One brow lifted high, her eyes narrowed a fraction and Shakira asked with definite doubt
in her tone, “Really?”
Electra was a master of the arched brow. It always preceded a negative reaction. No
surprise Shakira’s hooked brow didn’t stem from a positive one.
“Like I said, I’ve given a lot of thought to how I feel about him and his world. I’ve given
more thought to how I feel about us as a couple. I don’t care whether he’s a bit daft, if he is, because he’s daft in an amusing and harmless way, as you pointed out.”
“You want to explain the ‘if’ in your comment?” Shakira asked.
“Oh yes, do. I’d love to hear about the ‘if’ too,’ Electra said.
“Down the road, I promise I will. The point is: I’m astonished in this day and age of self-
absorption by his sense of honor and loyalty, his caring. When he speaks of the Black Prince or the Guiscard family or his friends, those qualities shine through.
“In addition to those reasons, I’ve always been impressed by the fact that although he’s
illiterate, he’s clever in a very methodical, logical way,” Esme said.
“He is.”
A pensive look came over Shakira’s face. On the drive to the café, Esme mentally went
over what she’d say when they met today. The expression on Shakira’s face now wasn’t the one
Esme had pictured then. She took a deep drink of her lukewarm coffee and waited.
Shakira raised her drink and peered over the rim of her cup. Esme eyed her back, hesitant
to ask what was wrong.
Not knowing was too much. “Why the unhappy face?”
Shakira put the cup down and said, “It’s obvious you plan to tell him what you told me.
That’s all wonderful except he’s not open to seeing you right now.”
“I am not giving up without a fight. I may have a workable plan to wend my way back into
his good graces.”
“Want to share? I’ll give you my objective opinion.”
“The last thing he remembers of his so called medieval life is getting injured at Poitiers. He
told me what the French knight who wounded him had as a heraldic symbol.”
Next came the sticky part of her plan and Esme fully expected for Shakira to shoot it
down, which was all right. She also thought she could defend the plan adequately. Sort of.
“I researched the knight. I know his name. His noble rank and the province he came
from.”
Shakira smeared a thick swatch of the rich cream over each bite of scone as she listened.
“Sorry but I have to interrupt,” Electra said. “How do you stay so thin eating massive
amounts of clotted cream like that?”
“El, this is important. Who cares what her diet is?”
“What? I’m curious and pretty damn envious too.”
“Treadmill, riding, and skipping other meals,” Shakira told Electra. She finished the scone
and asked Esme, “Back to your plan. Why would Stephen want or need to know the name of the
man who injured him so grievously?”
“He probably doesn’t. The information is really meant to help me. It gives me a reason to
seek him out and open a dialogue with him.”
A long moment passed like an hour without Shakira responding. “Well?” Esme ventured.
“Reeks of desperation but it’s just hare-brained and crazy enough to maybe work. You
might want to think twice before calling him daft again...pot—kettle and all that.”
“Does appear that way, doesn’t it? Don’t answer that.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Shakira told her Stephen had been visiting Elysian Fields daily. Esme guessed he’d gone
there again today and went to the stables hoping to find him.
“He rode out on Vidar about a half-hour ago,” Owen said. “Do you wish me to bring out
Monty?”
“Please.”
He had the horse tacked and she was on her way to the castle within ten minutes.
The crisp fall air carried a trace of chill, enough to pinken a person’s cheeks but not
require a jacket. The breeze kicked up a mini whirlwind of orange and red leaves as she crossed into the clearing. The wonderful smell hit her before she saw the white plume of smoke. The
scent reminded her of nutmeg, and cinnamon, and cloves, flavors of the sweet autumn dishes her
mother made. She turned and off to her left, on what she thought was part of Alex’s land, a man with a rake burned leaves.
The pleasant memory provided welcome respite, however short, from mentally acting out
her plan for the thousandth time. From the moment she woke up, she fretted over it and debated
with herself how to handle Stephen’s possible reactions. None of the solutions included permanent exclusion from his life.
As she approached the place Stephen had said the drawbridge and barbican stood, she
heard his strong tenor voice. She slowed Monty from a canter to a trot and down to a walk as the singing grew louder. She halted a few meters from where Stephen was. He must not have heard
her ride into what was the bailey since he didn’t glance over and continued to sing.
Stephen paced a patch of scrub grass and dirt in front of Vidar, who was tied to the apple
tree. He wore earpieces with the wires attached to his iPod holstered on his belt. Assured her
presence remained unnoticed and the noise of Monty’s approach unheard over the music, she took
advantage of the moment and eyed him from toe to head. Dressed in proper riding gear he looked
damned tasty. The tall, black boots weren’t custom, not if he got them this fast, but they were quality. They hugged long, strong calves, stopping just below the base of his knees. Black leather riding gloves dangled from the waistband of tan jodhpurs that clung to muscled thighs, bum, and places in-between like a second skin. His shirt was a white cotton long-sleeve Oxford style one with the cuffs rolled up a turn and tucked neatly in his pants. Some might argue there were
handsomer men, but not to her.
And how had she not seen past his unusual beliefs, past his blindness to the inner strength
of the man sooner? Blindness isn’t always about losing your physical sight. It comes in many
forms. “I am a walking example,” she said under her breath.
She didn’t need to hear the music he sang to, so good was his a cappella version, the
melody played in her head. Esme set aside mulling over her mistakes and listened fascinated by
Stephen’s version of the old Mister-Mister song Broken Wings.
When the song ended, he stopped pacing to press the button on his iPod. Stephen cocked
his head at what she assumed was the beginning of the next one. He tapped his foot, picked up
the beat, bobbed his head, and started singing along to Chris Isaak’s Wicked Game. His expressive hands and arms of minutes before reduced to the subtlest of open-palmed gestures of
despair. He sang poignant lyrics that spoke of a man who wanted to fall in love. Words of the
wicked way a woman he dreamed of made him feel it possible, only to break his heart.
Stinging words.
The lyrics sounded wickedly close to how she feared he felt toward her, if the morning he
sacked her was any measure. If time travel were a reality, she’d turn the clock back to never
utter the words she couldn’t change now. It occurred to her that everyone who’d ever reached
adulthood had desired to go back and undo or redo something. Everyone.
Nerves ate at the confidence she’d shown Shakira, but she’d procrastinated enough. The
moment had come to try and win him over. She took a bracing breath, blew it out, a
nd then
dismounted. Stephen continued his song as she passed to tie Monty up next to Vidar. Finished, she came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. In a single motion, he tensed, spun, and
grabbed a handful of blouse front.
She flinched and gave a tiny cry but he’d already let go.
“Once again your perfume gives you away.” He removed the buds from his ears. ‘Tis
fainter today than usual.”
“Because it’s not perfume, but body lotion.”
“You shouldn’t sneak up on a knight.”
“I didn’t mean to, but you wouldn’t have heard me if I called out, not while wearing the
earpieces.”
Music leaked from the buds hanging from his neck. Isaak’s voice distant but the lyrics
clear as he sang of the foolish things desire makes one do.
“Why have you come?” Stephen asked and stepped back, beyond her reach.
“I’ve information for you.”
“As you’re no sorceress with a magic formula to repair my sight, I doubt your information
is of much importance to me.” He put the buds back into his ears and turned from her.
The cold reception was expected. The degree of the frigidity surprised her. With two
weeks to put distance between her comment and her appearance today, she hoped the time might
take the edge off the blow to his pride. She’d just have to deal with the fact it hadn’t. Win or lose, she wouldn’t give up.
She yanked the earpieces out. “Listen to me.”
His back expanded with the deep breath he took and then he turned around. “How close
you stand. Are you not afraid that my nearness might press down upon you to draw the air from
your body until you suffocate from lack of it?”
Suffocate. One foolishly spoken terrible word thrown back at her. Neither the icy tone of
voice nor his deadpan expression could disguise the hurt the word evoked. If he’d just give her the tiniest of windows to explain, she’d set things right.
“No. I sought you out because I’m so horribly sorry for what I said without thinking. I—”
“You said you had information for me. Which is it? Information or another sad apology for
the truth you didn’t mean for me to hear?”
“Both, but I’ll start with the information, if you’ll let me.”
“Speak,” he said and crossed his arms over his chest.
She tried not to be distracted by the music still leaking from his headset. The next song
began: It’s My Life, by Talk Talk, one of the songs she had on a playlist. On housecleaning day, she’d play it again and again, dancing as she dusted and polished. An hour from now would she
still find the tune dance worthy or delete it from her playlist?
“Would you turn the music off? Please?”
He didn’t respond at first, eyes narrowed slightly as though he considered refusing before
he finally pressed the off button.
“You have something to say, say it and be done,” he said.
“I know who the French knight was that wounded you. Roger Louis Philippe Marchand.”
Stephen’s face remained an inscrutable mask. “Thank you for knowledge that has no
bearing on my life. Conversation over.” He started to put the earpieces in again, but Esme pulled his hands down.
“I said I’m here to do both, give the knight info and talk to you about what’s changed for
me.”
“Since you insist on enlightening me, where did you find the knight’s name?”
“You told me about the Coat of Arms he wore. I looked up French nobility of the time and
their heraldic symbols. Marchand was the Compte D’Honfleur. I—”
“I feel so much better now, knowing a high ranking noble did this.” He passed a hand over
his eyes. “As to the rest, what you didn’t know then but you claim to know now,” he scoffed and told her, “is not my concern.”
Deep down, Esme didn’t believe he was this unforgiving, or that he was so scornful of the
possibility that she had a change of heart. This was the price for hurting him, but the punishment he inflicted didn’t fit the crime. After all, blindness wasn’t his alone to adjust to. People close to him also had to adjust and on many levels. All she did was voice her worry, which she had a right to do. And damn it, if the roles were reversed, she’d at least hear him out.
Her patience snapped. “You talk big about chivalry and what an honorable man, let alone
a knight, should and shouldn’t do. Well Mr. I’ve never said something I regret, cutting someone off without giving them a chance to be heard isn’t very chivalrous if you ask me,” she blurted in one breath. A feat she’d never be able to repeat. She came a frog’s hair close to apologizing for the outburst but didn’t think it would do much good.
Silence from him again. An expert at setting all her nerve endings on edge, she was glad
he couldn’t see the desperation she knew showed on her face.
“How did you know where to find me?” he finally asked.
“Shakira said you came here often. I know your attachment to Elysian Fields is deep.
When you weren’t home, I figured you’re still upset and this is where you gravitated to today.”
“I’m not upset.”
“Not at all?”
“Was I singing or crying when you found me?”
“Singing, but it was a sad song.”
“So,” he said with a short shrug. “Tell me about this change of yours.”
“I’d like to sit.”
“Fine.”
Afraid he’d shake off her help if she was too obvious with it, instead of looping her arm
through his she placed a tentative hand on his forearm. “There’s a nice spot a few feet away with a pad of fallen leaves.”
She led him to the base of an old oak. He patted down the length of the tree and sat with
his back pressed against the trunk. He unclipped the iPod from his belt, wrapped the cords from the headpiece around it and set the player to the side. He assumed a casual pose, one knee up, the other leg stretched out and his hands folded, resting on his stomach. He looked ready to doze off and she worried he might, just to be disagreeable.
Esme removed her riding helmet and hung it on the branch next to Monty.
She sat inches from him with her arms wrapped around her knees, rocking back and forth
a little, mulling how to start, scared what she’d say wouldn’t matter.
“Do not say you are sorry again. I tire of hearing, blah, blah, and sorry, sorry.” He closed
his eyes and she worried he really was going to doze off before she finished. “Speak your piece.”
Where had he heard “blah, blah?” Curiosity danced in and out of her head.
“After I spent the night, I thought there was a chance I might become more than a tutor
and riding companion to you. In my head, I ran all these scenarios where you’d have to depend on me to the point where you’d need me present almost constantly.”
“Suffocate you.”
“Yes, and the more I dwelled on them, the more I questioned my ability to cope. I
questioned whether my failure wouldn’t cause me to place blame elsewhere, meaning on you.”
“Like that day, I’m still blind, still reliant on occasion on a sighted person. That won’t
change.”
“Right. It’s the ‘on occasion’ part I didn’t factor in to my worries. Once I let go of the me issue and looked at the situation with an objective eye, I realized I’d been foolish. You fight for your independence every day in every way and I respect and admire that effort. I don’t know
why I had such tunnel vision. I’m...” she almost said, I’m sorry. “I am ashamed for being self-
centered and stupid.”
She reached over and laid her palm on his thigh. “You spoke of being a boon companion to
me. I’m not sure what boon companion entails. I don’t know if it means just friends or something more. The idea of the latter is especially appealing. Either way, I’m asking for your forgiveness.”
He opened his eyes and turned to her, a puzzled look on his face. “I’m confused.”
She braced for him to say no and offer a painful list of reasons why.
“You speak like you wish me to court you...or more,” he said with some hesitation.
“I do and I prefer the ‘or more.’”
Confusion still clouded his expression. “What do you mean by ‘or more?’”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“’Tis best to confirm.” His gazed dropped to where her hand rested on his thigh and back
up. “And Tony is happy with sharing you?”
“Tony is gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Don’t look so suspicious. I didn’t kill him.” The expression on his face was priceless.
Esme momentarily considered taking a picture with her cell phone. But to retrieve it would intrude on the moment. She hoped she was on the road to forgiveness and didn’t want to break the
momentum. “I dumped him as the Americans say, told him we were—”
“You need not go on, I catch your meaning. When? Was it the night you came to me?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Did he harm you? You must tell me if he did. I will see him undone for it. I grow
more adept with each judo lesson. I’m not afraid to throw the gauntlet down and challenge him.”
Her heart leaped. His concern had to be a good sign. “No. He didn’t harm me.”
“For his sake, this is good. As for his absence, that is good for me as I’d rather not share,
if I decide to pursue the ‘or more.’ Along that line, tell me what you wish to do next.”
She moved closer until their thighs touched and tightened her hand on his leg. “You. I want
to do you next.”
“’Do me?’ By ‘do me’ you mean make love to me?”
“Yes.”
“Making love doesn’t make us a couple. What if afterward I chose not to forgive you?
What if I take advantage of your favors today and walk away?”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time Page 23
