Druid Knights 02: Knight of Rapture

by Ruth A. Casie

  He glanced at George, who kept his eyes on the training below, and saw the man’s satisfied smile. But his heart pounded at his words. She may not remember him, but he was a part of her.

  The women finished with their warm-up. They faced each other and repeated the exercise, taking turns at being the aggressor. From there they progressed to free-form fighting.

  The quiet room exploded with the sound of the staffs colliding against each other and the floor.

  Louise held nothing back. He winced at the hard hits she landed. The woman set upon Rebeka with a barrage of strikes, advancing and moving Rebeka into a corner where she had little room to maneuver.

  Rebeka appeared to pull up her staff. Louise spun with her staff and caught Rebeka in the shoulder.

  The sound of the hit echoed in the room.

  “Hold,” Arik commanded. Both women stopped mid-strike.

  Arik hurdled over the balcony railing, landing lightly on his feet. He closed in on Louise.

  Like a stalking lion he approached her. Her shocked expression didn’t faze him. Fear. He could smell it and it gave him satisfaction. She dropped her staff and peeled away the shoulder of Rebeka’s exercise shirt, revealing a large red welt. “I didn’t think I struck you so hard. This is going to bruise badly. You’d better get some ice on it right away.” Rebeka tentatively touched the welt and grimaced. She grabbed her arm and cradled it close to her body.

  George burst through the ballroom door. Arik’s eyes locked on Rebeka’s as she leaned against the wall. He pulled George back when George started to help her. Louise didn’t make a move. He’d suspected Louise’s friendship was false. He wanted to take Rebeka’s staff and have a match with Louise she wouldn’t soon forget.

  Rebeka pushed herself off the wall and stood on her own. He relaxed.

  “That’s enough for today,” Arik said, leaving no room for discussion.

  “I’ll go change and meet you in the library. I’ll send Helen for some ice.” Louise quickly left.

  Arik took her staff. She didn’t appear badly hurt. “Do you need help or can you manage on your own?”

  “I can manage.” She walked into the library between Arik and George. As she settled on the sofa Helen came in with an ice pack.

  “Why did you stop?” He placed the ice pack on her shoulder as she tried to get more comfortable.

  “I thought she said to hold. I must’ve been mistaken.” He found that interesting. He had the same notion.

  Louise, now in her business clothes, hurried into the room. “Before I leave I wanted you to know that at last night’s Board meeting there was some mention of the Fayne Manor trust fund. I don’t know anything about it.” She held up her hand to ward off questions. “The Board isn’t letting me in on this discussion, and I don’t know what’s driving it. But I would try to find the proclamation as soon as possible.”

  Rebeka’s breath caught and she bolted up. “I…I don’t understand.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?” Arik’s tone demanded a reply.

  If Louise was surprised at his outburst she didn’t show it. Instead she laid her hand on his arm and let it linger. “I didn’t want to spoil practicing with Rebeka.” She put on a sincere face but her lying words didn’t pass his scrutiny. “This is out of my hands. All I can do is stall them from taking action, but not for long.”

  He put his hand over Louise’s. “It takes time to methodically research in a library of this size.” He softened his voice but not his determination.

  Rebeka flashed him a cold stare. “Excuse me, Louise.”

  With a reluctant sigh Louise turned to Rebeka.

  “I don’t think Arik—”

  “Louise.” George stood behind Rebeka and put his hand on her good shoulder. “How long before the Trust will take action?” He was glad George understood that he didn’t want any bickering. Louise had played Rebeka’s friend but if he had his doubts before, they were confirmed now.

  “I don’t know, two weeks, three at the most.” Louise stopped fussing with her things. “You know I’ll do anything I can.” The sincere expression on her face didn’t match the oddly hollow tone in her voice.

  “That’s all we need.” Arik gave Louise an encouraging smile. If she knew him better she would have known how dangerous it really was. Arik saw through her veneer. This was more than a flirtatious woman. This woman had a purpose and it was not in Rebeka’s best interest.

  “Please, find the proclamation quickly. Thanks for the practice, Rebeka. I’ll see myself out,” she said as she left the room.

  He and George relaxed as soon as the door closed.

  “Two or three weeks. It will take that long to finish going through the library. No one I contacted about the missing estate papers has found any information. I’m beginning to think they were destroyed.” She turned to George. “Why didn’t you let me finish? Arik is not in control here.”

  “No, I’m not, but you had been through one battle already.” It didn’t take a seasoned warrior to identify a defensive fighter. He knew it wasn’t Rebeka’s style. “Is she always on the offensive when you spar?”

  Her brows knit together. “She’s upped her game. But I know she called a stop to the match.” She hadn’t answered his question but he decided not to press the issue.

  George read the financial papers Louise had given him. “I’ll have my office review these. We created the trust fund. I can’t imagine what issues they’re having. It’s been running without any problems for three years.”

  “What if they hold our funds? We’ll be ruined,” Rebeka said.

  Arik gave George a small nod.

  “There’s a new benefactor who’s pledged money for the restoration of the mill and some of the other areas. With what he’s provided, we’ll be fine for a while.”

  She straightened quickly and winced. “Who?” She repositioned the ice pack. Standing behind Rebeka, Arik shook his head.

  “The benefactor prefers to remain anonymous—at least for now. He’s giving us the funds on the condition the mill is restored.” He glanced at the papers. “After hearing what Louise said, I’ll open a separate account for the restoration. I have funds I’ll put into the account.”

  “Renovating the mill has great educational potential. I believed it was a good idea when we first discussed it. Please thank our benefactor. I have some funds. George, if you and Mr. Anonymous are investing in my dream, I should have some skin in the game, too.” She repositioned the ice pack. “We should give our enterprise a name.”

  “How about Rapture Revived?” George said.

  “Rebeka. Ian Sloan here.”

  “Ian. Good to hear your voice.” She rummaged through the papers on her desk to find the folder with Ian’s name. “Thank you for returning my call.” It had been ages since she last spoke to him. He was a professor at Oxford’s Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies. She first met Ian when they had collaborated on several papers while they were both working on their doctorates. She still got an occasional query from other scholars about their work.

  “I’m sorry you had to cancel your trip to Oxford. I was looking forward to seeing you.” Something in his voice made her stop. Did he think she wanted to rekindle their relationship? Or was he joking? Today was April first, April Fool’s Day. Their relationship was years ago when they published together. It wasn’t anything lasting, they both knew that. Still, she had an uncomfortable feeling.

  “Yes, it would have been good to reconnect.” She found the folder. It had the document clipped with Ian’s and also Arik’s translations. She took the clip off the papers and set the translations next to each other. “Thank you again for the translation. I know your expertise is medieval myths and folktales, not legal documents, but with your understanding of runes and old languages your name is at the top of my list.”

  “It wasn’t any trouble. It did look promising. Too bad it turned out to be nothing.” His offhanded manner irritated her.

  “Ye
s, I read your report.” She hesitated. Questioning and discussing nuances in translations was nothing new, but this was different. She was questioning his entire analysis. “I’ve been given another translation—a much different interpretation.” She held her breath.

  “Rebeka, I understand interpreting runes is more an art than science but I assure you what I’ve given you is sound.” His I’m-right-you’re-wrong tone set her teeth on edge. “Your letter that accompanied the document gave me a very clear picture of the document’s importance. I know how much you want this all to work but trust me, there’s nothing there.” She concentrated on the paper clip, her forefinger jockeyed around the desktop.

  There was a single tap on the door. She looked and saw Arik enter carrying some papers. She motioned for him to take a seat. She’d known Ian for years, worked with him, yet she was willing to bet her life on Arik’s translation. Her nervousness eased.

  Instead of taking a seat, Arik stood at her side and read the papers he had in his hand.

  “Ian, I have a meeting. Before I go, I think you may have overlooked some important items—where and when the document was written. Please take another look at what I sent you.” She worked the wire paperclip, bending it out of shape.

  “Of course, but I really don’t think my opinion will change.” She had no trouble translating what he said.

  He had no intention of reviewing his translation. He was going to let it stand. There was no use continuing the call.

  “Thanks, Ian. I’ll speak to you later in the week.” She ended the call and hoped she was wrong. If he reviewed it with an open mind…well, she didn’t think that was going to happen.

  She’d have to think of another resource—a greater authority.

  She reclipped the page as best she could with the deformed metal wire and picked up another set of documents.

  “I reviewed the plans for the mill. They’re very complete.” The tremor in her hand concerned Arik. Had she more bad news from the Trust? He didn’t know how much more stress she could take.

  He kept reading, immersed in the documents. “Yes, we have a man who was involved in an old mill renovation. We’ve gotten the benefit of his frustrations. He’s provided us lists of tradesmen as well as where to go for supplies. Some of the tradesmen want to be part of the project. George is negotiating the contract.” He put the papers aside.

  “George told me you wanted to farm the parkland.” He caught the irritation in her voice and speculated if it was spurred by her previous call or the plans.

  He moved to the front of the desk. “We need something to mill. Rather than buy grain, we’ll buy seed. Some of your students are interested in historic agriculture and agrarian economics. They’re quite bright and have put together a well thought out proposal that will make the manor self-sufficient. Their plan starts with growing wheat and goes to baking bread. There’s nothing like the smell of freshly baked bread. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “The manor can’t live on bread alone.” That caught his attention. A brief smile brightened her face. So she was creative in quoting the Bible. It was good to see her smile.

  “No, certainly not. The plan is to cultivate and sell herbs and vegetables. The income will supplement the receipts from the entrance fees and other souvenirs.”

  “You seem to have it all planned. Do you always take over?” Take over? Lead, he wanted to tell her. If she stopped worrying about him taking over she might remember that he and George had already discussed this with her.

  Was she losing other memories? The idea made him uneasy. No, he was certain it was her drive to do it all herself that made her forgetful.

  “The original idea to renovate the mill was yours. Your students developed the idea. Guests will participate wherever they can alongside instructors and tradesmen.”

  “A hands-on experience. I hadn’t considered that. But you didn’t answer my question. Do you always take over?” He remained silent. He walked behind her desk and lowered his mouth close to her ear. “I’m not taking over. I’m saving your ass.” His words were deadly serious, his voice low and confident. He smiled when he saw the flush run up her neck and she stretched toward him ever so slightly. He didn’t know who he teased more—himself or her. “Do you have a better idea?” He pulled away from her. He had made his point. Besides, being that close made him want her more.

  “No. It’s not that it’s a bad idea—”

  “It’s about control. Each of us has our skills. Mine is running a manor such as this.”

  “Mine is teaching. I’ve built the project into our master’s class curriculum. One of the architectural students will give a lecture on the mill and another will speak on the economics of the agrarian society prior to the Renaissance, the Age of Enlightenment.” She paused briefly. “On a different subject, Dr. Sloan—the expert who read the document you translated—stands by his interpretation. The runes say nothing significant.” Arik didn’t outwardly flinch. So that’s what got her so out of sorts.

  Was she going to take someone else’s word over his?

  “Arik, you’re an amateur at this. To you, it’s simply a game. To me, it’s my life.” He knew exactly what was at stake. Better than she did. “You don’t know anything about the scientific method for research.” She leaned back in her chair, her hands resting on its arms. He swiveled her chair so she faced him and stood in front of her with his chest puffed out and his hands on his hips.

  “It seems you are the one who is the amateur. You know nothing of history but odd facts, not their meaning or their impact. You see history through your time, your century, and apply your meaning.”

  He bent closer with both his hands grasping the arms of her chair, holding her captive and invading her space. He left her no room to see anything other than the purpose in his eyes. “It’s a chess game, Rebeka. You have to examine it from—”

  “All angles,” she whispered. Her breath caught at the words. He felt the blood drain from his face. Would she remember him? Break through the enchantment completely?

  “If you see it only from your perspective you will surely miss the meaning.” He pulled himself away. He waited and watched but her eyes held no recognition. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Disappointed, he left by the terrace door. He trotted down the steps and into the garden. How much more could he stand of watching her almost remember or remembering a little, only to have it lost? He glanced back at the manor. Was this Bran’s plan? This is torture. He told her he would find her. He meant mind and body.

  She closed her eyes. The loss of his closeness left her bereft. All angles ricocheted in her head, along with the tap of his boots against the slate floor as he’d retreated across the terrace. From the expression in his face she was afraid he wouldn’t come back.

  Visions of large chess pieces flashed in front of her and a young girl’s voice. Was it her own? No, it wasn’t.

  Angles—it was a lesson she’d learned a long time ago but couldn’t place where or when.

  She knew Arik was right. She hadn’t examined the problem from every angle. She’d accepted the easy answer without investigating it further. She rested her head in her hands. The translation, the mill, Arik—everything was swimming together. Nothing made sense. Concentrate. She opened her eyes, hoping he was still there.

  She hurt from disappointing him.

  Another notion that made no sense.

  She pulled herself out of her chair and collected her things. Arik was right. She hated blind acceptance in others. There was no way to condone it in herself. She had planned to search a few more places for the proclamation tonight but she was drained and needed some sleep.

  She collected what she needed, but what she needed was a miracle, a proclamation. She glanced out the terrace door. She needed to tell him she was sorry. One step at a time, that’s what she told herself. Everyone would have to settle for the best she could do. Before she walked out the door, she looked at the picture above the mantel.

  “
Forgive me,” she whispered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” Arik acknowledged the female guests he passed across from the barn.

  “Lord Arik, I have a question.” He stopped and gave one of the women his attention. “Yes, m’lady?” He patiently answered their questions. Yes, it was a long and arduous task to become a knight. No, he hadn’t killed anyone recently but he was looking forward to it. Yes, it was difficult to run a large household. Screw damsels? Some concepts defied the centuries. No, I don’t fuck damsels. Although one does come to mind that I have every intention of…

  “If you will excuse me.” He gave them a short bow. They should be whipped for their wicked mouths. They wanted to embarrass him. He smirked; it was their faces that were red. He joined the men.

  It had been three days since they’d discussed the restoring of the mill and the men had started cleaning it out. His coin appeared to move mountains, according to George, at least. The supplies started arriving yesterday thanks to Bill’s contacts.

  “That’s great, Arik. You pass anything in a skirt and she’s ready to raise it for you. I’ve been working on the one in the yellow sweater all morning. I almost had her.” Jaxon, standing with three other soldiers, gestured at the bevy of beauties standing close by.

  “Just about had her? You haven’t even spoken to her.” One of the others let out a well-timed snort. “Had her.”

  “The ladies want a little attention. You stand here ignoring them. If you changed places with them who would you speak to?” The men looked sheepishly at him.

  “It’s easier at a pub. You buy them an ale, you make conversation. Here, what do you do? What do you say?” The men nodded their agreement with Jaxon.

  Arik glanced past them. The women had moved and were stretching their necks to see what the men were doing.

  Arik pointed to one of the men. “Go tell the ladies to stand back a bit, by the water barrel. Tell them they’ve come in time to watch the wrestling match.”

  “What wrestling match? Who’s wrestling?” They looked at each other in confusion.