“Are you all right?”
Sir Ayjay, his head cocked to one side, so contrasted with Lord Matheus, Marion couldn’t hold on to the gloom wrapping itself around her shoulders. There would be plenty of opportunity for it later on.
“Of course, I am. What makes you say this?”
She did try not to snap but ended up sounding cross just the same. She hoped she hadn’t spoiled the moment.
“You’d never make a good lawyer, Lady Marion. You don’t lie very well.”
How perceptive. And how she’d thought the man was only an indolent lord with perfect hands…and a perfect body.
Marion was reminded in an acute manner how long it’d been since her last intimate encounter with a man. Since Johannes’ death, she hadn’t known a man, only the occasional solitary pleasure she managed to draw from her tired frame. She couldn’t help the sudden and vivid image of a man such as Sir Ayjay making love to her. Heat gathered low in her belly. She hid her embarrassment behind a polite cough.
They shared a quick grin before honoring Cook’s stew—under her watchful eyes. Sir Ayjay’s facial expression, which bordered on rapture, must have convinced the old woman for she nodded, muttered something under her breath then returned to her work.
“Lady Marion,” Hugo called from the doorway. He looked cross to the highest degree when he spotted their guest sitting across from her. “There’s a problem at the gate. It’s loud and pompous and wears a ruby ring.”
“Her Ladyship is eating, tell the fop to wait—”
“Cook!” snapped Marion, afraid Sir Ayjay would take offense at her staff taking such liberties with their tongues.
Cook snarled a curse as she brought the cleaver down with violence. A trio of carrots were instantly chopped in half. “Sargans would be well and fine if Lord Matheus would fall on his sword, this one.”
“My thanks, Cook, I can take care of him by myself.” Marion tried to ignore the old woman’s sadistic look as she beheaded another bunch of carrots. “My apologies, Sir Ayjay, but I must meet with Lord Matheus. He is not a patient man, I fear. I shall join you in my study, if you wish. We can discuss your stay there.” She rose from the table, was shocked when he followed suit and waited for her to depart before sitting again.
An expression bordering on open hostility flashed on Hugo’s face. He rubbed his beard downward—a sure sign of his ill humor—as he stared at the visitor, his other hand rested lightly on the pommel of his sword.
“A word, my lady. It’s all I need to set him right.”
She wasn’t sure if Hugo referred to Matheus, the arrogant lord and neighbor, or Sir Ayjay, the curious visitor. He’d spoken in French so all three would understand. The stranger visibly bristled and stared back at Hugo. Trouble was a-brewing between these two.
“Who’s this Lord Matheus? Does he have a phone?”
Though he came from far away and spoke a strange, clipped French, she could tell he was being mocking again and didn’t appreciate it. Not with the prospect of facing Matheus and his increasingly forceful proposals. She was running out of options. As usual, when faced with troubles and more wretchedness for her people—Matheus’ way of punishing her for refusing him—she hid it all behind a wall of crossness.
“I am fairly well-educated, Sir Ayjay, and if I do not know what a ‘fone’ is, neither shall Lord Matheus. I suggest you curb your tone in my home. I am still mistress of Sargans and intend to remain as long as I can.”
He looked shocked at first but quickly recovered as he straightened to his considerable height. “And I don’t think I like your tone, Lady Marion or whoever the hell you are. Do you have any idea the trouble I could heap on your pretty head?”
“Do you have any idea how quickly I could have you part with yours?”
With a beaming Hugo by her side, she left Sir Ayjay open-mouthed and clearly at a loss for words. A sharp TWAK indicated Cook had vented her displeasure upon the tubers lined on the table.
Chapter Three
He’d been threatened with everything from legal actions, a trip downriver with concrete slippers and chicken blood sent by mail…but beheading? That was new.
The back of Lady Marion proved just as delicious as the front of her. And here he thought he had her all charmed and everything. Then Hugo the Barbarian had shown up. Party pooper.
A.J. watched her storm out of the kitchen and down the corridor, the entire time admiring the way her hips swung left to right. Hugo turned just before they’d disappeared around a corner and A.J. swore he saw the other man grin derisively.
Asshole.
Sitting back down, he grabbed the hunk of bread supposed to serve as a utensil and offered an apologetic smile at the cook, who returned it a hundredfold. At least this one he’d won over. She must have been eighty years old.
I need to work on my material.
A quick check at his watch reminded him he’d crashed late afternoon on Wednesday…it was now almost five o’clock on Friday and there hadn’t been a thing done about it that he knew of. Damn, how long would it take for him to be found? Wasn’t someone somewhere missing a three million dollar airplane?
“So, how long have you been holding this fair? You’re all pretty convincing, I must admit.”
“Sir?”
Something told him he wouldn’t be getting anything out of the old woman if he didn’t play along. Plus, she’d fed him the most delicious stew he’d ever had. For free too!
“Lady Marion is quite a headstrong character.”
A look of nostalgia flashed in the wizened eyes. “The lady has been through much, even before Lord Johannes, rest his soul.” She crossed herself and spat on the floor. Spat on the floor. In the kitchen… “He died four years ago. She’s been running the wool ever since.”
“Her husband died?” A.J. asked, unsure if it was her real-life husband who’d died or her character’s husband. The grief in the old woman’s eyes convinced him it must have been the former. No one could fake this sort of pain.
“It would’ve been bad enough without his cousin, that vain, milk-livered measle. He’s trying to take over, the swine, and keeps raising the levies. And when it doesn’t work, he comes sniffing around, harasses the lady. Poor woman.”
They even had the insults down pat too. Milk-livered measle. He’d have to remember that one. Would look great in the newspaper!
A split second after he logged the insult for future use, the “harasses the lady” part started to bother him. They’re all actors, man, get a grip. “Harasses how?”
The old woman stopped her work, stared at him unblinkingly as she stabbed the butcher knife in the table. It twanged when she released it. “What do men do to harass ladies, good sir?”
Feeling on-the-spot worse than a witness during cross-examination, he tried not to squirm. She had the Hostile Judge Look, the one that usually told him he wouldn’t be charming his way through this judge. Truth always worked best with those kind. “That Matheus person has been having troubles with his hearing, can’t understand the word no when it slaps him in the face? That sort of harassment?”
Cook nodded solemnly. “Tries to drag the woman to the altar. His own cousin’s widow.” She spat again.
A.J. hoped she didn’t do that sort of thing near the stew.
As much as he forced himself to remember everything there was a show, everyone actors, he couldn’t help the knot forming in his gut. A good spike of adrenaline rushed through him. He stood and put his bowl and untouched mug near the pile on a table by the wall.
“Where’s the front gate from here?”
She gave him a wide, knowing grin. He’d just scored a thousand points with her. Too bad he no longer cared.
Feeling pissed off and railroaded, A.J. left the kitchen, followed the old woman’s sketchy directions, finding he was walking much quicker than he ought to. What the hell was wrong with him? Why the sudden urge to see Lady Marion and make a complete fool of himself by interfering with the show? And where had th
e sudden feeling of protectiveness for her come from?
Concussion, that’s where. Scrambled eggs for brain. If I’ve lost any mental faculty, I’ll sue them and the next four generations. Their dogs and neighbors too.
Everything was spinning around him. What fucked-up place was this? Where had he landed? And he still needed to pee, dammit, but no way in hell he was using their bathrooms. He’d wait until the rescue helicopter would come get him. Everyone must be looking for the missing plane by now. Surely the place would soon crawl with police and mountain rescue teams, and when he got out of fucking Conan Land, he’d get their organization for everything they were worth.
A pair of maids, he guessed, froze to look at him when he passed by. But they did return his smile. Feeling smug and somewhat relieved, he recognized Hugo’s booming voice as he reached a large sort of rustic ballroom-looking area with a giant fireplace along the far wall and a candelabrum hanging high over several long trestle tables. From medieval movies he’d seen, he guessed a meal must have been close at hand. What were these rooms called again? Ah, the great hall.
Just as he was crossing the threshold, a scene right out of the movies unfolded before him. He wondered if it was part of the show as well or if Lord What’s His Name really was grabbing Lady Marion by a wrist and keeping her put while a man read from a scroll.
Hugo had his sword out and looked ready to break heads but obviously wouldn’t attack Lord Asshole when Lady Marion was giving him the Evil Eye. To add to the excitement, a pair of Evil Henchmen stood silent guard behind their lord. Wow. What a show. A.J. wondered where the spectators were hiding. Unless this was all a dress rehearsal. This troupe really was going all out for their fair. Living like folks from the medieval times, dressing like them and talking some strange old-style version of French. As much as he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to spot a single anachronism anywhere in the castle. No cleverly disguised light fixture or electrical socket, no one with glasses or watches. Everything was very period. Toilets included.
A.J. silently made his way forward, wishing for the cell phone in his lost briefcase with unhealthy passion. He should be playing golf with that filthy-rich Swiss CEO, smoking cigars and drinking to their success. A nice glass of…well, ginger ale since he never, ever, touched booze in case he turned out like the piece of shit his father had been.
Surely it was all part of the game when Lord Asshole yanked Marion so she’d stop struggling against his grip. Her braid fell from her shoulder and dangled down her back. It was long, almost down to her delicious butt. And when the guy raised his gloved hand, palm opened and angled in a way that every human being on Earth would know what was coming…it had to be part of the show too, right?
Right?
The resounding clack of leather against skin had the effect of a lightning bolt right in the balls. A.J. jolted, his fists suddenly balled tighter than ever before. “Hey! What the hell’s wrong with you!”
His courtroom voice boomed satisfyingly across the stone hall and froze everyone in place, including Lady Marion, who glared at him and silently shook her head. He didn’t like the pleading look in her eyes. It cut right through his chest. Either she was an uncannily gifted actress or this jerk had slapped her for real.
“When she presses charges against you, I’ll be happy to defend her case, and pro bono too! I’d start looking for a good lawyer if I were you. And I’m already taken.”
The ugly red mark darkening her cheek confirmed his fear. The sight of it alone triggered a spike of adrenaline in his primeval male ego and A.J. aimed for Duke Brutish, stopping only when he stood a pace away. To his undying satisfaction, he stood almost a head taller and quite a bit wider at the shoulders than the man.
“Take your hand off Lady Marion.” He realized in his anger he’d reverted to English.
Baron Woman-Beater said something. Was it German they were all speaking? A.J. repeated his command in French. With a sneer, the recipient of a Bulletproof Set of Battery Charges released Marion.
“Who is your valiant defender, Lady Marion? I have never seen him on my land.”
A.J. raised his hand. “Lady Marion, ordinarily I’d say don’t tell the asshole a thing unless your lawyer is there, but since I am here, just go ahead and lay it on him thick. We’ll all blame it on self-defense afterward, which isn’t far from the truth actually. I even know a lady judge who’d love to get her claws into King Turdface the First…she likes them brutish and ugly—she likes them so much—the women-beaters—there’s a prison I know with an entire wing dedicated to her catches. He’d look perfect behind a nice row of iron bars, no?” He encouraged her with a special grin, those he reserved for shy witnesses. Female ones.
At the word asshole, Matheus’ face took on an entertaining shade of red, which went very well with his auburn hair.
Lady Marion snapped her chin up as only women could. “I suggest you refrain from venting your ire on me again, Lord Matheus, for Sir Ayjay would likely take offense as he is to be my husband.”
Hey!
A.J.’s first reaction was to laugh but he quickly killed the urge when he spotted the determined desperation in her eyes. A woman desperate and determined…no telling what she might do. He had a healthy respect for the expression “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”. A very smart man had written it and very smart men listened to it if they wanted to “live long and prosper” as Spock said. A.J. was smart. Capital S. Don’t piss off women.
Anyway, he knew what was going on. She’d only meant to stonewall the guy and had thrown the first thing she could think of. The classic “my boyfriend is bigger than you” method. Sure, he could pretend for a while. And he’d been thrown live grenades worse than this enough times to hide his feelings.
Playing along, A.J. nodded, crossed his arms over his chest and enjoyed the look of rage, hatred and disbelief alternatively tightening and screwing Lord Asshole’s face. All in all, A.J. enjoyed playing the bigger boyfriend.
“I was not aware of your…plans,” Matheus said, narrowing his pale gaze at her.
To her credit, she stared right back and didn’t let the jerk intimidate her. A.J. wanted to pat her on the back. She’d make a fine witness during cross-examination. He’d just sorely needed one such woman a few weeks back, when his own witness had required all his coaching and patient smiles to remember her lines as the prosecutor had cut into her.
“You did not inform me prior to your arrangements? I feel much aggrieved.”
A.J. wanted to snort in laughter. Aggrieved? Wow, don’t hear that one every day.
“You are my deceased husband’s cousin and lord of this land, Lord Matheus, but a woman’s heart is her own.”
“A woman’s heart—and place—is where she’s told it should lie.”
With Hugo visibly about to go nuclear, A.J. put his arm around Lady Marion’s shoulder and looked the offended husband-to-be. Damn he really was getting into this whole thing. “I demand an apology, sir.”
Lord Matheus smiled benignly. “Because I find you amusing, Sir…”
“Alexandre-Jean Bernier,” A.J. replied with all the brand-name chic he could put into his name. Like saying, those are Italian leather shoes. It’s a Gucci purse you’re looking at. That’s not any forehead but a Botox forehead.
“Sir Alexandre-Jean Bernier,” repeated Matheus, becoming serious once more. “Because I find you highly entertaining, I shall invite you to my humble abode across the river. You and your charming future wife shall dine with me come this day of our Lord. I shall enjoy your repartee more fully at that time. Lady Marion, as always, it was a pleasure.” He bowed then marched toward the double doors leading out.
“I am looking forward to it,” A.J. replied loudly. He hated not having the last word.
The guy with the scroll and the two Evil Henchmen fell into step behind their lord.
What a hoot! Perfectly delivered. He should’ve been an actor. Well, he was close.
“Sir Ayjay…” Lady Marion began,
faltered then shook her head.
A.J. just shrugged. “We need to talk, I know. But you should put some ice on your cheek first. And you,” he added, turning on Hugo and pointing at the sword. “You’re the one with the pointy stick. Why didn’t you smite him down or something?”
“Lady Marion—”
“I told him not to interfere. Hugo is my friend and captain of the guard. He would not let serious harm come to me.”
To his credit, Hugo really did look ashamed he’d followed her orders instead of his own guy instincts. He sheathed his sword and mumbled something in the other language everyone else spoke as he stormed out of the great hall.
“I do not know what came over me.” She sank on a nearby stool and pinched the bridge of her nose.
Though he knew she had to be acting, his instincts told him this was real misery he saw, not something for his benefit. If anything, she looked embarrassed by her emotional response and mightily tried to keep the tears he knew were there from spilling over. Good acting. Too bad there wasn’t any audience to enjoy it.
“Is His Anally Retentive Lordship part of the show as well?” he asked as he leaned back against the table and crossed his ankles. “What was he doing here?”
“When you arrived, his notary was reading an edict from my husband’s family. This was his castle, his land. When he died, because we had no children, the governance of everything he owned passed to Lord Matheus, his cousin, except for the daily affairs and the wool trade. I am almost a tenant here, in my own home.”
“I doubt the people here view you as a tenant. You’re the Boss Lady. But what was he reading? Was he going to throw you out?”
“No, he was going to marry me.”
“Let me guess, to himself, right?”
She nodded.
“Not that I can blame him for dreaming but did he think hitting you would make you want to marry him? He’s a real charmer, isn’t he?”
A mirthless laugh created dimples in her cheeks. He loved dimples.
Timely Defense Page 3
