Underground Warrior (21 page)
She liked that he kept vows so well. “I like your sword,” she assured him, sliding her hand down the treasure trail of dark hair that descended his abdomen to…
He gasped back a laugh. “Yeah, well that one’s not going anywhere.”
She snuggled closer to him, feeling delightfully risqué. “Good.”
“But the other one…”
“It’s the sword of Roland.” She kissed him. “Not Charlemagne. I like Roland. I like his great-great-great-great…”
Considering that she kissed him after each “great,” she lost count before she finished, “Grandson. He didn’t need the support of Charlemagne to fight off his enemies. He had been betrayed, but he didn’t let it stop him from doing what’s right.”
Trace spent some time kissing her back—cupping his rough hand over her breast, down the slope and over the curve of her waist, her thigh, securing her with the weight of his own heavy leg. Then he frowned at her.
“Didn’t Roland die?”
“Doesn’t mean he stopped doing what’s right. That’s why his legend goes on.”
He rolled onto his back, lifting her with him so that she straddled his waist like she might a war horse. “And you think I take after him?”
But this wasn’t just play, anymore. He searched her face like he really cared.
“I think,” she whispered down at him, adoring every rough inch of him—and that was a lot of inches, once you added them all up—“that you’re not the only one. Nothing can make up for what happened to my family, but you and your friends—even some of the Comitatus—you’re making it right. I think, my love, that you’re all the hero a damsel like me could ever want.”
And to her delight, he proved it to her yet again.
Epilogue
“I
can’t get it open,” muttered Sibyl in frustration, tugging at the envelope of hard plastic.
“I’ve got a knife.” Shifting beside her on the concrete bench in Greta’s now-well-tended backyard, Trace wrangled a penknife out of his pocket.
Sibyl enjoyed watching the practiced ease with which he thumbed it open. “You heroes and your blades.’
“This is nothing.” He made short work of the packaging around the disposable cell phone Sibyl had bought that morning. “You should see my sword.”
She bit her lip, not wanting to laugh. He hadn’t noticed the double entendre, which she thought was kind of cute. In fact, Trace
had
kept the sword of Roland. In the days since New Orleans, they’d begun the process of locating other Comitatus blades.
Blades that hopefully represented the good that their society could someday regain as surely as did Smith’s sword of Aeneas and Trace’s sword of Roland.
But all that would happen in days to come. For now…
Sibyl stared at the disposable cell phone—for which she’d paid cash. She might feel safer with Trace than she had before, but that didn’t mean she could give up all caution.
“You forget the number?” asked Trace, concern softening his brawler’s face.
“It’s a new number. New to me, anyway. I’ve never even met my stepfather. But I looked it up. I know it.”
“Then what?” Apparently figuring it out, he gathered her into his lap, which Sibyl greatly appreciated. The chill from the concrete bench had begun to seep through her jeans into her butt. “You know, you don’t have to do this.”
“I know. I want to. I just have to stop worrying, you know? What if she doesn’t want to hear from me? What if she really does blame me for dad’s death? What if—”
At which point, Trace kissed her.
Sibyl sank back into the curl of his arms, the brace of his chest, kissing him back with what she hoped was practiced ease. With all the kissing they’d been doing, she
should
be good at this. But he was better. His mouth worked at hers, his tongue barely brushed the curve of her lower lip. And he loved her—he’d told her he loved her, and she hadn’t doubted it, and she loved him…
And all was well. See:
happily ever after.
As Trace finished the kiss, he pressed the new phone back into Sibyl’s hand. Half in a daze, she dialed the number and dreamily listened to it ring.
Only as a once familiar voice said hello did her thoughts flood back. She grabbed on to Trace’s arm for real support.
“Hello?” asked the voice again, sounding concerned now.
Sibyl had to say something. “Mom?”
“Isabel! Oh, my—Isabel, darling! Is that really you?”
Sibyl sank into the strength of Trace, relief relaxing her throat. “It’s me, Mom. Happy New Year.”
ISBN: 978-1-4268-7965-4
UNDERGROUND WARRIOR
Copyright © 2011 by Yvonne Jocks
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*
The Blade Keepers
**
The Grail Keepers