by Webb, Peggy
o0o
Water cascaded over rocks with a sound like rushing wind, and ferns damp with dew sent forth the fragrance of spring. Birdsong, borne on the chill breeze, heralded the morning.
Lydia woke slowly, stretching and yawning. The headphones from her disc player hung around her neck. She was stiff from sleeping in her chair.
"What time is it?" She squinted at her watch. Nine fifteen P.M. Frowning, she tapped the glowing dial with her finger and checked again. The time remained unchanged, nine fifteen, exactly the same time she'd come home from the jogging track.
Still groggy, she reached behind her to adjust the chair cushion. Her hand closed around a rock. Fully alert now, she sat straight up, clutching the rock to her chest.
Her apartment had vanished. She was sitting in the midst of a forest glade with a waterfall nearby. It was the most realistic dream she'd ever had. She smelled the damp forest, heard the roar of the waterfall and the song of the birds, felt the dew and the hard earth beneath her. What was more, she was still dressed in the clothes she'd worn to the jogging track.
She lay back down and closed her eyes, but when she opened them again she was still outdoors instead of inside her apartment.
She was in no dream. She had been kidnapped.
"I won't panic," she said, and then she did just that.
She took off running as if she were in a qualifying race for the Olympics, heading straight for the relative safety of the forest. At least she wouldn't be a sitting target out in the open, she'd have trees to hide behind.
She gained the safety of an enormous hardwood tree, unlike any she'd ever seen. She was a country girl through and through, as familiar with the woods and pastures and hillsides of northeast Mississippi as her grandfather had been. Of course, she was in California now. The tree towered toward the sun, as majestic as any of the redwoods. Only it wasn't a redwood. The leaves were the size of elephant ears, and the bark on the trunk was marblelike in colors of pink, white, and green.
Lydia felt slightly dizzy, as if she'd been drugged. Where were her captors? And what had they done to her?
She sat with her back against the tree and inspected herself for cuts and bruises. Except for a slight headache, she felt fine.
"So far, so good," she said. The next step was to find her way home. But how could she do that if she didn't even know where she was. One thing was certain: She didn't intend to let her kidnappers find her sitting helplessly underneath a tree only a few hundred feet from the place they'd left her. What she needed was a plan. And a weapon.
She unzipped her fanny pack and took out her Swiss Army knife. Not that a two-inch blade would be a serious threat to anybody, especially one wielded by her, but still, she felt better knowing that she wasn't completely defenseless.
The blade flicked out, and Lydia said, "Eenie, meenie, minie, mo," then set off in the direction of mo. From a distance came a terrifying roar. Lydia stood rooted to the spot. She'd never heard such a sound, part grizzly bear, part marauding lion, part trumpeting elephant. What was it? She was going to change direction, and fast.
She made a ninety-degree turn, racing through the dense forest. The roar came again, closer this time. Hair stood up along the back of her neck. Out of the comer of her eye she glimpsed something gliding through the trees, something so enormous that its large bulk darkened the sky.
Lydia raced on, never breaking stride, calling on her years of training and conditioning to outdistance whatever it was that stalked her through the forest. Ahead was a large meadow ablaze with color. No cover there, but the beast was gaining on Lydia. She had time neither to change course nor to search for another hiding place.
Panting, her legs churning, she raced toward the flower-strewn meadow. She heard another great roar, and a fireball blazed across the sky. Heat seared her right arm and leg. Flames licked the sky once more, and there was a mighty rush as giant wings lifted her pursuer high above the trees. Darkness crept across the meadow, and Lydia stood beneath the mountainlike shadow, not daring to look up.
LYDIA! The sound of her own name echoed through her mind, distorted, as if she were hearing it underwater or from the far end of a wind tunnel. Why have you come here?
"Where?" she said, answering the voice in her head. "Where am I?"
The hovering shadow drew her like a magnet, and she tipped her head back and gazed into the sky.
"A dragon," she said. "Good grief, it's a flying dragon!"
She had to be dreaming. Or perhaps her kidnappers worked with special effects in one of the movie studios. She'd come to California because she believed anything might be possible, but she'd never expected anything like this. She'd never expected to be confronted by a dragon.
The dragon hovered overhead, its hot breath searing her arm, its sharp talons gleaming in the sun. Lydia had nowhere left to run. Feeling small and foolish, she took her stance, blade in her hand.
Any minute now she was going to wake up in her own easy chair, the ancient book lying at her feet, the sun unforgiving as it picked up every flaw in her apartment. Wasn't she?
The dragon flew past her, then banked and circled back, its scales shining in the sun, green and blue and gold. In spite of its size, the dragon's flight was graceful ... and mesmerizing. Her arm aloft, knife blade glinting in the sun, Lydia was aware of sensation, a maelstrom of wind and beating wings, intense heat, a smell unlike any she knew, strong and musty with a sharp edge like burned electrical wires.
"Shoo," she yelled. "Scat. Go away." She flapped both arms but the dragon kept coming. The wind whipped her hair and whistled around her with the force of a hurricane. There was a blur, then unbearable pain in her shoulder. She slashed with her knife, but connected with nothing except the air. Blood spurted from her arm.
She was not dreaming. She was not in the midst of a practical joke. No one was going to pop out of the woods wielding a television camera.
The dragon soared upward, lifting toward the sun. Just when she thought he was going to disappear, he made a steep turn, then dived.
There was only one thing left to do: Run. The dragon's breath hot on her neck, she raced toward the forest. She didn't have a chance of outdistancing the dragon, but she was certainly going to try. Sharp talons scored her back. Pain sapped her strength, her will.
If she could stay on her feet ... if she could reach the trees . . .
She pinpointed her goal, the enormous tree with the strange marbleized trunk.
Suddenly there was a blur of movement, then dazzling light. A horse galloped from behind the tree, dark as ebony. And on its back was a knight, his armor glinting in the sun.
Lydia fainted.
o0o
The knight took aim, and his lance whistled through the air. Though it missed the dragon's head, it was close enough to send the giant creature winging away from the woman.
"Coward! Come back and fight."
His arrow flew toward the retreating dragon, scoring a hit near the end of the tail. With a great yowl, the dragon twisted his head and sent a burst of fire in the knight's direction. He wheeled his stallion sharply, removing himself as target, then reined in beside the fallen woman as the dragon disappeared beyond the waterfall.
The woman lay facedown in the grass, hair the color of flames cascading down her back, a tiny knife blade clutched in her hand. He approached her cautiously. He'd seen how she'd fought, seen how she'd run. No woman he'd ever known had stood up against a dragon, and no woman he knew could run even half as fast as the woman who lay at his feet.
Besides that, she was wearing strange clothes that left most of her body bare. Her shoes were like none he'd ever seen, and she had dark wires protruding from her ears.
Obviously she was a sorceress of some kind.
If he had been a common man, he'd have been afraid to touch her. But he was a knight, a man chosen for his courage, a man sworn to honor the king and protect him with his life if necessary.
If the woman had come to betray his kin
g, it was his duty as a knight to discover who she was. Beyond that, it was his duty as a compassionate human being to relieve the suffering of another. His pet wolf was one he'd rescued as a pup several years earlier, and his peregrine falcon he'd found last year in the forest, suffering from a broken wing.
Even on the battlefield, he had a habit of seeing to the comfort of captives. The other knights sometimes chided him, calling him Velvet Heart. Only Percival understood his compassion.
Leaning close, he lifted the woman's hair and put his hand on her throat, checking for a pulse. She was alive, but there was a long gash on her back as well as several shallow scratches on her legs.
Gently he turned her over, then went as still as a buck sensing danger. Her face, her hair. Filled with wonder, he sifted his hands through the lush red curls. The woman was as strange to him as if she'd come from another planet, and yet as familiar as if she were a lover.
Mesmerized, he traced the contours of her soft cheeks. She moaned, and he came to his senses.
Her left arm had caught the worst damage. The wounds would have to be tended soon, and even then the risk of losing her arm was great.
"Can you hear me?" Her eyes fluttered open, then closed. "I'm going to take you home with me and tend your wounds."
He'd never held a near-naked woman except in the dark in the heat of passion. She was featherlight and extremely enticing. Forcing himself to turn away from the sight of her bare flesh, he mounted his stallion with the woman in his arms.
Leaning low over his steed's neck, he spoke softly, urgently. "Fly like the wind."
CHAPTER THREE
The first thing Lydia saw when she woke up was a pair of yellow eyes. Next she saw the furry muzzle, then the fangs. She screamed.
The man appeared quickly, a man with deep black eyes, dark wavy hair that hung to his shoulders, and the kind of costume her favorite movie heroes wore in the period films she loved so well. He looked like something she'd dreamed.
"The wolf won't harm you," he said.
It was all too much. First the strange forest, then the dragon, then the real live knight, and now the wolf. Lydia squeezed her eyes shut and covered her head with the sheet.
The wolf’s rumbling growl sounded ominous to her, but the man laughed. "Stand, my fierce friend. She's a mere slip of a girl. See how she fears us."
Strange words spoken in a strange accent. If she lay under the covers long enough, would she wake up in her own bed in her apartment in California?
Cowering under the covers, she winced, then gingerly touched her shoulder. It was tightly wrapped, and some foul-smelling salve oozed from underneath the white cloth. Safe from prying eyes she inspected herself.
Good grief. She was naked. And that odious salve was slathered practically all over her.
Had that gorgeous knight undressed her? And whose bed was she in?
She was rapidly using all the air under her sheet. A silk sheet. Soft as angel wings. She wished she could say the same thing for the mattress. What had they stuffed it with? Corncobs?
"I'm glad to see you awake, Victoria."
Victoria? Had she somehow ended up in the middle of somebody else's life?
"I've prepared food for you."
She didn't want food. All she wanted was her old life back. Was this some kind of karmic payback for telling Trent Brandon he was lower than a wart-covered toad?
She felt as if she were going to suffocate under her covers. To conserve oxygen, Lydia took short, shallow breaths.
"It's a nutritious mushroom soup. I gathered them in the forest while the wolf kept watch over you."
Great, that was all she needed. Poison soup. A perfect end to a perfect day.
"I'm a patient man. You can't stay under the covers forever, Victoria."
That did it. If there was one familiar thing left to her, it was her name. She flung the silk covers back. Pain stabbed her, and she lay in the bed completely exposed before she could recover enough to move. Flushed scarlet under his steady gaze, she eased the sheet upward until it was tucked securely tinder her chin.
"Who the hell is Victoria?" She'd meant to snap out her question with the authority of a drill sergeant, but her voice was as weak as the rest of her.
"The lady has a temper as well as a tongue."
He set the soup on a low table beside her bed. Without a doubt he was the most sinfully delicious looking man she'd ever seen. The white shirt he wore was open to the waist and bared most of his chest. Broad, with dark olive skin finely sprinkled with black hair, his chest was the kind women dreamt about when they were in bed alone at night fantasizing about the man who is going to come and rescue them. Add perfectly chiseled features, dark eyes, and a body to drool over, and you had the man of your dreams, a man who might have stepped down from the cover of one of the historical romances in her bookshop.
"You are Victoria," he said.
"You've got the wrong girl, buster."
What she wanted to do was swing her feet over die bed and march out as if she were a queen. Any fool would know that queens stomp around naked when they get mad. What she did instead was hold the sheet around her as she eased her legs over the edge of the bed.
"I am not Buster, I am Dragon."
She had barely gained her feet when he scooped her up.
"Put me down," she yelled, though the truth was he'd saved her from falling flat on her face. But she wasn't about to thank him. "I'm going home."
"You're not going anywhere."
She could tell by the set of his jaw that he was not a man to be argued with, but he might as well learn that she was not the kind of woman to be bossed around. Not even Trent had dared that.
"Want to bet?"
She doubled her fist, hauled off, and socked him right in the face. He didn't even flinch. What was worse, he laughed. She didn't know whether he was laughing at her ineffectual blow or whether he was amused that she'd let go her sheet. It slithered to the floor like a snake.
And there she was, wallowing in his arms without a stitch. It would have been bad enough to wallow around naked with an average-looking man, somebody she'd known for years, perhaps somebody with crooked front teeth and a cowlick that wouldn't comb down. But she was wallowing in the arms of a dangerously appealing stranger.
"Put me down," she yelled again, but he'd already ignored that demand, and what did she expect but more laughter. "I don't know who you are . . ."
"I've already told you. I am Dragon."
"Yeah, well I'm the Mona Lisa, and I'm getting out of here." She kicked and flailed, annoyed at her own weakness.
"Mona Lisa?" He was either the best actor she'd ever met, or he had never heard of one of the most famous paintings in the world. "Which of these names do you want me to call you, Mona Lisa or Victoria?"
"I don't want you to call me anything, you barbarian."
"I'm not a barbarian. I'm a knight."
His voice carried just enough conviction to give her pause. Could it be possible? Her hands shook as she raked her fingers through her hair.
"Look, if this is some kind of joke, it's not funny." She hurt all over and felt wobblier than a newborn baby lamb. She didn't even care anymore that she was buck naked. All she wanted was her own bed, her own apartment, her own life. She'd even be willing to talk to Trent Brandon if that's what it took to get home. "Please ... I want to go home now."
The man who called himself Dragon, the man who claimed to be a real live knight laid her on the bed and covered her with the silk sheet as tenderly as a lover. Braced on his hands, he leaned so close, she could see every delicious detail of him. It was cruel to put a man like him in the path of a jilted woman who'd been recently beat up by a dragon.
Lydia wondered if she was going crazy. That had to be it. She was still sitting in her chair in her apartment, and she'd gone stark raving mad. If she could find the telephone, she'd call Uncle Michael to come get her.
"Can I use your phone?"
"Phone?"
/> She closed her eyes, and to her mortification felt the hot press of tears. "Please take that costume back to wherever you rented it and tell whoever hired you that I've learned my lesson, whatever that's supposed to be."
He hovered over her, pressing her against the mattress, and when she dared risk a peek, she saw genuine concern in his eyes.
"Please just let me use your phone," she whispered.
He brushed his fingertips over her cheeks, gathering her tears with a tender touch that felt like starlight falling on her face. Suddenly there was nothing in the room except him and her. He held her tears in his cupped hand, and she felt as if he held her soul.
Then as abruptly as it had come, the tenderness vanished.
"What is this thing you call a phone?"
"You're joking, right?"
"No." His puzzlement was real, and Lydia felt a chill spread to her bones that had nothing to do with her injuries.
Up until that moment she'd believed there was a logical explanation for everything—the man on the bed, the wolf, even the dragon. Slowly she looked around the room. The walls were stone, the windows narrow openings without glass, let alone curtains. The furniture was stark, austere, in a style totally unfamiliar to her. What was more, she had a gut-deep feeling that it was authentic.
The dizziness came back, and she thought she was going to faint again. Lydia fought the pain and nausea, fought to stay awake.
"Where am I?" she whispered.
"Camelot."
o0o
Witches weren't supposed to cry.
Dragon watched, fascinated as tears rolled down the woman's cheeks, soft cheeks, velvety skin tinted golden by the sun. He resisted the temptation to touch her face once more, to gather up the star-like tears that glistened there.
Tender feelings were forbidden for the enemy, and surely she was the enemy. His duty as a knight was to protect his king at all costs. Was he failing that duty by harboring the enemy in his own home, his own bed?
Dragon left the woman's bedside and stood looking outside. The sky was clear blue. A hawk spiraled upward, then plummeted toward the earth, his cry of victory a death knell for the rabbit cowering in the bushes. The strong conquering the weak. It was always so.
