran in ineffectual circles, stumbling over one another in their efforts to gather both their gear and their wits. Colin bent low over the stallion’s neck, clearing the fence with magnificent ease.

Tabitha was on her feet, cheering as wildly as she ever had at a New York Giants game, when she realized he was abandoning her to her death. She gripped the railing,
the chaos around her fading to a dull roar. Unexpected tears stung her eyes, but she frantically blinked them back. She didn’t have any right to be disillusioned. This was no fairy tale and even a knight’s gallantry must have its limits. She could hardly expect Colin to sacrifice his own life for a woman he barely knew and didn’t even trust.

But none of those rational arguments eased the desolate ache in her heart as she watched him race across the meadow and up the grassy slope toward freedom.

At the crest of the hill, he wheeled the horse around and sat silhouetted against the sky, his dark hair billowing in the wind.

Brisbane paled. An eerie hush fell over the crowd, as if they were all holding their breaths.

Although she knew it was impossible from that distance, Tabitha would have almost sworn Colin was gazing right into her eyes. Her heart began to pound in her throat. She clenched the rail, wanting to hope, but knowing she would hate herself for it when he turned his back and rode out of her life forever.

This time he didn’t bother with a battle cry. He simply drove the stallion straight down the hill, his thundering charge scattering the panicked guards.

Tabitha’s heart sang with exultation.

“He’s mad,” Brisbane breathed, the strangled note of admiration in his voice unmistakable. “The bastard is utterly mad.”

Sir Colin added credence to that assessment by aiming his horse straight for the gallery stairs. The admiring cries from the ladies behind Tabitha erupted into squeals of terror. As the horse lunged up the stairs, rocking the entire platform, several of them dove over the rail, their veils rippling behind them like colorful kite tails.

Brisbane shot Tabitha a murderous look, plainly torn between breaking her neck before Colin could reach her or diving to safety himself. Tabitha helped him make his decision by planting a foot firmly in the middle of his solar plexus. He crashed
through
the rail instead of over it, hurtling through the air to land in the sand with a satisfying thud. She tore off the coronet of flowers and tossed it on his chest, thankful for the self-defense lessons Uncle Sven, Lennox Enterprises’s towering Chief of Security, had given her.

Then Colin was there, his hand extended, his golden eyes blazing brighter than the sun. Tabitha had no time to ponder her fear of horses, no time to do anything but seize his hand and allow him to drag her up and astride the horse behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, clinging for dear life.

He guided the horse around only to discover that several of Brisbane’s more foolhardy guards had blocked the stairs, their swords drawn for battle. Tabitha had no idea what he intended to do until he urged the horse to prance backward, leaving a clear shot between them and the splintered rail.