Hard Day's Knight (34 page)

“Nothing important. I’ll tell you later.”

“Later? When you’re naked and writhing beneath me and begging me to spread your thighs and—”

I put a hand over his mouth, allowing my fingers to do a little caressing before removing them. “Yes, thank you, Walker, just in case there was anyone left at the Faire who didn’t know exactly what was going on, that should clear up the confusion.”

He grinned at me, my heart turning a somersault at the look. When he wasn’t being Walker the Hun, he was everything I had ever wanted in a man—witty, charming, intelligent, mostly respectful of my opinion when he wasn’t telling me what to do, and sexy as hell. The last few days he’d started to open up to me, sharing his thoughts and feelings in the dark, warm hours of the night when we lay sated in each other’s arms, our bodies tangled together in drowsy completion. The thought that his trust in me might be shattered by the conversation I needed to have came close to breaking my heart.
How could I risk losing everything I have with him, our entire future together, just for a stupid competition?
I asked my Wise Inner Pepper.

How can you believe you have a future with him if he won’t conquer the darkness he hides inside?
WIP answered back.

I ground my teeth and tried to tell myself Inner Pepper had clearly lost her mind, that Walker and I would be just fine if he never lifted another lance for the rest of his life. The following day I watched him covertly as he followed the swordfighting. His muscles twitched in time to the fighters’ bold sweeps of the swords, his arms tightening and releasing as he anticipated a blow, his body swaying and jerking as he countered a near-fatal lunge.

My heart sang a hopeless dirge as I admitted that maybe Inner Pepper wasn’t so wrong. Fighting was in Walker’s blood; he loved it so much that even in his darkest moments, he couldn’t separate himself entirely from the combat community. The man was born to be a knight. He’d even chosen a livelihood that would feed his addiction, keeping him around horses and their owners, many of whom were also part of the jousting society.

“Vandal’s up,” Walker said, interrupting my dark musing by wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me closer. The lovely, spicy Walker smell of manly man sank deep into my blood, and I couldn’t help but wonder if we could bottle whatever it was he exuded. “Now you’ll see some real fighting, not the feeble bit of sparring that we’ve seen so far.”

There was pride in his voice, pride and satisfaction and pleasant expectation, as if he were anticipating a precious gift. I gnawed on my lower lip as Vandal swaggered into the swordplay ring, calling out taunts and slurs against his opponent (one of the Canadian team). Would it change his relationship with his teammates if I turned him back into the old Walker? Would he resent them for demanding he give his all for them, or would he see them as innocent, ladling all the blame onto my head?

“Vandal!” one of the Ale Wenches yelled, waving a pair of undies at him. He saluted her, waving to the crowd as the announcer read off his name and history. Both men were in full armor, the heavy plate stuff, not just mail. Vandal’s helm had a scarlet plume that bobbed in the wind for a few seconds before the ring marshal shouted the cue to start.

“Holy cow,” I couldn’t help but say, my mouth hanging open just a bit as I tried to keep my eyes on the blur that was Vandal.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Walker asked, his voice warm and happy. “Best there is in England.”

“Did you teach him that?” I asked, not taking my eyes off Vandal as he danced around the Canadian, his sword flashing in the sunlight.

“Me? No, his father did. He was a master fencer.”

Crash!
Vandal landed a blow on the man’s shield.
Whammo!
Another to the guy’s sword arm.
Screeeeeauck!
Metal slid along metal as Vandal cracked the poor Canadian right across the middle of his breastplate.

“I can believe it.”

With each blow, Vandal’s opponent got slower and slower with his responses, his strikes against Vandal all easily parried by the far more talented Englishman. In a matter of two minutes or so, Vandal had the Canadian backed up to the boundary of the circle in which they fought.

“One,” Walker said.

Vandal swung backhanded, landing a blow on the Canadian’s side. The man stumbled backward.

“Two.” A smile flirted with Walker’s lips as the Canadian raised his shield in an attempt to deflect Vandal’s spinning slam to his head. It didn’t work. He fell to his knees, the toes of his boots just touching the white line of the circle.

“Thre—Urgh! What the hell!” Walker lunged to his feet along with half the crowd, the rest of us too stunned by what we’d seen to do anything but watch in horror.

Vandal’s opponent, obviously realizing he was about to lose, made a last-ditch effort to gain a few points by throwing himself, sword first, at Vandal.

The curved wooden shield Vandal used to defer the blow suddenly went flying under the assault. Vandal stood for a moment looking down at his arm where the two upside-down U-shaped metal prongs that held the shield to the arm still embraced his forearm, barely leaping back in time to avoid being impaled on the tip of his opponent’s sword.

“Oh, no! Why aren’t the judges stopping them? Can’t Vandal call a time-out or something?”

“Not for faulty equipment, no, not without conceding the match,” Walker answered grimly.

“What’s he going to do?” I asked, flinching as Vandal’s opponent, realizing he had the advantage despite having almost been beaten, slashed at Vandal’s armor.

“Fight.”

“That armor can’t be pierced by a sword, can it?”

“No, but he can still be hurt,” Walker answered, his hands fisted as the opponent lunged forward, intent on skewering Vandal. He parried with a spinning backhanded move, then before the Canadian could recover, caught the man full on the chest with his booted foot, throwing him backward four feet, well out of the circle. The crowd erupted in cheers.

I sagged into a relieved blob. “Thank God it’s over.”

“The match might be over, but that’s about the only thing that is,” Walker growled, stepping across my legs.

I grabbed the back of his tunic, pausing only long enough to scoop up Moth from where he was sleeping in an empty nacho tray. “Oh, no, please tell me that move Vandal did was legal, and he won’t get DQ’d!”

“It was legal. Anything is legal in the sword ring except blows below the waist. He won’t be disqualified.” Considering the long two-handed broadswords the men were using, the rule made a lot of sense, if nothing else for their unborn children’s sakes. I scrambled out of the bleachers after Walker, knowing his words should have made me a happy camper, but the look in his eyes chilled me to the bone. I knew what he had referred to as not being over, what all the Three Dog Knights were thinking—the saboteur was back.

Vandal, I had to admit, handled the whole thing with great aplomb. After helping the man he’d defeated to his feet and making sure he was all right, he swaggered around the ring, bowing to the men and blowing kisses to the ladies just as if nothing untoward had happened.

Walker and Butcher stood together examining the broken shield. CJ, standing next to Butcher, looked frightened by something he pointed out. Once more I was aware of a feeling of isolation, as if I were looking in from the outside, not a stranger, but not part of what amounted to a family. Even CJ seemed distant when it came to the team—she’d brought me, but I knew her heart lay with Butcher and the team. And oh, how I wanted to belong, too.

Maybe there was a way I could earn a spot in their group. Maybe if I figured out who was behind the attacks, they would view me as more than just Walker’s Faire girlfriend.

My mother always said respect was best earned, not handed over undeserved. “Obviously it’s time for Sherlock Pepper and Dr. Moth to do their stuff,” I told the cat tucked under my arm. “I hope you’re part bloodhound, because I have a feeling we’re going to need all the help available to nail whoever’s responsible.”

I stood back from the crowd, watching as people streamed up and down the wooden bleachers on either side of the uncovered ring. The Three Dog Knights—Vandal excluded, being busy with his adoring gang of Ale Wenches—huddled together around the shield, their faces guarded.

“Let us review the suspects, shall we?” I whispered, hoisting Moth up so he was cuddled against my chest, his soft felt horns bumping against my chin. Along the far side of the ring, Farrell and two of his men—both swordfighters—stood in conversation. As I watched, a woman in obviously rented garb and a man bearing three cameras approached the threesome. A few seconds later Farrell was posing with his men. “Suspect number one: the handsome Farrell Kirkham. Motivation: intense jealousy of Walker spreading to encompass any member of his team. Opportunity: loads of it where Marley is concerned, unknown but probable for the lances, and as for Vandal’s shield . . . hmmm. Unknown there, too. What do you think? Guilty or not?”

Moth reached up and patted my lips with his paw.

“What is that supposed to mean? Yes, I speak the truth, or no, what I’m saying is all wrong?”

Moth just looked his mysterious, all-knowing cat look at me. I touched the tip of my finger to his little pink lips. “Oh, that’s helpful. If I touch your mouth, you”—he sank fangs into my finger, and I jerked it back—“you’ll bite it, that’s what you’ll do, you mangy beast! You know, you totally suck as a spunky side-kick. Right. On to suspect number two.”

Veronica applauded from where she sat at the bottom of the closest bleacher. She was surrounded by her teammates, all there to cheer on their swordfighters, one of whom was in the ring now up against a giant Aussie. I watched the woman fight for a minute, then transferred my gaze back to Veronica. She looked as perfect as ever, her hair tousled in that expensive, “takes an hour to achieve” look of careless fashion, her tights emphasizing the long line of her legs, her tunic tailored to make the best of her rangy, athletic shape. She was professional, in control, and clearly wore the mantle of leader well, demanding respect from everyone who knew her. She was also covertly watching her ex-husband as he and his team congratulated Vandal. “I say she’s guilty. I wonder if Canada has the death penalty for horse abuse?”

Moth’s left ear twitched.

“Stop looking at me like that; no one likes a smartaleck cat. All right, suspect number two’s motive is a bit weak, I’ll admit. She doesn’t seem to hold any grudge against Walker, nor vice versa, but that doesn’t mean she wants to see him in one of the top couple of spots, although that comment about asking me if I’d do anything to make sure he did kind of hints that she wouldn’t be averse to the idea. And there’s definitely some backstory there that no one is telling me.”

Veronica must have felt my gaze on her, because her cool eyes flashed in my direction, giving me an assessing look as she nodded and smiled. It was a short glance, her attention once again fixing on the swordplay in the ring.

“As for opportunity, she had
that
in great huge gobs. Anyone could have gotten to Marley before Walker set up a watch on the horses, and you remember the way she was slinking around his tent a few days back—what was to stop her from slipping into Vandal’s and messing with his shield? And I just bet you she could sweet-talk her way into any building on the fairgrounds, so messing with the lances wouldn’t pose too much of a challenge. I just wish I had a motive for her.”

Moth declined to comment on that.

“And last, but not least, we come to suspect number three—which could pretty much be anyone else in the jousting community who has a grudge against Walker or the rest of the team, and given how successful he was years ago, that could be just about anyone.”

Moth’s head snapped around to look at Walker as he slapped Vandal’s back, obviously praising his skill at getting out of a sticky spot.

“Talking to Mothly again?” CJ asked behind me, startling me out of my dark thoughts.

“Mmm. Better than talking to myself, like some people I know.”

“Not bloody much better,” she answered, coming to stand beside me, her head reaching as high as Moth’s.

I considered her. She looked happy, even with the latest near tragedy, her eyes sparkling with an inner light, her face aglow with love and contentment. “You sound like that bulky Englishman of yours. When are you two going to stop playing around and get married?”

“Just as soon as I get the research job with the BBC. We can’t afford it any other way. When are you going to marry your knight in borrowed armor?”

“Walker?” I shrugged, refusing to think about it. We’d fallen into an easy peace the last few days; I think neither of us wanted to shatter it with talk of the future. “No one’s said anything about marriage, Ceej. I think you’d better brace yourself for the thought that your matchmaking skills might fail this time.”

“I didn’t matchmake you and Walker,” she pointed out, giving me a searching glance I had no intention of meeting. “What’s wrong, Peppidy? You look . . . sad.”

“It’s Vandal’s shield. It gives me a terrible feeling to know that someone is purposely trying to harm them. I take it the consensus was that the shield had been tampered with?”

She nodded, her smile evaporating. “The bolt heads holding the arm grips had been sheared away. You couldn’t notice them because of the way the grips hung, but Butcher said it was a miracle it held together as long as it did.”

Walker handed the remains of the shield to Vandal, the team turning as one to reclaim their seats. The show of solidarity was telling—they would stand by each other, fearless in the face of adversity. I clutched Moth tighter, my eyes on Walker’s hard profile. What would it take for them to consider me one of them?

“Did you get a bottle of champers so we can celebrate?” CJ asked Walker and Butcher as they returned from hitching a ride with a local couple to a nearby store, her VW being temporarily out of commission. It was Tuesday, the day of the archery competition, which I was grateful had gone off without any of Fenice’s or Bliss’s arrows exploding, bows snapping and taking out an eye, or any of the myriad other disasters I had spent the night before imagining.