Stranger in Camelot

by Deborah Smith

  Harper had the good sense to do that without asking why. He snapped the case shut and stared at John fearfully. “Why?”

  “I wouldn’t want it to get wet.” John sank both hands into the back of Harper’s jacket and hauled him out of the bar.

  Aggie ran after them, with Oscar right behind her. She arrived on the porch that overhung the bay in time to see John toss Harper into the murky surf ten feet below. Harper splashed like a drenched pink flamingo. Big waves washed him toward shore.

  “He was too small to hit,” John explained in an utterly serious voice. “But I had to make my point some way.”

  “Maybe I misjudged you,” Oscar said to John. He sounded astonished and cheerful. He poked Aggie’s shoulder. “Maybe you misjudged John.” Then he went back inside, leaving the two of them alone in the darkness.

  John faced her. “We need to talk.”

  “Inspector Dolbrook was here yesterday looking for you.”

  “I know. His message caught up with me in London.”

  They were silent. She felt as if a thousand invisible strings were trying to pull words out of her, but she was afraid she’d say something he didn’t want to hear. She was in shock. He held out a hand. “Let’s take a walk on the beach.” He hesitated. His voice was gruff. “If you wish, my lady?”

  Her knees went soft and she put her hand in his quickly. Seconds later he was pulling her along at a run down the narrow wooden walkway that led to the bayfront street. Waiting there was a gleaming black Mercedes sports coupe with the top down.

  He picked her up and set her in the passenger seat, then climbed into the driver’s side. Aggie took her bar apron off and clutched it in her lap as they sped down the bayfront boulevard and left the shops and street lamps of town behind. They crossed the Bridge of Lions in the light of a half-moon and headed toward the beach a few miles away.

  She couldn’t talk to John with the wind roaring over them, and she was glad. The car, his suit, the money he’d given Harper—yes, he’d sold the books. She thought about the diary and grieved as if she’d lost a dear friend, but then she looked at John and felt a surge of elation.

  He had his family inheritance now. Maybe he’d believe that she didn’t care about the money, and they could get on with their lives. Their life together? But he had his job back at Scotland Yard, the job he loved. Maybe he’d only come here to smooth things over and say his apologies before he went home again.

  By the time he slid the Mercedes into a sandy spot along the beach road, she was subdued and worried. He vaulted out, came to her side, and lifted her over the door effortlessly. “Buy a car with doors that open, next time,” she told him.

  “It’s rented.”

  “Oh. Oh! Of course. You wouldn’t buy a car in America when you’re going back to England soon.”

  “I wouldn’t buy a Mercedes, period. I can’t afford it.”

  Before she could ask a stunned question, he grabbed her hand and tugged her swiftly toward the dunes between the road and the beach. “But you sold the books!” she said, trying to keep her footing in the deep sand. “Didn’t you? You look like you did!”

  John led her between hills of sand higher than their heads. “I look rich because I’m wearing a nice suit? I want you to know something, Agnes. This is the second white suit I’ve bought in your honor, and I’m not going to buy any more. I feel like an ice-cream salesman.”

  “In my honor?” she repeated, puzzled.

  They were deep within the dunes, now. “White knight, and all that rot,” he muttered.

  “Oh!”

  He halted her when they reached a very private little valley surrounded by dunes and tall sea oats. John faced her and took her other hand. “Yes, I sold the books. But I’m not any better off than I was before. Not in terms of money, at least.”

  “But you said they were worth a million pounds.”

  “To a private collector. But instead I sold them to a little museum that specializes in medieval history. They’ll be studied, and cherished, and preserved, and anytime either of us wants to see them, they’ll be available.”

  Aggie swayed with astonishment. “Why did you change your mind?”

  “Don’t you think I’m capable of putting honor above money?”

  She stared at him in silence, fighting the knot of tears in her throat, then lifted his hands and kissed each one. She laid her cheek against them and said brokenly, “Sir John, I think you’re capable of all sorts of wonderful things.”

  “I read the diary,” he said gruffly. “The translation, that is. It was magnificent, just as you said.”

  “And that made you change your mind?”

  “No.” When she raised her head to look at him, he kissed her. “I’d already made up my mind to sell the books to the museum.”

  She smiled in adoration. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t make it easy to believe in me. I thought I needed a fortune so I could fit the image you loved.”

  She shook her head gently. “I still wish you hadn’t sold the books. I don’t care about the money. I don’t care about some fairy-tale, Camelot image.”

  “I’m glad you don’t mind about the money, Agnes, because a modest little museum can’t pay much for rare books.”

  “I think you placed them where they’ll be loved, and that’s important. I don’t care about the money. I swear.”

  “Good, because it’s all gone. In American currency, it was only about twenty-five thousand. I gave it to Allen Harper.”

  She gasped. “You did that for me? You gave up every penny of your inheritance?”

  He pulled her to him. “Consider it an act of gallantry,” he whispered. “As true and heartfelt as anything my ancestor could have done in my place.”

  She gripped his jacket lapels. “Be yourself for me! I loved Sir Miles for the way he loved Eleanor. But I love you for the way you love me!” She halted, hating the words she’d blurted out without thinking. “I shouldn’t have put it like that,” she amended quickly, her voice hoarse and apologetic. “I don’t know if you love me or not.”

  He lifted her off her feet and looked closely into her shadowed face. “You love me? God, Agnes, do you, really?”

  “Yes! I love you for so many reasons. And none of them have to do with your ancestors, or your parents, or who you said you were when you wanted me to believe the best about you. I know the best about you, and you are that gentle, patient, understanding man I fell in love with.”

  She put her arms around his neck and kissed him wildly. He made a gruff sound of happiness against her mouth. “I fell in love with you the night we met.”

  He pulled her legs out from under her, scooped her into his arms, then knelt and lowered her to the sand. She circled his neck and drew him down with her. They kissed slowly.

  “You need a partner for your ranch,” he told her. He removed his jacket and spread it like a blanket.

  She trembled and tried to keep her voice steady. “Have any suggestions?”

  “Oh, yes. Someone who loves horses, knows how to mend fences, and can help you make enough money to keep the best foals and show them.”

  “Have any suggestions?” she asked again, her voice breaking.

  “Oh, yes. I know the perfect man for the job.”

  “I don’t need a perfect man. I’m looking for someone a little unpredictable, someone who takes big risks and risks making mistakes—but admits them.”

  “Someone a bit like yourself.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You need a husband, Agnes. In particular, me.”

  Her heart caught in her throat. Crying a little, she took his face between her hands. The teasing was over. “You’re not going back to England? What about your career at Scotland Yard?”

  “I’ve learned too much about myself to go back to that. Too much that I like. Pleasant surprises.” He smoothed her tears away and said in a husky voice, “Are you crying because you’re happy or
because you didn’t want me to propose marriage to you?”

  Agnes stroked his hair. “Happy.”

  He put both arms around her waist and pulled her up with him as he got to his knees again. She tilted her head back and smiled at him in the moonlight. “Please keep me at the center of your heart forever,” he said softly.

  Aggie made a sound of devotion. She knew where he’d read those words, and how many centuries had passed since a man had spoken them to the woman he loved. And she knew what to say in return. “Not one day will pass without you there. Keep me close in your heart, as well. You’ll never have to look any farther than that, to find me.”

  John cupped a hand along her face. “Marry me.” His voice was a low croon of persuasion. “Marry me. I love you so much. We’ll carry the family torch for another eight hundred years, at least. And we’ll make the kind of life we’ve both dreamed about.”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  She touched his smile. He drew her back to the sand and began undressing her. “Would you like to be improper, my lady?” he whispered against her lips.

  Aggie felt as if she were floating on dreams. “Even worse than that.” He laughed until she unbuttoned his shirt and began kissing the center of his chest. “Welcome to Camelot,” she said softly.

  His arms went around her. “It’s so good to be home.”