Night of the Dragon

by Webb, Peggy

  "Vulnerable, my skinny butt. I'm half asleep, that's what I am." He lunged forward and almost dealt Dragon a blow on the right shoulder. Only a last-minute maneuver saved him. "Ha. Who's vulnerable now?"

  Dragon berated himself. He'd let his thoughts wander back to the meadow, back to the barn, back to the soft pile of hay where he'd held Lydia close, discovered the mysteries and wonder of her.

  He attacked with a fury, driving himself until both he and Laird were covered with sweat. Dragon would have fought all night, and he knew that Laird would stay with him out of friendship and loyalty. But he knew that no matter how much he ran from the truth, it would still be there when he returned.

  Dragon laid down his sword and shield. "Enough," he said.

  "It's about time. I may go to my bed and die of dropsy."

  Dragon clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Thank you, Laird."

  "I would say anytime, but I'm afraid you'd take me up on it, especially while the woman is here."

  "She's my guest." He gave Laird a look that dared further comment.

  Was he so obvious? And if Laird could see, how much longer before others could as well?

  Dragon was running out of options.

  He'd intended to go straight to his bedchamber, but his heart pulled him in another direction.

  Lydia's body was outlined under the silk covers. How easy it would be to pull back the covers and take his pleasure with her.

  Leaving her was painful. Even more painful was the decision he had made in the wee hours of the morning.

  o0o

  The heady fragrance woke Lydia.

  The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes were the flowers lying against her cheek, dozens of them, red and blue and white and yellow, flowers from the meadow mixed with roses from the formal gardens.

  The next thing she saw was Dragon, standing beside the window. Flushed with pleasure, she pulled the sheet modestly over herself.

  "How long have you been here?"

  "Since dawn." She lifted the flowers and pressed them to her face. "Do you like them?"

  "I love them. Thank you." She had a vision of Dragon in the meadow picking flowers with only the faint glow of dawn to light his way. "What is the occasion?"

  His smile was bittersweet. "Always the inquisitive one." Sitting on the edge of the bed, he ran his fingers lightly through her hair, then cupped her face with one hand and traced her lips with the other. "Such hair, such lips. I'm going to miss you, Lydia."

  Alarm skittered through her. "Why? What do you plan to do?"

  "Lydia . . . Lydia." Slowly he caressed her face, her brows, her cheekbones, the bridge of her nose, her jawline. "The word of a knight is his bond. I promised to protect you. Do you doubt my word?"

  "No, but there are so many things I don't know about Camelot. In all the movies I've seen, knights are always riding off on quests or to the Crusades or into battle. For all I know that dragon could be lurking outside the castle walls even as we speak, planning his attack."

  Dragon leaned forward, intrigued. "What are movies?"

  She started explaining movies to Dragon, and that led to a lengthy discussion of the Hollywood concept of entertainment which led to disaster films involving twisters, volcanoes, hurricanes, firestorms, and nuclear bombs.

  By the time she had finished, her flowers were beginning to wilt. Dragon put them in the stone bowl that held her bathwater while she looped the sheet around her breasts and padded to the window. It was a glorious day, and she was itching to be outside.

  "Your world sounds more frightening than mine," he said.

  "Sometimes it is."

  "Do you miss it?"

  She thought of her little bookshop called Once Upon A Time, of Uncle Michael with his white hair and his kind ways, of her mother with a locked room that held her past, of the farm with its wooded hollows and clean green pastures. Then she thought of traffic jams and income tax and sleazy bars filled with cigarette smoke and worse, of drive-by shootings and serial killers, of porn and drugs peddled on street corners, of homeless people sleeping in alleys beside grocery carts that held all their worldly possessions.

  "There are certain aspects I miss, others I don't."

  Dragon was disturbed by her answer. He prowled the room, scowling at everything but seeing nothing. Finally Lydia could no longer stand the suspense.

  "You're making me nervous. What's this all about?"

  "Get dressed." He issued the command as he stalked toward the doorway.

  Lydia wanted to throw something. Hard.

  "You can't just order me around all the time. I don't care if this is the fourteenth century. I won't be treated like a servant."

  He was beside her in three strides, hands gripping her shoulders.

  "Put on your clothes or I won't be responsible for the consequences."

  Hot, hard kisses and feelings that stole her breath. Glorious, mind-bending pleasure and naked skin glowing with sunshine and sweat.

  She wanted every forbidden pleasure he threatened, wanted it so badly, she alternately considered outright goading and shameless seduction.

  But she had her pride.

  "You can't just march around giving orders and having your way about everything. I'm a twentieth-century woman, you know."

  "Lydia, you could be a woman from any century, and the results would be the same." His face was fierce as he bent over her, and for a heady moment she thought he was going to kiss her . . . and more. But abruptly he let her go. "Now put on your clothes." She lifted her chin at a stubborn angle, and his brows drew together in an ominous warning signal.

  "Or do you want me to do it for you, Lydia?"

  She jerked up the silk dress at the end of her bed, yellow this time.

  "Barbarian," she yelled as he stalked out the door. She took her time getting dressed. "Just who does he think he is, a dictator?"

  The dress was exquisite, as soft and shiny as fairy dust, and a perfect fit. Where did he get all these beautiful clothes? She'd ask him. Furthermore, she was going to ask for a few more things she needed. Her comb, for instance. And her tiny flacon of perfume. And her panties.

  She blushed to think of the bargain he had driven for her shoes. Would he require the same bargain for her other possessions?

  Her heart pounding double time, she started toward the door, then, with a sudden inspiration, she raced back, sat down on the bed, and put on her running shoes.

  Lydia would have headed toward the garden, but Shadow, apparently having secret orders from his master, herded her into the dining hall. Dragon was seated at the end of the long table. Her place was set at the opposite end.

  "Sit," he ordered.

  "I feel as if I'm in another country all the way down here."

  Her goad brought no reply, and she let the matter drop. She wasn't going to argue over seating arrangements. She was saving her guns for bigger victories.

  "I thought this was the age of chivalry." His glare warned her, but she plunged full speed ahead. "A true gentleman always pulls out a lady's chair."

  Their gazes locked, then he strode around the table, gave her a courtly bow, and pulled out her chair. She lifted her skirts and curtsied.

  "Thank you, kind sir."

  She was in his arms so fast, her head spun. His grip was like iron as he forced her face up to his.

  "Why do you disobey me?"

  "You said get dressed, and I did. You told the wolf where to take me, and here I am." Suddenly it was all too much, the strange land, her emotions that seesawed between elation and despair, Dragon. Especially Dragon.

  Lydia blinked back tears. "What more do you want from me? Blood?"

  His touch was soft on her cheek, his face tender as he gathered her tears with the tips of his fingers.

  "Your tears pierce me, Lydia."

  "My feet hurt without my shoes," she whispered. "Besides, the gown covers them."

  He held her a moment longer, then stepped back. "Turn around. Let me see."
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  She turned slowly around, careful not to spin so her skirts would lift.

  Dragon suppressed his grin. "If you conduct yourself in that manner, sedate, like a lady, you may wear the shoes. But only on my grounds."

  She inclined her head like a true lady, then with the same careful movements she sat in her chair. She waited until Dragon was safely at the other end of the enormous banquet table before she broached the other subjects hot on her mind.

  "I have some things to discuss with you. Is this a good time?"

  "I'll dismiss the servants after they bring the food, and you can discuss whatever you wish. In the meantime, we will discuss topics appropriate for the occasion. Did you sleep well last night?"

  "Like a rock. The first good night's sleep since I arrived." Sex always did that for her. Dragon gave her a knowing look. "And you?"

  "I had more important things to do."

  "Such as pick flowers?"

  The teenaged girl giggled as she served a steaming brew that looked like oatmeal. It could be dragons' wings for all Lydia knew. She took a bite. If she was going to stay in Camelot, she had to learn to eat the food.

  "That's good," she said.

  "It's—"

  "I don't want to know."

  Dragon laughed, then told an amusing tale about how he trained Glory to come when he whistled, ending with, "The reward system. I always gave her what she wanted."

  "And what was that?"

  "A carrot."

  "Don't expect all females to be so easily pleased."

  As soon as the young girl had finished serving and was out of earshot, Dragon became all business.

  "You may discuss what's on your mind now."

  Lydia tossed her head. "My hair."

  "Your hair?"

  "Just look at it. It's a mess."

  "It's glorious, the color of a sunset, as soft as a rose petal."

  Lydia turned to mush. She could see where her discussion was headed . . . toward the same bargain they'd driven in the barn. Her pulse raced at the thought and her skin felt hot.

  "I need my comb." She stared boldly into his eyes when she made her request.

  He smiled. "Anything else?"

  "You don't want to bargain?"

  "Do you?"

  That smile again. She felt as if Fourth of July fireworks had been set off inside her. It was best to steer the conversation in another direction.

  "There are other things I need. My perfume."

  "Why?"

  "I want to smell nice."

  "You do. You taste nice as well."

  She bit the inside of her lip to keep from groaning. "I haven't had a really good bath since I came here. I'd like to take a real bath and then slather myself with perfume."

  "I can arrange the bath. Then I'll also give you some attar of roses."

  "Where did you get it?" Lydia pictured a quaint little perfume shop somewhere in Camelot.

  "The Crusades." He smiled. "Anything else?"

  "Yes." He was waiting, and Lydia knew no other way to broach the subject except head-on. "I want my panties back."

  "That tiny bit of red with the lettering?"

  "Those are the ones."

  "Why do you want them?"

  "Because . . . I'm accustomed to wearing them."

  "They are not necessary. I've already uncovered your secret."

  "My secret?"

  "Your beautiful, delicious secret, though I still don't understand why these things you call panties don't say Lydia's Secret."

  She went into gales of laughter. Only when Dragon shouted, "Enough!" did she stop.

  "I'm sorry. I wasn't laughing at you. I was laughing at the way something I consider so ordinary can be a complete mystery to you." She sobered at the enormity of the gulf between them. "We really are from different worlds, aren't we, Dragon?"

  "I've thought of nothing else all night."

  They stared back at each other, separated by more than the long table. Slowly he pushed back his chair, then stood at the head of his table, gorgeous, majestic, and as remote as California.

  "Lydia, you may have the things you request, the comb, the perfume, and the red cloth to cover your secret."

  She'd never expected such an easy victory. Maybe Dragon was softening toward her. In her exuberance she raced around the long table and catapulted into his arms.

  "Thank you, Dragon." She hugged and squeezed and patted. "You're really not such a tyrant, after all."

  "You think of me as a tyrant, Lydia?"

  There was real pain in his eyes. Lydia stood on tiptoes and kissed him softly on the lips.

  "Only sometimes, Dragon."

  His eyes darkened, and she found herself in a steely grip, crushed tightly against his chest. A broad, enticing chest. She pressed her cheek in the hollow right over his heart, sighing.

  "And other times?"

  Reeling with the nearness of him, she breathed in his masculine scent. What would it be like to go to bed every night with this man next to her, to reach out in the middle of the night and find him there, to wake up in the morning with his head on the pillow next to hers?

  "Other times I think of you in more intimate terms."

  "How intimate?" He dragged her hips closer, and there was no doubt that he wanted her.

  Suddenly she saw his cleverness. Dragon didn't have to drive any more bargains with her. Once was enough. Now all he had to do was give her a single look, a single touch, a single word, and she was his. Lydia loved the idea of being slave to his master, but only temporarily, only for fun and games. In the long run she had to remain the mistress of her own fate, and if she kept lolling in his arms, sighing, she could never hope to be anything more than his toy.

  She stepped back. "I think of you as my captor."

  Dragon strode toward a wall covered with gleaming, lethal weapons, swords and lances, clubs and arrows, and things whose names Lydia didn't even know. He chose a sword with a golden hilt and a shield that bore a crest of red dragons engaged in battle.

  Now what? "What are you doing?" she said.

  "Arming myself."

  "I can see that."

  He glanced from her to the wall of weapons, then back to her. "I saw you wield a small knife. Do you think you can handle a sword?"

  "Why?"

  "Don't ask questions! Answer me."

  She stuck out her chin. "I can do anything I make up my mind to. And that includes fighting with a sword."

  "This will be yours." He selected a small sword, then held out his band. "Come, Lydia."

  "Where are we going?"

  "To get your possessions. All of them."

  "I can't believe this. You're giving me everything?"

  "Yes."

  It was too good to be true. And totally out of character for Dragon.

  "Why?" she asked.

  "For your journey home.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Lydia didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

  "You've got to be joking," she said.

  "I never make jokes about serious matters." He gripped her shoulders, hard. "Lydia, don't defy me on this, don't fight me. You must go home."

  Home. French fries and hamburgers. Pizza with crispy crust and extra cheese. Saturday night double features and popcorn dripping with butter.

  She might never have any of those things again. Never.

  Suddenly Lydia knew how a fly felt caught in the sticky web of a big garden spider. Flat. Skin stretched over skeleton. The life-giving force sucked clean out, leaving nothing but a barely beating heart, a heart that could break with a single word, a single look, a single touch.

  Dragon still held her fast, his grip as tight as his expression.

  Forget pizza and buttered popcorn, forget double features where she might see Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt all in the same night.

  Here was Dragon. Real. Gorgeous. Delicious.

  Home meant never seeing him again, never racing beside him through the spring meadows, never waking to f
ind roses and wildflowers on her pillow, never knowing the joy of true love.

  "How can I go?" she whispered, the rest of her plea left unspoken. How can I leave you behind?

  "We'll find a way." The look on his face would break her heart if she thought about it too much. "You must go."

  She knew it was true. She was not in the middle of a movie or a novel where a happy ending would happen with the stroke of a pen. She was in Camelot where spring would soon become a winter so bleak that laughter froze before it could even rise.

  "Come with me," he said.

  "Dragon, there's something I must tell you." Urgency was in her voice, her face, her body language, chin thrust out, face upturned, elbows rigid. Dragon lifted a quizzical eyebrow. "Camelot is . . ."

  "Lydia! Don't!"

  "You have to listen to me. Dragon, Camelot is not going to . . ."

  He stopped her with one swift move, hand over her mouth, arms imprisoned. Struggle would be useless, so she didn't even try.

  "You must not talk of what you know, Lydia. Not now. Not ever." He bent over her, his mouth close to her ear, his breath hot on her skin. "Do you understand?"

  "Hmmm." His hand still muffled her, and it was the only sound she could manage.

  "There's no room for negotiation here. This is not a request. It's a command. Do you understand?"

  She nodded as vigorously as she could, though she didn't understand any of it. From the moment she'd arrived in Camelot, not one single thing made a bit of sense to her. Especially not this latest request. Why wouldn't he want to know? He was a Knight of the Round Table, in the perfect position to use her knowledge.

  Dragon could change the course of history.

  Slowly he released her. She rubbed her hand over her mouth, then wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

  "I didn't mean to be harsh with you, Lydia." He held both her hands and pulled her gently toward him. "I can see the questions in your eyes, your face, even in the way you're standing. . . . Don't try to deny it."

  His smile was crooked, like something pasted on by a child. Heartbreaking. Lydia couldn't look.

  She sat at the table with her back to him. "I'm listening."

  "Merlin knows about you, Lydia." Suddenly he was there beside her, too tall, too real, too wonderful.

  "How does he know?"