Knightly Dreams

by Anna Markland

  She traced over the cross embroidered on his tunic. He resisted the urge to suck on the elegant finger, certain she must feel the hard arousal beneath her bottom.

  “You mean about the Hospitallers?” she asked, wriggling a little too much for his comfort.

  “Yes,” he replied, marveling at how much she’d gleaned from cursory research. He inhaled and launched into the explanation. “About the time de Norrels was Preceptor, the Templar holdings in England were handed over to the Hospitaller knights by order of the king.”

  “Right, but even if de Norrels hid the records, it’s unlikely they would have survived the Peasants’ Revolt in 1381.”

  “Minx,” he exclaimed. “You know.”

  She smiled, her wide eyes twinkling. “They ransacked Cressing Temple and destroyed or stole whatever they could lay their hands on. There’s even speculation the Barley Barn was moved after that, although it’s hard to imagine how they accomplished such a feat.”

  Impressed, he shook his head. “You should definitely have continued with your degree studies.”

  She pecked a playful kiss on his lips. “Thank you, but it’s Idalion for me, though it might take years to save up the £2000 fee for the season I’d like to spend there.”

  They sat for a while, enjoying each other’s company in the warm sunshine. It was on the tip of Peter’s tongue to offer to pay for her to go to the dig. He’d love to spend time together in Cyprus, but didn’t want to plant the suspicion he was trying to bribe her into a relationship. On the other hand, maybe the discovery he was financially secure had prompted her interest in him. He quickly dispelled that notion. Susie wasn’t a gold digger, but he wished he’d kept the information about his trust fund to himself.

  He felt at ease with Susie now they’d cleared the air. He wanted her, but recognised his ineptitude in matters concerning women. He’d devoted too much time to his research, convinced all females were like his mother and step-mother. He was glad Susie had jolted him out of his comfort zone, but he needed time to rethink the future he’d mapped out for himself. Perhaps it was too soon to take her home to his flat.

  “How about high tea?” he said. “I’m starved.”

  Aftereffects

  Susie insisted Peter drop her off at Moorgate Station. She was ashamed of her dingy flat in a less than salubrious building. He didn’t argue too much, probably sensing her reluctance for him to accompany her home. He’d thankfully sensed they weren’t ready yet for an intimate relationship.

  As the train wound its way south, she relived the exciting day that had changed her life. She touched her fingertips to her lips, remembering the kiss, and Peter’s lecherous smile when he fed her strawberries and cream in the Tea Room. She was suddenly a woman who could engage an intelligent and attractive man in meaningful conversation, and arouse him sexually. She felt more alive than at any time since Keith’s death. The knight had indeed unearthed buried treasure.

  She was tired by the time she let herself into the bedsit, but it was a good tired. She got ready for bed, then rummaged about in her storage cupboard until she found a framed photo of Keith. She dusted it off, kissed her brother’s beloved face and whispered, “I miss you.”

  The bedside table seemed a good spot to put it. She got into bed and gave in to the first tears she’d ever shed over her loss.

  She drifted into sleep and dreamt of knights, of barns, of motorcycles, of strawberries and kisses. And of Peter.

  She woke refreshed the next morning, hummed her favorite song in the shower, made toast for breakfast, decided to let the pink dye grow out of her hair and set off for work at the supermarket.

  It came to her as she boarded the bus that she’d forgotten to put the nose stud back in.

  Peter slept in on Sunday morning, but he was still tired when he got up with a raging hard-on. Hardly surprising since he’d spent the night spreading Devonshire cream all over Susie’s breasts then licking it off before making love to her.

  He’d half-expected to see Saturday’s events differently in the light of day. Instead, he remained convinced the future he’d plotted out for himself wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted Susie.

  His parents wouldn’t approve, but who gave a toss? He’d a feeling his grandfather would have loved her.

  That brought him up short. Did he love her? Given their backgrounds, it would be prudent to take it slowly, get to know each other. That was the reasonable path to take.

  Why, then, did he itch to be unreasonable?

  He discovered there was no bread for toast, so he poured a glass of milk, wrinkling his nose at the slightly sour odor.

  He sat at the breakfast nook and stared out the window, trying to decide what to do with himself. He’d suggested they spend the afternoon together, but she had begged off, citing a second job at Tesco. The urge to rescue her from what must be a mind-numbing environment for a bright spark like Susie was powerful. Her determination to achieve her goal was admirable. He’d worked hard to obtain his doctorate, but it was work he loved.

  She’d probably not be pleased if he turned up at her store, but he opened up his iPad and googled Tesco stores in the Tooting area anyway. There was more than one, and she didn’t necessarily work in the same area where she lived. He couldn’t recall ever going to Tooting Bec, or venturing south of the Thames for that matter.

  She’d claimed not to have a phone, so he couldn’t call her, and it was unlikely she was on FaceBook. He slapped his forehead when he realized he didn’t know her surname. “Brilliant, Dr. Bateson,” he muttered.

  He’d have to be patient and trust she would get in touch with him, as she’d promised.

  Maybe he should have invited her back last night and staked his claim, then he wouldn’t be in the uncomfortable state he was in now. That notion sent more blood rushing to his groin. He poured the rest of the suspect milk down the drain and headed for the bathroom to relieve more than one need.

  Susie decided to wait until she got home to call Peter from the public phone in the entryway of her building. Sammy wasn’t at work, and she didn’t know the other clerks well enough to borrow a mobile.

  It was pouring rain when she exited the tube station. She was soaked through and shivering by the time she unlocked the front door. “Worse than bloody Wales,” she grumbled, fishing in her pocket for Peter’s phone number and her change purse.

  She bent over to run a hand through her wet hair, then raked it back off her face and lined the coins up on the ledge beside the phone. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. Peter might not be as keen to see her again now he’d had a chance to think about it, and if he saw her now…a drowned rat.

  She’d kept looking to the sliding door of the supermarket all day wishing he’d magically appear wearing his Templar costume. It was silly.

  She picked up the receiver.

  No dial tone.

  She depressed the cradle two or three times. Still nothing.

  “Hello,” she shouted into the receiver, knowing there’d be no answer.

  She banged it down in frustration. The nearest public call box was three streets away. She was already wet and chances were it would be out of order as well.

  She shoved the paper into her pocket, gathered up her coins and headed back out.

  Out of breath, she yanked open the door of the call box five minutes later. The phone and the back wall were covered in graffiti tags; an empty can of Coke lay on the ledge next to a used needle. A twisted brown paper bag had been shoved into the space where the receiver should have been.

  Why someone would tear out the receiver, thus rendering the whole telephone useless seemed as stupidly destructive as the relentless persecution of the Templars.

  Close to tears and frozen to the bone, she squelched through puddles back to her flat. Calling Peter would have to wait until tomorrow.

  Best Laid Plans

  Peter realized he must have dozed off in front of the TV when the test pattern woke him. He’d stayed up in the hopes
Susie would ring and was disappointed she hadn’t.

  He went to bed thinking perhaps he’d imagined the alchemy between them and it just wasn’t meant to be.

  It was the Templar who appeared in his dream and set him straight. The knight didn’t speak, but let him know in no uncertain terms it was unacceptable that an expert on the Templars had never set foot on the island of Cyprus. Evidently, he too was part of the knight’s master strategy.

  He woke Monday morning with a clear plan in mind as to how to proceed, opened his iPad and typed in the list:

  Research the dig at Indalion and arrange for Susie to sign on.

  Contact Cressing Temple and research the wedding facilities advertised on the sign I noticed.

  Research the cost of two airline tickets to Cyprus.

  Book a hotel in Nicosia.

  Buy Susie a mobile.

  He stopped short when he realized he couldn’t do any of those things until he knew her name. Waiting around for her call wasn’t an option; he was too excited. In fact, he couldn’t recall ever being so excited about anything, not even his thesis.

  There must be some reason why she hadn’t telephoned. He searched Tesco again, intending to go to every last store in South London if he had to. Then it struck him there might be an easier way to track her down. He googled the Cheese on his mobile and placed the call.

  The landlord remembered him after a bit of prompting. He fabricated a story about Susie accidentally leaving personal belongings in the hard-bags when he’d given her a ride to Cressing Temple.

  “Not my costume, I hope,” John said.

  “No, no. She was very conscientious about taking care of it. And it looked great by the way.”

  John chuckled. “About time that girl started dressing to suit her figure.”

  Obviously, he wasn’t the only one to notice. “I agree, but she’s just an acquaintance and I’m not sure how to return her make-up and such.”

  That was partly true although he wondered if he’d overdone it. Susie didn’t wear much make-up.

  “Well, she’s scheduled for tonight, if you want to drop in for a pint.”

  “I’ll do that. What’s her last name, by the way?”

  He cringed at the repetition. Had he come across as too fake?

  “Jones.”

  Aha! Was he an effective investigator or what!

  Susie felt like death warmed over by the time she got to the pub on Monday evening. Her ears were plugged, her throat was sore and her red nose ran like a tap. She wasn’t completely sure how she’d survived her shift at Tesco. Glaring customers had covered their mouths and hurried away.

  With no way to contact John, she’d turned up for work, hoping the 24 hour cold remedy charged to her Tesco employee account would hold the germs at bay until she got home.

  She felt terrible that she hadn’t called Peter, but there was nothing less attractive than a woman who couldn’t verbalize two words without coughing her head off.

  She handed the garment bag over to John. “Thanks,” she managed, though it came out sounding like she was in an echo chamber.

  “You look terrible,” he replied.

  “I don’t feel all that well,” she replied hoarsely.

  “I’d send you home, but there’s someone here to see you.”

  She gripped the edge of the bar, glanced up at the portrait of Dr. Johnson and prayed it was Peter. She uttered a silent prayer of thanks to the brilliant essayist when a whiff of woodsy aftershave tickled plugged nostrils.

  Her knight put an arm around her shoulders. “I’m taking you home.”

  John seemed to be in agreement. “We can manage. Not busy. Best place for her. A nice hot toddy and put her to bed.”

  She nodded, trying to recall if she’d perhaps taken the drowsy instead of the non-drowsy medication. Being taken to bed by Peter sounded like a good idea.

  Struggling to keep Susie upright on the tube to his flat wasn’t exactly how Peter had envisioned their reunion. They earned censorious glares from other passengers who gave them a wide berth. He had to admit she looked a fright, but as the train sped through the underground tunnels it occurred to him that perhaps the situation was fitting. He was a knight coming to the rescue of a damsel in distress.

  She mumbled apology after apology then fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. He cradled her, feeling more relevant than he ever had.

  Thankful his flat wasn’t too far from the tube station, he wrangled her into his bed. “What have you taken?” he asked.

  She snored softly in reply, confirming his opinion she didn’t need more drugs. Just TLC. And he had plenty of that.

  Still wearing jeans and a T-shirt, he climbed into bed and spooned her, hoping his warmth would chase away her ills. He resisted the urge to cup her breast. As the night wore on, he gained a whole new appreciation for the Templars’ commitment to chastity.

  Is This A Dream?

  Susie didn’t recognize the room she woke up in, except for Peter’s reassuring scent on the sheets. She was alone, but knew he’d stayed with her throughout the night.

  Despite the coughing, nose blowing and sweating, he’d stood by her, plied her with tissues, seen her through the siege.

  She slowly sat up when he came in the door and he nestled the legs of a bed tray beside her thighs.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Better,” she replied truthfully.

  “Are you up to tackling food?” he asked, deftly slicing the top off an egg sitting in a cute eggcup. He’d even cut the toast into soldiers, and the yolk was just how she liked it, not too hard, not too runny.

  She choked back the lump in her throat. No one had ever shown such care. “Are you for real,” she rasped, “or is this a dream?”

  He sat down beside her and tucked an errant wisp of hair behind her ear. “It’s very real,” he assured her.

  “I must look awful,” she whispered.

  “You are beautiful,” he replied.

  She would previously have dismissed any attempt to pay her a compliment, but the truth of his regard shone in his eyes. “You nursed me.”

  “And I would do it again, Susie Jones. Will you marry me?”

  He’d blurted out his proposal too soon, so there was no point pausing to give her a chance to refuse. “I’ve arranged for us to be married at Cressing, in the Barley Barn. Don’t worry, they’re licensed to perform wedding ceremonies, and, yes, we can wear our medieval outfits if we wish. Although I returned mine today, and so did you, but still…

  …And I’ve reserved a place for you on the crew at Idalion; they are excited you’re joining them. We’re going to spend our honeymoon in Cyprus before that, and we’ll rent a little house there so I can visit Kolossi Castle and the ruins at Famagusta and Saint Hilarion while you’re digging in the dirt.”

  She gaped.

  He waved the appropriate pieces of paper, hoping to ignite the same enthusiasm burning in him. “Is it not what you want?”

  She leaned back against the headboard and closed her eyes. Tears trickled down her cheeks. “It’s everything I want, Peter,” she replied. “But so much money. And you hardly know me.”

  He took her hand. “The money means nothing to me,” he replied, confident he was echoing the knight’s priorities. “I want to live and breathe what the Templars experienced, walk in their footsteps like we did at Cressing. And I want to do it with you, the woman who opened up a whole new world for me. My grandfather would be thrilled to know we were using his gift for this. I love you, Susie. Please say you’ll be my treasured wife.”

  “I love you too, Peter Bateson. And yes, I will marry you.”

  Euphoric, he fished a mobile phone out of his pocket and handed it to her. “That’s a relief. I registered this in the name Susie Bateson.”

  She laughed and clutched the device to her chest.

  He handed her a tissue when her amusement turned into a cough. “It’s not very romantic, and it’s too big to fit your fi
nger.” He opened his fisted hand to reveal his grandmother’s ring. “But hopefully this isn’t.”

  Susie stared at the ring Peter slipped on her finger. It was old and classy and without a doubt the most expensive piece of jewelry she’d ever seen. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. “But you don’t even like pink hair,” she muttered nonsensically.

  “Who says?” he replied, tousling her disheveled mop. “All right. I admit I hated it at first, but it’s growing on me, like you.”

  He balanced a spoonful of egg on a sliver of toast and fed it to her.

  “I want to kiss you,” she croaked, savoring the food, “but I don’t want to give you my cold.”

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I agree. There’ll be lots of time for kissing when you’re better. Stay in bed today, and…”

  “I can’t. I have to go to work.”

  He shook his head and fed her another piece of eggy toast. “I’ve let them know at Tesco and at the pub that you’re too ill to work and that you’re not coming back anyway.”

  Having been self-reliant for years, Susie felt a twinge of annoyance at Peter’s interference, but then it occurred to her it might be nice to rely on someone else to make decisions—occasionally. She wasn’t overly concerned about the supermarket—people left on a moment’s notice all the time—but felt badly about the Cheese. “I’m letting John down.”

  “He’s delighted for us and is convinced the costume he lent you played a part in our romance.”

  She smiled. “It was the most revealing thing I’ve ever worn.”

  He wiggled his eyebrows. “And I love what it revealed.”

  She relaxed as he fed her the rest of the breakfast then patted her mouth with a soft linen napkin. “That was lovely, thanks.”

  “I’m an excellent cook,” he said as he removed the tray.