Night of the Dragon

by Webb, Peggy

  "Magic." That smile again. In her mind she saw a rainy day in Mississippi, the farm of her childhood, the sun finally breaking through the clouds. "God's smile," her mother used to tell her.

  Funny how a thing can broaden as you get older, how it can be as true in Camelot as it was in Mississippi but can take on an entirely different meaning.

  "He appeared," Dragon explained. "That's his way. He knew about you. Not everything, but enough. He cautioned against trying to change the course of history."

  "I understand."

  And finally she did. What would happen if they tried? Would words, whole paragraphs, entire pages disappear from that ancient book she'd found? Or would it be mysteriously rewritten? Would there be a huge cosmic disturbance as every book about Camelot all over the world rewrote itself?

  Sometimes it took only the smallest detail to complicate a life so much that going off by yourself was the best thing to do. The only thing to do.

  It was like that with Lydia now. Going back to the twentieth century was the only thing to do.

  She stood up and took Dragon's hand. "I'm ready."

  o0o

  Nothing had changed except the angle of the sun across the meadow. Dragon had deliberately chosen the spot where she'd appeared, then scouted the area to make certain they were alone.

  "It's not working," she said.

  "I know that."

  They had tried everything. She'd put on the jogging clothes she'd been wearing, turned on her disc player, even plugged the earphones in. She'd tried transporting herself with her eyes open, eyes closed, quoting the passage from the book she'd been reading, even running around the meadow for two miles so she'd be in a sweat.

  "Is there anything you can think of, Lydia, anything you might have missed, anything you've forgotten?"

  She was sweaty, tired, disgruntled, disappointed, and just plain mad. Dragon had no right to look so calm. Was he so eager to get rid of her? Didn't he care about her at all?

  "Well, of course something's missing. My armchair, my book, my apartment. California, for Pete's sake." She raked her hair off her hot face. "Oh, I forgot one minor detail. The damned dragon, you know that odious creature that clawed me to pieces. In case you haven't noticed, he's missing."

  Lydia's mother had told her that true Southern ladies never raised their voices, but who cared about manners in a situation like this? Why hadn't her mother told her something practical such as how to keep from breaking down and crying when everything familiar had been taken from you and everything you'd come to love was in danger of being snatched, as well?

  "There's no need to shout, Lydia. I'm not hard of hearing."

  "No. Just stubborn." She flung the disc player away and fumbled with her fanny pack. "And bullheaded. And coldhearted." He tried to help her unfasten the fanny pack, but she slapped his hands away. "Haven't you done enough already?"

  Dragon watched as Lydia stalked off.

  "Lydia, where are you going?"

  She turned, hands on her hips. "What do you care? Aren't you the man who was going to zap me back to California?" Then, as always with Dragon, she softened.

  "To take a bath. Not that it's any of your business."

  "The water is swift in places. I don't want you carried off with the current."

  "That's rich. You're going to send me whirling through the centuries, but you don't want to risk me being carried off down the stream. Ha!" She marched away, her back stiff.

  o0o

  If Dragon lived to be a hundred, he'd never understand women. Not that he'd had much experience. Being a Knight of the Round Table was extremely demanding. What little time he'd spent with wenches had been hurried and unsatisfactory. Of course, he couldn't place the blame entirely on his obligations. The fact was, he'd never been that interested in the fairer sex.

  Until now. Until a fiery-haired wench with a temper to match had landed at his feet.

  He heard a splash and turned to see Lydia in the river, tanned arms slicing through the water. He cast off his clothes and plunged in beside her. She ignored him, but he found it impossible to do the same to her. He'd seen her naked in bed, had run his hands over her fever- flushed body, salving her wounds.

  But this was an entirely different matter. There was nothing left of her encounter with the dragon except a faint scar on her shoulder. And the way he wanted to run his hands over her body had nothing to do with tending her wounds.

  It was his wounds that needed tending. Wounds of the heart, wounds of the soul.

  "Lydia."

  She glanced at him over her shoulder, a half turn, reluctant, still defiant. Then knowledge came into her eyes, and she let herself drift with the current, drift until her foot touched his thigh. He circled his hands around her slim ankle.

  The water was deep and dark, and slowly she rode the current, parts of her bumping against him, now her hip then her thigh, next her upper arm. Soft, silky, mysterious. Glimpses enticing him. The indention at the base of her throat, a tip of an earlobe, one rosy nipple.

  What he was thinking was insane. What he wanted to do was dishonorable.

  Releasing her, he turned and casually began to wash his hair. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her stalking from the water, fists clenched, head held high.

  On the banks of the river she whirled on him.

  "Don't you ever ask anything? Don't you ever once consider that the woman might have an opinion worth listening to."

  If women of his time had opinions, they kept them to themselves. Custom dictated that he ignore her, instinct warned otherwise.

  "An opinion about what, Lydia?"

  "Idiot! Imbecile!" She turned her back on him, then stormed around, getting her clothes back on. With clothes clinging to her in wet patches and her bodice still open, she faced him again. "If you keep standing there in the water naked, I won't be responsible for what I might do."

  "I haven't finished my bath." He goaded her, deliberately standing in the shallows while he nonchalantly splashed water over himself. Her rages excited him as much as her childlike wonder and her sexy early- morning disheveled appearance and her catlike way of curling under the silk sheets at night.

  How could he bear to send her back?

  "By all means, parade around naked while I pack for my trip home." She tore through her pack, then emptied the contents on the ground till she found what she was looking for. She raked the comb furiously through her hair.

  "The great Knight of the Round Table made up his mind, and bam! That was it. I was supposed to go whirling through time and space. Just like that." She threw the comb to the ground and pawed through her belongings until she found her lipstick.

  Dragon found it endearing, that even in her fury she did the small, feminine task of making herself more beautiful. Gilding the lily, she'd told him in the dungeon as she explained the use of lipstick.

  "Well, for your information I've already tried to go home, and it didn't work."

  The lipstick slipped from her fingers, and she sat in a heap on the ground, skirts spread around her, neck drooping, as graceful as a wilted flower.

  "Lydia." He crouched beside her, hand on her shoulder.

  "Oh, Dragon." She looked up at him through damp lashes. "What are we going to do?"

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Merlin lived in a cave.

  It was unlike anything Lydia had ever seen. The descriptions in books, even the elaborate movie sets didn't do the wizard's dwelling place justice. Enormous purple column-like crystals circled the perimeter of the cave, and from these hung silk canopies in every color of the rainbow. Underneath this splendor was a large, round stone the color of a moonbeam, worn so smooth that it looked liquid, and atop that sat Merlin's crystal ball. Periodically sparks shot from the crystal ball, some like a blazing, spectacular fire, others like Fourth of July sparklers, some mere blips like tiny fireflies.

  Lydia and Dragon stood a respectful distance from the crystal ball, Archimedes perched atop a crystal colu
mn, complaining about being crowded, and Merlin paced the cave, the embroidered stars on his robe glowing, changing colors from red to orange to yellow.

  Dragon was ending his account of everything they'd done in an attempt to send Lydia home.

  "Can you help us?" he said finally.

  Merlin came to a halt before Lydia.

  "Did I bring you here?" he yelled.

  Momentarily stunned, Lydia remained silent. Landing in Camelot had been a shock, seeing a real knight in shining armor a fascination, but coming face-to-face with the legendary wizard of Camelot was unbelievable.

  Merlin leaned so close, the tip of his pointy hat poked Lydia in the chest. He was smaller than she'd imagined, hardly bigger than a medium-size twelve- year-old. She wondered if that was why he wore the tall pointed hat.

  "A simple answer will do. Yes or no? Nod your head if you can't speak."

  Dragon stepped forward, but Lydia made a restraining gesture with her hand.

  "You don't have to shout," she said. "I'm not hard of hearing, nor do I lack intelligence."

  Merlin stepped back and did a little jig. "Did you hear that, Archimedes?" he shouted. "When's the last time we had a wench in our house with more sense than a turnip?"

  "Morgana, Morgana," the raven chanted.

  Merlin waved his hand. "Except her. The enchantress doesn't count" He whipped a wand from his sleeve, made a circle eight in the air, and cups and saucers flew about and arranged themselves around the edge of the smooth stone.

  "Pull up a chair," Merlin said. "Sit down."

  "But there are no chairs," Lydia said.

  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than three chairs magically appeared, dark wood, probably ebony, heavily carved, with deep cushions of blue velvet. There was a gold star embroidered in the center of each cushion.

  "We didn't come for tea," Dragon said. A not-so- subtle reminder of their mission.

  "The Wart needs to teach his knights some manners. I'll suggest it." Merlin whipped his wand once more, and a huge teapot floated from the ceiling and poured steaming tea into their cups. One more flick of Merlin's wrist, and a tray of delectable sweets appeared on the table.

  "Ah, tea. A civilized custom." Merlin took a sip. "Needs a little lift, though." He snapped his fingers, and a clear amber liquid streamed into their cups. Out of the corner of her eye Lydia saw a bottle vanish through the top of the cave, and on its side a label that read J & B.

  "Scotch," Merlin said to Lydia, his eyes twinkling. "From your century."

  "If you can do that, then surely you can help us send Lydia back," Dragon said.

  "Good-bye," Merlin said as blue-and-silver smoke swirled around him.

  "Wait," Dragon said.

  "Where are you going?" Lydia didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. That's the state she'd been in since early morning when Dragon had announced he was going to send her home.

  "To my thinking place." Merlin's voice echoed around the cave, but there was nothing left of the necromancer except a tiny wisp of smoke in his chair.

  Lydia turned to Dragon. "Will he be back?"

  "With Merlin, you never know."

  "Maybe coming here wasn't such a good idea." Though, truth to tell, Lydia wouldn't have missed seeing his cave for anything in the world. It appealed to the child in her, the romantic in her. The whole place looked like something she'd dreamed, and when she got back to California ... if she got back to California .. . Merlin's cave would be one of the things she'd never forget.

  Dragon would be the other, and she couldn't bear to think of waking up every morning and not seeing him. A light went out in her soul.

  "Lydia, there is no other way," Dragon said, as if he knew what she was thinking.

  He was right, of course. Impossible to think of staying. Impossible to think of becoming a citizen of Camelot. Impossible to think of loving a man from another century.

  "I know you're right, Dragon. In my mind, I know it." But the truth was a bell in her heart, ringing and ringing.

  "LYDIA."

  Lydia knew that voice. It resounded through the cave, causing her to start from her chair, hand over her mouth.

  Dragon heard it too. He drew his sword so fast, it whistled through the air.

  "Get behind me, Lydia." One hand snaked out and pulled her back.

  "I don't see him. Where is he?"

  Smoke filled the cave, and the stench of fire and brimstone. Any minute Lydia expected to see the dragon's breath sear the air, to feel the dragon's claws rake her arm. Worse, to see his talons rip the sword from Dragon's hands, then tear him limb from limb.

  Suddenly the air crackled and all the crystals in Merlin's cave sizzled, sending sparks that caught Archimedes's tail on fire. The raven squawked, then spewed forth a string of curses that would have Merlin wallowing in hell for the next hundred and fifty years.

  They smelled the dragon's breath, but nothing was visible except his giant tail. Snakelike, it waved around the cave, knocking over teacups, tea cakes, and chairs. There was a loud explosion as the tail swooped across the smooth stone, and suddenly the crystal ball was airborne.

  Dragon's sword flashed. There was a crack as if the earth had split in two, and Merlin's hat emerged from the smoke, then his beard, then the wizard himself, hugging his crystal ball tightly against his chest.

  "Higgledy piggledy, poppity poe. Snout and talons and tail, all go."

  The smoke vanished, the teacups and tea cakes rearranged themselves, and the chairs slid back around the stone table.

  Merlin sat down, still clutching his crystal ball. "It didn't work, did it?"

  "You did all that?" Dragon's face was thunderous as he replaced his sword.

  "Did you or did you not come to me for help?"

  "Not that kind."

  "I thought the dragon would help." Merlin leaned across the stone table toward Lydia. "You didn't concentrate, did you?"

  "It was all so unexpected."

  "Hmmm." Merlin rubbed his long beard, then paced his cave with Archimedes flying along beside him, complaining. "Hmmm, now let me see." He wheeled on Lydia once more. "There's a question that needs asking. Did Dragon ask you that question?"

  "What question?" she said.

  "One. Only one." Merlin whipped his wand from the sleeve of his robe and held it as if he were planning to conduct the Boston Pops Orchestra.

  "Do you want to go home?"

  o0o

  Not only had Lydia not answered Merlin's question, but she had been silent all the way back to Dragon's castle. In fact, she'd gone straight to her room and had not come out, even for dinner.

  Dragon missed her. His table was too big for one, his dining room too empty without her presence. Impatiently he pulled the bell cord.

  Laird himself responded.

  "Go tell Lydia dinner is getting cold. She's to come to the table immediately."

  Laird kept his expression carefully neutral. "Anything else?"

  Knowing Lydia, Dragon thought of moderating his demand. "That's all."

  He stared at the grease congealing on the venison until Laird came back

  "Well?"

  "She said dinner can freeze for all she cares."

  Dragon reined his temper in. It had been a long and trying day. No need to make it worse by losing control.

  He thought about the futile attempts to send Lydia home. What must she be feeling right now?

  "Go and tell her that's not a command, it's a request."

  Laird was back in the time it took for Dragon to pace around the table twice.

  "She said she'd starve before eating at your table."

  "She said that?"

  "She did. She said . . ." Laird wrinkled his brow and scratched his head. "Let me see if I can get this right. These are her words, not mine: 'Tell his Dreadful Dragonness that after today I'm on my own.' "

  Dragon bolted. "Sire," Laird called after him, but he kept on going.

  Lydia was standing in the middle of her bedcham
ber, a wilted bouquet in one hand and a bundle in the other. Shadow stood between her and the doorway, hackles up.

  "Call off your wolf," she said.

  "What do you think you're doing?"

  "Isn't that obvious? I'm leaving."

  "You can't leave."

  "How dare you say that to me." Tossing her bundle on the bed, she came after him, red hair and fists flying.

  He caught her wrists and held her at arm's length. Her bodice heaved with fury, but what he saw in her eyes was something different, something that almost broke his heart.

  "Lydia, we need to talk."

  "You never talk. All you do is give orders."

  "I know today has been hard for you."

  "How could you possibly know? You tried to send me home, not once but twice."

  "Is that why you want to go?"

  "Yes." Her fury ebbed, leaving a woman extremely appealing, extremely vulnerable. "Mostly . . . partially."

  "I'm going to release you now, and we're going to sit down and discuss this. All right?"

  Unfortunately the only place to sit was on the bed. She was too close. She smelled too good. He remembered other times he'd sat on the bed, when the sheet had been soft against her skin, her body rosy with sleep.

  His passion was involuntary, and with it that edge of fear. His fear neither diminished nor surprised him. Only the foolish are fearless. Dragon had learned that on the battleground at the age of fourteen. King Arthur had reinforced the lesson.

  And so he embraced his fear. It was a warning: In order to keep Lydia safe, he had to keep his distance.

  "Now, tell me why you want to leave."

  Years of practice had taught Dragon immense control, and yet he was surprised that it came at a time when he felt his insides shattered.

  "I'm a handicap to you, Dragon, perhaps even a danger, and along with all that I'm an independent woman. I've always managed on my own, and that's what I'm going to do now. I'm going to find a place of my own."

  The thought of Lydia alone in Camelot chilled his blood.

  "You will not."

  "Don't roar at me."

  "I'm not roaring. I'm exercising good judgment."

  "I won't change my mind. Besides, you don't want me. You made that perfectly clear today."