That did it. Kate did stop, and she did look up at Jada, but she did not calm down. “Nothing? You think that was nothing? You didn’t see the way he looked at me. It was like I’d murdered his mother or something.”
“Exactly,” Jada soothed. “He went ballistic. He’s on the edge. One little push and poof.”
“Poof, what?”
“Poof, you win.”
Kate stopped her packing for a moment, her hands shaking. She’d felt many different things in her life to cause such a reaction. Fear. Nerves. Embarrassment. But this was the first time she could attribute the energy coursing through her body as anger. “This isn’t winning. This is the exact opposite—and you had no right to interfere like that.”
Jada sprang to her feet, her movements quick and graceful. She didn’t look the least bit perturbed by their conversation, a fact that only fed Kate’s heightened state. “I was just trying to help. Yesterday, you wanted the park. You came back from your little ménage à date almost in tears because you didn’t get it. So I called that guy I dated last year—you remember, the snake handler with the lisp?”
She remembered. Jada used to call him Jake the Snake right to his face, even though his name was Steve. That was so like her. Blazing right ahead, oblivious to how her actions affected other people. And this affected Kate. Big time.
“You just don’t get it, do you? I don’t want the park. I want Julian to give me the park.”
“How is that different?”
It was different—so much so that she’d been ready to step aside and finally end all this. Kate fell to her bottom, resting her back against the side of the tent. All the anger flooded out, leaving nothing but emptiness in its place. When she looked up, it was to see a glimmer of real concern flash over Jada’s face.
“What is it, Katy-did? What did that bastard do to you?”
She offered a weak smile. “Nothing. That’s the problem. That man is a warrior, Jada, right down to his toes. He fights for the things he wants with so much passion it makes the rest of us look like silly wastes of life.”
Except he wouldn’t fight for her. She wasn’t enough to tip the scales—he’d made that very clear last night. Down there on the riverbank, she’d realized it was ridiculous to keep pretending to care anything for Duke, or even for the stupid park, and she’d been prepared to give it up. All of it. The only thing she needed in return was for Julian to be willing to do the same for her.
And he wasn’t. He’d turned away and said “thanks, but no thanks”.
She knew in that moment that a line had been crossed. Julian was okay with quiet, complacent Kate—he might have even been falling for her. The problem was, quiet, complacent Kate was no longer okay with her.
“All that warrior stuff—hot, right?” Jada winked. It looked forced.
“It has nothing to do with hot or not,” Kate replied. She didn’t do her usual thing and offer Jada an obligatory laugh. Supportive-friend mode would have to wait. Indefinitely. “It has to do with me realizing just how little I fight for anything.”
“So what? You’re going to go all Xena on us and challenge Julian to hand-to-hand combat for the park instead?”
“No. It means I’m telling you I don’t want your help with this one, Jada. No more snakes. No more interference. I need to do this on my own. My way.”
Even though she had no idea what that meant. While one half of her wanted to go home and lick her wounds alongside Gretna, the other half kept inserting whispers and ideas and demands.
Because if she was suddenly willing to stand up for herself, didn’t that mean finding a way to get the one man she wanted more than anything else in the world?
Chapter Fifteen
Throwing the Gauntlet
The last thing Kate expected that day at work was to find a solution staring her right in the face. A cheerful, freckled solution that she recognized as one of the regulars who frequented the high fantasy section.
“Oh my gosh, you guys should totally use the Knights of Mayhem grounds,” the woman, Naomi, gushed. Naomi wore a loose peasant skirt and tank top, her short brown hair styled in the type of pixie cut Kate always admired but feared she could never pull off. “We’re not kicking off our fall season for another few weeks, so it’s empty right now.”
Kate leaned against one of the bookshelves, her elbow knocking off the better part of a row of Nicholas Sparks books. They could wait.
“I don’t know. I mean, it’s generous of you and all, but a few of the more academic members of our JARRS group are kind of uptight about anachronisms.”
Naomi shrugged. She’d been coming to the bookstore for as long as Kate had been manager there, and had even hosted a book club a few times. Although Kate had always known the woman was a member of the local Renaissance Fair, they’d never really broken down the employee-customer barrier to talk about it. But Naomi had caught Kate on the phone with the Parks Department discussing the finer points of the creepy city park she and Jada first visited.
“We re-enactment groups have to stick together, you know?” Naomi laughed and started scooping up the books, shelving them in a completely random order. “I mean, I’m gonna have to run it by Stuart, our president, first, but anything that earns us money or gets exposure is good. We’ve been struggling a bit lately. And no offense, but I’ve done some charity work at that park you’re talking about. Seriously—you’d have to do a grid search for dirty needles before you could use that place. It’s gross.”
“You’re sure it wouldn’t be a problem?”
It all seemed too easy. For the past few weeks, every bit of her energy had been wrapped up in Cornwall Park. In Julian and all his honors and obligations. It had been so easy to lose herself in being near him that she’d almost forgotten there was a whole other world out there, where people were nice and simple and didn’t require you to give up a piece of yourself in order to feel loved.
“Oh, yeah. It’s pretty awesome too.” Naomi lifted a huge backpack and pulled out a scrap of paper to jot down her number. “We have outbuildings and restrooms and a jousting field. Oh, and a battle chess board that’s really sweet, though I bet you guys won’t need that. You don’t strike me as a competitive crowd.”
Kate took the phone number being offered, crushing both it and poor Naomi’s hand in her grip. “Did you just say battle chess?”
“Geez.” Naomi pulled back her hand and shook it off, laughing. “You have some strong feelings about chess. You one of those grandmasters or something?”
“No,” Kate replied, her voice sounding like an echo to her own ears. “But I’m pretty decent at it.”
And she was pretty decent at it—much more so than throwing trees or hammers. A vision of Julian’s tattooed bicep flashed in her mind, the intricate black patterns that told his life story right on his skin. The latte stone transformed into a rook. Because he loved chess.
There was something they were both good at.
There was a way to meet on a level playing field.
Her heart picked up, and for the first time that day, she felt like she might be able to fix things.
“Did you say you guys are hurting for funds right now?” Kate asked. She turned the woman around and started pushing her gently in the direction of the back office. “Because I think I might know of something that can help.”
“Oh, yeah? That could be cool. What were you thinking? Renting the space? Setting up a booth?”
“Better,” Kate said confidently. “I’m thinking a showdown. A fight to the finish. And as much publicity as we can drum up to witness it.”
And maybe, if she was lucky, a second chance at love.
Julian and Michael sat in Irina’s shop, awaiting their final kilt fittings. They hadn’t spoken much since their run that morning—it had taken Julian all of five minutes to catch up, thanks to the breakneck sprint that had taken him as far from the camp as possible.
When they’d returned, the snakes were gone and so was Kate, but the an
imosity he felt toward both of them lingered in the air. Julian hadn’t had to say a word—no one dared cross the invisible border. The entire day had continued along in a stone-faced stalemate, and that was okay with Julian. The less said about their situation, the better.
At least until he had an idea of what to do next.
Michael leaned back in his chair and placed his arms behind his head, a poor pretense at being casual. “What’s the plan?”
“The plan?” Julian stared at the carpet, a swirled pattern of brown and blue that seemed to go on into the floor forever.
“Cornwall Park. Highland Games. Rockland Bluff Whisky. A tent full of women who refuse to leave. Any of it ringing a bell?”
Julian scowled. “Oh, it’s ringing. Loud and clear. But I don’t see you guys coming up with any bright ideas. It’s not just my event, you know.”
Michael sat up. “Fine. You want me to run point? Peterson, McClellan and I will have Kate down on her knees and crying for her mother in five minutes. Tops.”
“That’s not funny,” Julian muttered, but he looked at Michael out of the corner of his eye. His friends were good, loyal guys, but the testosterone ran hot and fast with all of them. He’d seen Michael and Peterson once tackle a man for insulting Michael’s mother and her choice of bedtime companion. And even though it went against every single one of their codes to harm a woman, they had ways of intimidating others that didn’t require physical violence.
Kate was his problem.
“The real trouble is that you’ve been tiptoeing around the issue on pink ballet slippers.”
Julian didn’t take the bait.
“Pranks will just make her mad. You’re like a cat playing with your toy. Don’t play with it, bro. Eat it.”
He took the bait this time, hooking his catch with a quick right jab, the sound of fist and bones coming together almost a symphony to his ears.
“Feel better?” Michael asked with considerable aplomb. He reached down and pulled off one of his socks, using it to staunch the flow of blood from his nose.
“Much better, thanks.”
But he didn’t feel better. Not really.
Irina, to her credit, didn’t say a word when she emerged from behind the curtain to call Julian back. She’d spent far too many years catering to a highly masculine clientele to question the flow of blood and poor hygiene habits in her waiting room.
Julian did feel better once he was in full Highland dress, though, comforted by the soft white linen of his shirt against the Wallace plaid that was draped over his shoulder and held in place with a large, solid metal wreath-shaped pin. The kilt rested at the knee, fitted around the waist and ornamented by a heavy leather sporran. There was so much movement in the kilt—so much freedom to swagger and stomp as the mood dictated.
He had a formal tuxedo jacket and some of the more ornamental items like the flashes that hung down like tassels from his socks, but he typically wore them only for ceremonies. He liked it better without them. This was the Julian who competed and fought. This was the Julian who won.
“It looks good, caro,” Irina murmured, stepping back to view her handiwork.
Julian nodded curtly. Although she was right and the new kilt fit like a charm, he didn’t really care how he looked at that moment. He only cared how he felt, and that was like shit warmed over.
He knew he’d come very close to breaking Kate’s heart last night when he’d chosen the land over her. He just didn’t realize he’d placed the same power in her hands.
He was about to remove the kilt when Michael burst into the room, holding out Julian’s phone like it had some sort of disease. “It rang three times, so I finally answered it. Sorry, Jules, but you’re gonna want to take this one.”
A heavy sense of foreboding landed like a thud in his stomach. Something was wrong. His mom. His sisters. Kate.
“What is it?” he barked into the phone, louder than he intended.
“Julian?”
He dropped to the chair with a thud, noticing with a grimace that both Michael and Irina had abandoned him. Chickens, the pair of them.
“This better be you calling to give up your claim to the park, Kate, or I’m hanging up the phone. What else could we possibly have to say to one another?”
“I know you hate me right now, but I need you to listen for one minute.”
He didn’t hate her—that was the problem. He wanted nothing more than to take back everything he’d said and done to hurt her. Forget her unfair demands. Forget the Games. Forget the snakes. Forget his promise to Harold to take care of his family.
He closed his eyes. There were some things a man simply couldn’t forget. No matter how much it killed him to do it.
“I’m listening.”
Even through the poor reception on his cell phone, a relieved sigh hit his ears. “I might have found a way to fix all this.”
“This?” This what? There was no “this” that could contain the roiling mass of his emotions.
“Don’t worry. I’m only talking about the park situation,” she said, and there was a hitch to her voice that wrenched in his gut. “Can you bring a few of the guys and promise to meet me tomorrow?”
Even though he knew she couldn’t see him, he shrugged helplessly. How much longer were they going to draw this out? “Is this you asking me or Jada asking me?”
“It’s me, Julian. Just me.”
Before he could say anything, she hurriedly gave him an address and directions to some place he’d never heard of to the north of town. He didn’t have anything to write on, and he wasn’t about to prolong the conversation any more than he had to, so he committed the numbers to memory.
“Thank you for this. I promise it’s nothing bad. In fact…I think it might make things a lot easier. On both of us.”
He hung up the phone, blowing out a long breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and caught a glimpse of himself in the endless array of mirrors. The man looking back at him was one he recognized from years of Highland Games, a man who didn’t do anything the easy way unless he had to.
But right now, easy seemed like a pretty nice alternative.
Kate sat at a table at the fairground meeting hall with Lady Lovelace, Anne and a few representatives from the Renaissance re-enactment group, including Naomi, who seemed to have so much energy she couldn’t sit still for five minutes at a time.
As Naomi had promised, the Knights of Mayhem had a permanent structure on several acres of wooded land—a venue that put anything Julian or Kate dreamed of to shame. Throughout their twenty years as an organization, they’d replicated an entire old English village, right down to free-range peacocks and taverns that served home-brewed ale. While the accuracy might have been a little off, both Naomi and Stuart, the man in charge, assured them they could move either the JARRS or the SHS venue in at the last minute and still remain somewhat true to their respective eras.
“I don’t know,” Lady Lovelace waffled, tapping her fingers on the table.
Kate and Anne shared a glance. The entire drive to the meeting, they’d been heralded with Lady Lovelace’s exact thoughts on the Renaissance Fair. The thoughts were not, despite the Knights’ generous offer, very favorable.
“Historical re-enactment at its worst.” Lady Lovelace sighed. “A pulsing orgy of breasts and shafts.”
Looking around the room, the walls covered with photographs of previous fairs, Kate could see where she got that impression. Wenches and knights were there in abundance, complete with breasts and shafts. But even though there were a few images of parties in full swing, Kate would hardly call them orgies. She doubted Lady Lovelace knew what that word meant outside of 1815 England.
“We’re trying to set ourselves up as an academic society,” Lady Lovelace explained. “This just all seems so…campy.”’’
“We understand that, Mrs. Lovelace,” said Stuart. He was a short man but a powerful one, despite a soft-spoken voice. Naomi told Kate he was the one who took on the role
of the monarch in their weekend re-enactments, and she could see why. He was one of those people with so much inherent kindness that doing anything to upset him just seemed cruel.
“Lady,” she corrected snidely. Apparently Lady Lovelace didn’t agree with Kate’s assessment.
“Lady Lovelace. I apologize.” He smiled and laid a hand over hers. “The truth is that we need you and the publicity you can bring in. People aren’t into historical preservation like they used to be, but this plan of yours might be enough to save us all. I can’t tell you how much it would mean to us.”
Lady Lovelace sat up a little. “That is true. We can bring you something no one else can.”
The Scots, that’s what. Kate was more than happy to let Lady Lovelace assume she’d devised the whole plan, but the truth was that none of this would work if Julian and his men failed to show up. She should have explained herself more clearly over the phone. She should have let him know that this was to help them both—that she was making one last attempt to reach out.
But even that might not have been enough.
She slunk to the bottom of her chair, doing her best not to steal a quick peek at her watch. The last time she checked, they were ten minutes late. They weren’t coming.
“Speaking of that, ah, do we have any idea when the opposition will get here?” Stuart asked, looking to Kate. She shook her head mutely but was saved from responding by the sound of heavy footsteps drawing up to the doorway.
It was a sound that could only belong to several oversized men clomping their way through the halls. Kate had never heard anything so wonderful in her entire life.
“I hope we’re not too late.” Julian’s voice was strong as he came through the doorway, leading his men, all of them full of swagger and self-supremacy. Kate felt her entire body rising up in her seat at the sight of so much unquestionable male confidence. Even if Julian refused to actually look at her.
“You must be the Scottish battalion,” Stuart said, beaming. He gestured widely. “Come in. Sit down, sit down. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Love is a Battlefield: Games of Love, Book 1 Page 21
