White-hot darts of pain lanced behind his eyeballs. With a grunt, he cradled his head in his hands, hurt the stitches on his eyebrow. But he didn’t really care did he? Pain was good. It meant he still had a few brain cells left.
I’ll be stuck here for a while. Unless they already found me and I’m sitting in an adult diaper drenched in my own piss, fetal position and all, in a padded room somewhere. Maybe…
Fuck maybe!
What if Marion was real? She’d felt real enough as he made love with her. She’d felt alive, warm, genuine. Not the usual dolls he felt safe around, knowing they only wanted some fun and a nice gift, both of which he didn’t mind providing as long as they didn’t stick around afterward. He didn’t know why people gave such a hard time to pretty women who weren’t interested in any but the most superficial things. There wasn’t anything wrong with that. They were perfect for shallow guys such as him.
But Marion…he wouldn’t mind if she stayed a while.
She’s gotta be real. For my sanity.
What if there wouldn’t be any phones, rescue teams and police? What if no salvage operation to hoist the plane out of the lake got there? What if he wouldn’t see his friends again, though he had precious few good ones but plenty of so-so ones? No more coffee, hair gel and toilet paper either. This time he laughed for real. He laughed because he was afraid to start crying.
“I think I hit my head pretty hard,” he murmured as he gazed into her eyes the color of a clear winter sky.
A spike of pain in his head made him squeeze his eyes shut. A full-blown migraine was presently taking residence behind his eyeballs and forced his jaws together. Christ, he’d commit every major offense in the book for a triple-strength painkiller right now.
What if he had, for real, been thrown back in time, right in the Middle Ages? How did one get back to the future? Should he wait for another storm, stand on top of the tallest tower and play chicken with lightning strikes?
Murmuring soothing words in a language he guessed he should start learning soon, Lady Marion wrapped her arms around his neck and brought A.J. to her, pressed until his forehead rested against her generous chest then just held him without a single word being said. The heat of her ampleness engulfed him and he found himself wrapping his arms around her waist and holding on tight, like a man about to drown, lose himself and his world. Lose his mind.
As shocking at it was, his migraine receded. They usually lasted much longer than this. The beat of her heart was loud and rhythmic, a soothing constant in his upside-down world and if he’d indeed lost everything he’d known, at least he’d found this much.
“I want mead,” he said, his voice muffled by the wool dress. “Lots of it.”
* * * * *
Marion sat in her study the next morning having spent the night dreaming about a dark-haired man with gentle hands and a wicked mouth. She hated admitting it to herself, but in a selfish and shameful way, how Sir Ayjay’s people wouldn’t likely be coming to get him fitted perfectly in her hope of convincing her confused Norman lord to stay. She wished she could restore his memory, could help him get his bearings back. She hadn’t had the heart to comment on his bracelet’s ability to “tell time” nor his little piece of crumbled decorative parchment or his fire-making device, preferring not to encourage his turmoil by appearing interested. He’d looked so desperate. It had broken her heart.
Meanwhile, she’d make sure he felt at home at Sargans. It was the least she could do for him. As for the marriage… Marion sighed. She’d have to find a way to tell everyone the truth without losing face. Or losing Sir Ayjay.
But what if they were to marry for real? It would take care of everything. She enjoyed spending time with the man, had already been intimate with him. He clearly felt something for her, even if only on a carnal level. They could live in Sargans together, even sleep in separate chambers if he refused to share hers. Marion looked up at the ceiling and cursed. What had gotten into her? Using wily tricks to keep a man was beneath her. She was a woman of action, not underhanded tactics. She’d ask him outright to marry her and hope for the best.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
“Yes.”
As soon as she saw Sir Ayjay enter the study, Marion knew he was in a foul mood. His usually perfect hair stood on ends, his eyes were bloodshot and his hands shook as he rearranged his undertunic collar.
“Morning,” he muttered.
Confused, she cocked her head. “Yes, it is indeed morning.”
With a scowl, he sank in the chair in front of the cold hearth and leaned back so he could rest his head. “You know what I want?”
Marion shifted behind her desk as his words elicited a stab of need through her belly and sex. She knew what she wanted…him.
He must have caught the subtle change in her for he cocked an eyebrow, even managed a faint, mocking little smile. “That too. But I was thinking along more everyday things like fresh clothes, a shower with enough water pressure to drill a hole in my skull, a nice clean shirt with razor-sharp pressing and, for Christ’s sake,” he pinched the fabric of his hose and snorted in disgust, “I want pants with one vertical crease not forty horizontal ones. I want clean drawers. That’d be nice. You can just turn them around so many times. A cup of coffee. Oh and I want to shave. I don’t mind a five o’clock shadow but this is getting ridiculous.”
He sighed.
Trying not to laugh, Marion stood from behind her desk and joined him by the cold hearth. “Coffee? What sort of drink is it?”
“The kind that wakes your brain. Mine is asleep, just like my ass.” He shifted in the chair, raked a hand in his hair and grimaced. “Great, Elvis hair too.”
She laughed without knowing why. “What is an ‘elvis’?”
“I’m not sure anyone knows.”
Such a strange man.
Her mirth faded when she recalled the coming day’s event. “This is the day of our Lord. Lord Matheus expects us to dine with him tonight. But I can go with Hugo alone if you desire.”
Sir Ayjay grinned a malicious smile. Again, she was reminded this mountain lion indeed had claws. Sharp ones. “Oh no, you’re not taking all the fun away from me. I’m looking forward to it actually. I work so much better when I’m caffeine deprived, hung-over and wearing dirty clothes.”
“I can do little about some of your requests but I can help you with the clothes, especially now that Thomas is here. He is well traveled and knows all the recent cuts.”
Sir Ayjay threw a suspicious glance at her. “Recent cuts…? Ha!”
“I thought perhaps you would enjoy having garments made for you. My stitching is good. Hannah and I made all of my clothes.” Marion smoothed the dress over her lap. She caught Sir Ayjay’s hungry gaze on her thighs. A frisson of arousal tightened her nipples. Perversely, she hoped he could see the effect he had on her while at the same time, she prayed for inner strength…she would need it tonight to face Lord Matheus. But since Sir Ayjay had claimed he wanted to be present, the prospect no longer horrified her. It merely terrified her.
“Handmade clothes, aren’t I just the luckiest guy…” he muttered, stopped abruptly then straightened in his chair. “Sorry. Your clothes are fine, I’m just not used to these cuts.” He stood.
“Right now?” she asked, joining him by the door.
He nodded. “I’ll go wash up first but if you don’t mind, I’d like to get my hands on clean clothes as soon as I can. Before I start attracting flies.”
His derisive tone made the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise. But she had to remind herself the man was lost, far from his home. She wondered if all Norman lords were as eccentric as this one was. Not only his clothes and strange ways but how he spoke and thought. No man she knew of would demand to use the ladies’ privacy area.
“Very well, I shall send for you in a little while.”
While Sir Ayjay returned to his chambers, she rounded up Thomas, who sat in the kitchen, sharing his most recent tal
es with a grumbling Cook and Hannah, whom she sent to get Sir Ayjay and gather the cloth necessary to fit his tall body.
They met in the day room where light was the best. Sir Ayjay was already there and looked highly suspicious when Hannah arrived carrying a bundle of dark blue wool. Marion experienced a stitch of melancholy when she spotted the cloth. It had been Johannes’ favorite color.
“There,” she pointed toward a narrow door that led to a small chamber where they stored sewing and weaving supplies. “You can change in there while we prepare the cloth.”
“Too far. My head will explode first.”
His hair still wet, he removed his wrinkled clothes, only keeping the adjusted underthings on. Hannah flushed beet red while Thomas made no pretense to look elsewhere. She swore she saw admiration in his pale eyes. But she’d always had certain beliefs about her jaunty, voluble friend’s penchants. And truth be told, their guest was a fine specimen!
When Sir Ayjay turned and stood in front of the long and narrow window, she couldn’t help taking a moment to admire his strong and lean form, the way sunlight caressed his raven black hair and eyebrows, made them look almost indigo. With a sigh, she spread the cloth between Hannah and herself and draped it over his shoulders.
“He is so long,” Hannah whispered in German as she tried to fit the man’s legs but running out of fabric well above the ankle. “We’ll need more, my lady. Much more.”
Marion agreed with a nod. “Please get the rest and go through the trunk in my chamber as well. Boots, belts, anything. Surely something can fit him.”
Hannah nodded solemnly before rushing out of the room. Even Thomas threw her a cautious look. She’d just offered to go through Johannes’ affairs to fit another man. But why waste all those fine garments? He wasn’t coming back. She’d made her peace with his departure long ago—the poor man had suffered enough from the black lung before passing on—and realized she couldn’t afford to grieve his passing any longer. Not with Matheus circling like a vulture. Plus, Sir Ayjay was alive and present and needed clothes on his back. His smooth and powerful back, so soft and lean… Marion shook her head.
“I heard about the special event tonight,” Thomas remarked, a sparkle of mischief in his pale gaze. “I would very much enjoy attending as well.”
Marion grinned. “Lord Matheus would not be so pleased.”
Sir Ayjay seemed to snap out of his dark musing and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh? He doesn’t like you either?”
A look of utter bliss came over Thomas. “Matheus loves himself the most and has many works of art displayed throughout Ragatz bearing his resemblance. He did not appreciate my ballad about his tastes.”
Sir Ayjay snorted. “His castle is named Rat Ass?”
Thomas and Marion both laughed long and hard. Finally, when Sir Ayjay’s smile had begun to dim slightly and confusion to darken his gaze, Thomas shook his head. “Not ‘Rat Ass’, although I shall call it so from now on. RAhg-Atss.”
Hannah returned with her arms full of clothes and bundles of cloth. Marion helped her set everything on the tapestry trestle and sifted through the many things. Thomas sat while both women dressed, wrapped and draped bits and pieces over Sir Ayjay, who showed remarkable patience for a man. Not a single sigh or roll of eyes. Marion even suspected he was enjoying himself.
“This is very nice wool,” he said appreciatively, rubbing the cloth between his fingers. “Is it from here?”
“Yes. We spin it here at Sargans,” Marion replied, pleased her guest would recognize fine wool when he saw it. “We also dye and cut it. Our cloth is very prized.”
“No wonder.”
The look he gave her would have melted the snowy cap right off Mount Galen. She felt herself blush.
Finally, after much work and adjustments and several of Thomas’ suggestions, Sir Ayjay stood dressed in a fine dark blue sleeveless tunic over a gown of the same cloth, both cinched by a brown, studded leather belt matching the supple boots. Fitted hose showed his impossibly long and muscular legs. A raw linen undertunic provided perfect contrast to the dark garments. He looked magnificent. Hannah and Thomas joined her as all three stared at Sir Ayjay, who looked down at himself, pinched the hem of the knee-length gown and lifted it slightly.
“This is so gay.”
Marion clasped her hands together and agreed with a hearty nod. “Is it not? The color is particularly vivid. We used twice the amount of woad on this batch, did we not, Hannah? And put only a small measure of madder root. That shade of blue befits you admirably.”
“I meant…never mind.” Sir Ayjay shook his head sadly.
Marion helped Hannah put everything back in order but kept an eye on Sir Ayjay as he walked around the room, trying his new clothes for fit. She’d never seen such a graceful yet well-built man.
“Sir Ayjay, you shall leave every woman swooning in your wake,” Thomas commented.
Their visitor arched an eyebrow while a roguish grin tilted his mouth. “Just the women, huh?”
Thomas blushed. “Hannah, my dear, I shall help you with all this.” He rushed to the maid’s side and both shared the pile of leftover cloth and other pieces lying around.
When they were alone together, Sir Ayjay leaned against the wall to look out the window.
“Is something troubling you?”
“I need to vent.”
“You need to ‘vent’?”
“Somewhere outside, nice and open, where I can drive some balls. I need to vent.”
Whatever “venting” and “driving balls” meant for him, he needed it sorely. She accompanied him to his chamber where he retrieved the strange pack Thorins had found lying near the lake. She’d finally get to see what it contained. Weapons most probably.
After they stepped outside and crossed the courtyard—under many admiring stares—she took him up along the rocky ledge, past the sloping pastures where grazed the sheep that produced the wool for which Sargans was renowned. Long grass undulated in gentle waves with the soft breeze of midafternoon. The hem of her dress in hand, she stopped for a quick glance at the snowy peaks surrounding them. Below, the river separating Sargans from Ragatz and Lord Matheus’ fortress resembled a ribbon of silver silk. She took a deep breath.
“You must love it here,” Sir Ayjay commented. He put the pack on the ground and leaned it gently on its side. Whatever lay inside was precious to him.
“I do. Although I am not from Sargans but a neighboring burg to the north, I adopted it the first day I arrived to meet my future husband.” The charismatic Johannes and she had quickly discovered many shared interests. He’d been a good, attentive husband, despite their inability to produce children. He had never blamed her nor had he endured anyone who did.
“When did he die?”
“Four, almost five years ago. Black lung took him. He was in such pain at the end, the Lord taking him came as a boon to us all, including him.” She crossed herself.
Sir Ayjay nodded. “You must miss him.”
She had for a long time, had missed her friend acutely. But looking at this strange man and remembering the softness of his touch and the mirth in his dark eyes, she couldn’t honestly say she missed Johannes any longer. Or not as sharply anyway. How strange.
“Sometimes I catch myself not thinking about him for long periods. I no longer miss him the way I did, even though I loved him dearly. That wound is healed. Come,” she went on, pointing to a plateau about a hundred paces or so to their right. “From what you said, I know the perfect place for you to ‘vent’.”
He shouldered his pack and followed her up the narrow ledge until they reached a grassy stretch relatively flat and level.
His wide smile rewarded her. Sir Ayjay nodded several times. “Perfect.”
She watched him as he set the pack against a boulder, pulled something down which made a slit appear over its covering then slid a metal pole out. He straightened, swung the pole over his shoulder and looked out at the vast lush valley stretching b
elow their feet.
“The wind might be a problem, but it’s something no one can control.”
He fished around the pack, snaked his arm completely in the top opening then pulled his hand out. A box and a small pointy item she couldn’t see clearly were in his hand. He put it between his lips and carried the small box a few paces closer to the edge, set it on the ground. Marion drew near. Small white balls in neat rows filled the box. He picked one ball, retrieved the little stick he’d put between his teeth and planted it in the ground. A moment was needed to balance the ball onto the stick’s blunt end. He stood, backed a pace then widened his stance.
“Why don’t you go stand over there, Marion? You don’t want to be behind me when I swing. I have quite the wingspan with these arms.”
Marion backed away then waited with bated breath. What could this ritual be about? Sir Ayjay spent a long time lightly tamping the ground with his feet, back and forth, moving a heel by a hair or so. Such meticulousness. He wrapped the “handle” end of the pole in both hands, laced his fingers together then rolled his shoulders. Marion resisted the urge to tap her foot. What could require so much preparation? Then Sir Ayjay looked out over the edge, squared his shoulders.
Something was about to happen.
Moving his torso, he twisted up, up until his arms pointed almost all the way back behind him then with a fluid movement, he brought the lumpy end of the pole down with much speed and force and hit the little white ball.
The dry CLAK reverberated around them.
He shielded his eyes with a hand and followed the ball’s incredible flight high and far until she couldn’t see it anymore.
“Is this an important ritual in your homeland?”
“It’s like a rite of passage,” he replied, clearly proud of himself. “It separates the photocopier room from the boardroom, gophers from partners. Until you master this game, you’re not good enough to meet the boss.”
She didn’t understand a word he said. But looking at him, his cheeks flushed with pleasure, his eyes twinkling, she could appreciate how important this custom must have been for him.
Timely Defense Page 9
