Stardust of Yesterday

by Lynn Kurland

  She dropped her hand to her side and crossed to the door. The sooner she had some ice cream, the better she’d feel. Maybe Worthington had a spare oven mitt she could wear on her hand so she wouldn’t have to look at the evidence of her stupidity.

  Worthington was just coming up the steps as she was going down them. He bore a silver serving tray on which sat a pint of chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream and a silver dish full of steaming hot fudge sauce. Her laugh was more a half-sob of relief.

  “Don’t tell me you’re reading minds these days too,” she groaned.

  Worthington came as close to grinning as he surely ever would. “My lady, your likes and dislikes are so simple as to border on dull. You really should try a different flavor. Have you never been tempted by Raspberry Truffle?”

  “Not on your life. Wouldn’t want to waste the calories on something not dark and sinful. Are we going to eat that downstairs?”

  “Actually, His Lordship has been pestering me so about your condition, I thought perhaps you might want to join him in his study and ease his mind.”

  “He has?” she asked, feeling a blush creep up her cheeks.

  “Constantly. He’s about to make me daft with his nagging.”

  Genevieve had a hard time fighting her grin. “Well, we wouldn’t want you daft, Worthington. I’ll go put him out of your misery.”

  Worthington nodded approvingly, then led her up the stairs to Kendrick’s study. He didn’t bother to knock. Instead, he opened the door and ushered her inside.

  Kendrick was there, but he was almost transparent.

  “What happened to you?” she asked, hurrying over to kneel next to his chair.

  “I’m just a bit pale,” he said, smiling faintly. “I’ll mend.”

  “Pale?” she echoed incredulously. “Kendrick, you’re hardly there!”

  “I’m simply weary,” he whispered, the effort of talking obviously tiring him further. “You might compare my tearing off your sleeve to your lifting a car off the ground. It was an effort of enormous proportions.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said miserably. “Kendrick, this is all my fault. I never meant to hurt you—”

  He put his finger to his lips and then dropped his hand back to his chest. “Rather you should be rejoicing. I’ve never in all my days of haunting done a nice thing for a Buchanan. You, my lady, have the dubious honor of being the first.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better. You look terrible.”

  “It looks much worse than it really is,” he assured her. “Worthington,” he said, lifting his eyes to look at his steward, “just what is it you have there for my lady to eat?”

  “Nothing healthy, my lord.”

  Kendrick frowned. “Then by all means take it away and prepare her something else. She needs her nutrients.”

  “I want my ice cream,” Genevieve put in.

  “Make haste, Worthington,” Kendrick said, ignoring her. “And bring it here when you have it ready. I can see I will have to watch her closely if she is to mend properly.”

  “I want my ice cream,” Genevieve insisted, throwing Worthington a warning look.

  Kendrick threw Worthington a warning look of his own. “Begone, old man. Return only when you’ve something in your hands fit for Genevieve’s consumption.”

  “Damn it, I can decide for myself,” she said, rising and folding her arms stubbornly across her chest. She was instantly aware of what a ridiculous picture she made in nightclothes intended for a toddler, her hair in a ponytail and her chin thrust out indignantly. Both Kendrick and Worthington looked like they were trying to hide very amused smiles. Genevieve knew it was too late to retreat graciously, so she stood her ground.

  Kendrick lifted his eyebrows and looked at his steward. “Her ladyship has spoken.”

  “So she has,” Worthington agreed.

  “I have the feeling we shouldn’t tangle with her. She looks powerfully fierce.”

  Worthington set the tray aside, pulled up a heavy wooden chair next to Kendrick’s, then gestured for Genevieve to sit. She had no dignity left, so she sat. The tray was deposited on her lap with all due haste.

  “Fetch her something healthy for dessert, Worthington,” Kendrick said wryly. “I’ll see she saves room for it.”

  Genevieve ignored Kendrick as she poured hot fudge sauce over her ice cream and savored a decadently rich spoonful.

  “Good?”

  She was ready and willing to be miffed, but after one look into his pale green eyes and an eyeful of his faintly amused smile and adorable dimple, she gave in and smiled.

  “It’s heavenly.”

  “What does it taste like?”

  She looked away and tried to put it into words. “Smooth, creamy and sinful.”

  “It sounds dangerous.”

  She started to agree, then sobered slowly. Tragic really, all the things he would never experience. And now to see him weak and pale and know it was her doing…

  “I’m really sorry,” she said softly.

  He shook his head. “Nothing to apologize for. But there is something you can do to assuage your guilt, if you wish it.”

  “Anything.”

  He grinned. It was a faint grin, but a grin nonetheless. “Make your promises carefully, my lady. My mother always warned my mates that I was a merciless bargainer.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Now, what can I do for you that isn’t illegal, disgusting or immoral?”

  He laughed. “You narrow my choices drastically. Actually, I was hoping you would turn on the telly and find a football game for me to watch. Unless there’s something else you’d be more interested in?”

  “I don’t know much about football but I’ll stay and keep you company if you want.” She rose and put the rest of her ice cream on the side table near the door, then walked back over to her chair.

  “How could I say no to a woman in such fetching nightclothes?” he murmured, letting his gaze roam over her baggy pajamas.

  Genevieve dropped into the chair and began flipping through the channels frantically, looking for something that would distract him. She hadn’t thought twice about coming up in her pajamas and now she wondered why she’d been so dumb. Kendrick might have been a ghost, but he was a one-hundred percent male ghost. His blatant perusal and slow, wicked smile were enough to send heat to her cheeks immediately.

  “There,” she said triumphantly. “Is that good enough?”

  “University ball,” he sighed regretfully. “And not for another half hour. Well, it’s the best we can hope for.”

  She set the remote control near his hand, then blushed when she caught sight of him watching her.

  “Will you stop that?” she hissed, embarrassed.

  “I’m only looking, Genevieve. You can’t blame me for that. It’s a bit like a young lad looking in a toy shop window—desiring mightily but unable to have.”

  She snatched a blanket off the arm of the chair he was occupying and draped it over herself. “Voyeur,” she said primly.

  He burst into hearty laughter and laughed until his voice began to weaken again. “You, my lady, are a woman of the finest breeding. I will endeavor to lust after you with a bit more discretion.”

  He then launched into an animated discussion of the rules of football, completely ignoring the new blush that came to her cheeks. She was desperately grateful he was not a man of flesh and blood. The thought of him holding her with those strong hands, touching her with those long fingers, kissing her throat with his firm lips—

  “Genevieve, you’re not paying attention,” he said. “You’ll never enjoy the game if you don’t learn something about it.”

  Genevieve forced her eyes back to his with an effort. “I was paying attention,” she lied.

  “Then tell me what a running back does.”

  Well, that was a stupid one. “He runs, of course,” she said, feeling very pleased with her quick thinking.

  “Wide receiver?”

  “He recei
ves.”

  “What?”

  Damn, he was getting technical. “The ball?” she ventured.

  “Right answer, but it was a guess. I don’t think your heart’s in this, my sweet.”

  “Oh, but it is,” she assured him. Who was he kidding? She would have listened to him expound quantum physics if it had allowed her to just sit and listen to his deep voice, watch his pale features light up animatedly, know that she had his full and undivided attention. Oh, yes, she would certainly learn a little football in return for that pleasure.

  “All right, then,” he said, sitting up. “Let’s go over the offense again. First you have your down-linemen. Remember who they are?”

  “The burly ones who bend over,” she nodded.

  He smiled, as if he found her answer somewhat amusing. “That’s close enough. And the running backs?”

  “The ones who take the ball and get clobbered by all the big guys in the other colored jerseys who want to have it.”

  Kendrick began to grin. “Well-done. Now, what of the wide receivers?”

  “They catch the ball, hopefully in the end zone, then they do those ridiculous little dances and let themselves be jumped on by their own teammates. I never have understood that, Kendrick. And why do they pat each other’s butts all the time? You didn’t do that when you were a knight, did you?”

  He laughed. “No, Genevieve, but it’s a different world at present. And I apologize for doubting you. You’ve paid a good deal of attention. Now tell me what you know about the quarterback.”

  That was insulting. She’d lusted after Steve Young often enough in the past.

  “Kendrick,” she began patiently, “I know who the quarterback is and what he does. I’m not completely football illiterate.”

  “So I see,” he chuckled. “Then why don’t you tell me about the defense.”

  She squirmed. “I’d rather listen to you tell me.”

  “I already know all about it.”

  “Which makes you the perfect one to discuss it.”

  He pursed his lips, but it seemed to be in an effort not to laugh. “You’re stalling.”

  “And doing a fine job, if I do say so myself,” she agreed.

  Kendrick did laugh then. “All right, I’ll explain it. But pay attention. The game is almost ready to begin and I’ll expect you to be able to point out the different positions. We’ll work on plays during halftime.”

  “Whatever you say, my lord.”

  He dove into another detailed explanation of who did what, where they did it and to whom. Genevieve knew she’d have to see it to believe it, but that was obviously his intention. He wound up his little speech just before the kickoff.

  Genevieve was torn between watching the game and watching Kendrick watch the game. He was by far the more entertaining of the two choices.

  Before she was aware of it, the game was finished and Kendrick’s eyelids were drooping. He gave her a sleepy smile.

  “Would you be offended if I nodded off for a few moments?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll go.”

  “Nay,” he said quickly, “stay. Please?”

  How could she say no to that? She resumed her seat slowly. “I probably should keep an eye on you for a while. You’re very pale.”

  He nodded solemnly. “I need to be watched closely, ‘round the clock if possible.”

  Genevieve couldn’t stop the blush that stained her cheeks. Fortunately Kendrick seemed not to notice. He closed his eyes and relaxed back in his chair. She couldn’t hear him breathe but she saw that the rise and fall of his chest soon became shallow and regular. He certainly knew how to sleep at the drop of a hat.

  Once she was sure he was sleeping deeply, she turned sideways in her chair to face him and allowed herself the luxury of gaping. He was like no one she’d ever known before. Most of the men she had known over the course of her lifetime had either been wimps, like her father, or tyrants. Though it wasn’t as if she’d had a great selection to choose from. When she’d finally gotten around to dating in college, she’d given it up almost instantly. She’d spent so much of her life being bookish, dreamy Gen Buchanan that she found she didn’t have the skills or the inclination to deal with real men. It was much safer to stick to the ones in her imagination. Not to say that she hadn’t had male friends, but they had been few and far between. And none of them had ever considered her anything but a sister.

  Unlike Kendrick. If he considered her anything besides a pest, that anything was definitely not a sibling. The look he had given her while taking in the full view of her pajamas still brought heat to her cheeks. She knew the look. She’d seen men wear it in the movies and seen her few male friends give it to women they were in hot pursuit of. But never had she seen a look of that kind come her way. Until today.

  She didn’t think she was beautiful; that was something she refused to let bother her. She was good at her job and she was good at her dreams. Over the years, she’d convinced herself that was all she needed to survive.

  And then her dreams had become reality. She’d been swept from her everyday existence into a world where nothing was the same. She had a castle, more beautiful than anything she had ever conjured up in her imagination. And she had her knight. His gruffness had unnerved her at first, but she was beginning to see that some of it was due to his understandable bitterness over his situation and some of it was just a means of playing tough. Kendrick wasn’t as hard-hearted as he would have had her believe.

  She perused him in a leisurely manner. It was the first time she had ever been close to a man of his size and physique. Odd how she wasn’t in the least bit intimidated by his proportions or his masculinity. She immediately understood why. He was a ghost, a person just a bit more tangible than her imagination but not substantial enough to be a threat. Yes, this was the kind of man she could deal with. He was arrogant and impossible but he had a kind of teasing manner about him that was utterly charming. And he looked at her as if he actually found her appealing. Desirable was pushing things, but appealing she could believe.

  She saw Kendrick’s hand lying on the armrest, just an inch or two from her chair, and found herself suddenly overcome by an utterly ridiculous idea. Would he feel it if she touched him? Would she feel him?

  Hesitantly, she put her hand over his. A tingle, like a hint of static electricity, touched her. Her hand went through his to rest on the chair. She looked down, speechless. Kendrick’s hand surrounded hers, like an aura. Real, but not real. What if it had been? She leaned her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes, giving her imagination free rein. The century didn’t matter, she had Kendrick and that was the only thing important to her.

  Perhaps the thirteenth century. She would have been the lady of Seakirk, orphaned, besieged from all sides by vile suitors who wanted nothing but her land, not caring a fig for her personally. At the moment of greatest jeopardy, Kendrick would have ridden up on his black warhorse and scattered the scoundrels with a few well-dealt blows of his great broadsword. Genevieve saw herself standing on the front steps in the gown Kendrick had shown her in the garden a few days earlier, waiting patiently for him to come to her. He would have ridden up and remained mounted, looking down at her with that heartbreaker grin of his and said something like, “Now that the pond scum has been swept away, my lady, perhaps you’d care for a swim?”

  No, Kendrick wouldn’t say something like that. He probably would have ridden up, held down his hand toward her and frowned. Then he would have said gruffly, “Come up here, wench. That light exercise before supper has left me too weak to walk to the chapel to wed you. We’ll have to ride.” Then he would have hauled her up into his arms, grumbled a time or two about all the minor exertion she’d put him to, then kissed her until she couldn’t see straight. Genevieve smiled to herself. Yes, that was easy enough to imagine.

  Or would she have met him in her day? She might have found herself dragged to one of those schmoozing parties she found so dreadfully uncomfo
rtable and taken up her usual post in the far corner of the room where no one could bother her. She would have seen him across the crowded room; he would have been surrounded by a bevy of beautiful women, charming them with only half an effort. He would have lifted his eyes and met hers, then sparks would have flown. Without apologizing, he would have left his entourage and come to her. They might have circled the globe in his private jet or sailed the seven seas in his yacht. The place wouldn’t have mattered; he would have had eyes for only her.

  Or would he have been a recluse, a novelist perhaps who had need of restoration of his medieval castle? She smiled; that was starting to sound a bit familiar. It would have been love at first sight. He would have courted her with silly little gifts, sweet notes, handpicked flowers from his garden.

  Genevieve sighed. Somehow she just couldn’t picture Kendrick grubbing in the garden. It was best to leave him up on his horse, his hair plastered to his neck with sweat, his mail groaning as he moved. He belonged in his world with the dangers he had obviously mastered so well. It was no wonder he liked football. It was probably the only thing left that reminded him of battle.

  She opened her eyes to look at him. Then she froze. He was awake. And looking at her. Oh, the gentle, loving look on his face! Genevieve felt herself falling into the warmth from his eyes as if she’d tripped and plunged into a huge marshmallow. Soft and warm and so very inviting.

  Suddenly she felt heat flood to her cheeks.

  “Have you been l-looking”—her voice broke with embarrassment—”into my thoughts?”

  He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.

  She closed her eyes briefly in thanks, then pulled her hand back.

  “Don’t—”

  Her eyes flew to his.

  “—move,” he finished. He turned his hand palm up. “Put your hand in mine again, love.”

  The warmth suddenly became stifling heat. What if he had seen all her foolish imaginings? She wanted to bury her face in her hands and weep from humiliation. All the courage she’d summoned up to face Kendrick while he was waving swords at her vanished, and she did the most rational thing she’d done all afternoon.